It's not easy being David

I often recommend “Catch-22” as required reading because it instructs you on 90% of everything you need to know about life. One of those lessons is that “they” will do anything to you that they can get away with doing. While somewhat cynical, it is not inaccurate when it comes to large organizations, whether they be business, government or private. They appear to assume that they are entitled and impervious. They aren’t wrong, except when it comes to a certain personality type; mine. I was shopping at a store of a huge office supply chain when a sign caught my eye. It offered a rebate on copy paper purchases. I bought and the cash register provided me with the rebate form, which I promptly submitted, carefully following all the instructions. I did that because I’ve been down this road before and I also copied everything submitted; everything. As is usually the case, it takes less than 24 hours for them to hit your credit card for their money. Ah, but almost two months to get your rebate money to you. Or, in this case, a postcard rejecting my application. It gave four reasons, which included omitted information (my copies proved this to be bogus) and that it was a duplicate submission (not a chance since it required sending original materials). It offered the opportunity to resubmit to the address on the reverse side of the card. This was obviously in bad faith since that would require the original documents (which they retained), not to mention that the reverse side of the card was blank. I’m certain the expectation was for most people to surrender. I’m not most people. Just to be sure it wasn’t “just me,” I did a search that incorporated their name and “rebate complaints.” No shortage of hits. Even allowing for the sour grapes factor, these people were obviously in the scam business. I emailed my complaint via their website. It took about a day for a response. I was informed that I had applied for an online-only rebate when I had purchased the product in the store. First of all, this hadn’t been listed on the rejection card, proving those claims were bogus. Secondly, their store promoted it and provided the rebate form. If the intent was to discourage further action, they misjudged their target. I dismissed the response as fertilizer and told them they had five days to mail a check or I would file complaints with the FTC and state attorney general, sue their store in small claims court and make it my hobby to publicize their tactics. I was provided with another website to take up my complaint. Another stall tactic? I chose “chat” over “email” to bring this matter to a head. Once again, I was informed that I had applied for a rebate that didn’t apply to in-store purchases. I said it was their store promotion, their in-store form and their personnel, so it was their problem, not mine. My only problem was obtaining court forms and compiling a list of websites to report their unethical practices. I received a stern warning about slander laws (actually, I believe it would be libel). My response was that her tactic probably worked on those unfamiliar with that, but truth was always a defense and I had copies of all submissions and had also copied all chats with their people, including her. I would welcome their legal action as it would generate more publicity plus the opportunity to countersue. And, for threatening me, I was going to strive to come up with at least a couple dozen more websites to post to. She responded that they would issue a check immediately and gave me a tracking number. A hard-fought win. On another front, I attempted to use my credit card this morning and was informed that they have a deny/confiscate order on it. Fortunately, the clerk was about two decades my senior so I was able to wrest it from her while suffering only superficial injuries. I got to my home computer and confirmed that the bank had closed the account. I called the customer service number on my card statement and, after running the gauntlet of selecting language, department, issue and five other things, was connected to a human after a wait that was a little shorter than the Peloponnesian War. She asked several questions, some already responded to in the aforementioned hoop jumping, before allowing me to state my case. She said I had the wrong department (the number listed on the statement) and sent me to Fraud. I went through the button pushing exercise before reaching someone there, only to be told that they had done nothing to my account and I needed to talk with the Customer Service department at the bank. I repeated that I had been referred by them and got a polite sorry-about-your-life. I jumped through the hoops to get a person in Customer Service again and this time was told I needed to talk with the Compromise Department. I was given a number and went through the automated selections, considering that opting for a different language might generate better understanding and results than I was receiving. Compromise admitted that they had slain my account because a merchant I dealt with had experienced a possible breach. A letter was going out to me today, explaining that. Was there anything else they could do for me? Yes, how about a phone call the next time so I don’t find myself out on a limb? “I said, we’re sending you a letter.” I’ll score that as a loss. It’s not easy being David. But, unless people go to the trouble, the Goliaths of the world will do more and more of what they can get away with.

Beep Beep

Last week, I was kayaking on the coast of Maine. One day, I was carrying my boat down a slope to the water and passed a group of paddlers who had just finished up. My eyes locked with one of them as recognition sparked. I had met Chris several years ago when I was in Bayfield, Wisconsin to paddle the Apostle Islands. He’s based there and imparted the mantra that’s on everyone’s lips in that town, “The Lake is the boss.” It’s also on t-shirts, signs and about anything else you could print on. Lake Superior takes no prisoners and all the ship wrecks on its floor attest to that. Even though the town makes a decent living from kayakers who journey to this mecca, they always suspect we’re in over our heads and will predict doom to your face. What mostly supports their viewpoint are those who paddle there without proper training or equipment. Why someone would venture out onto that killer expanse without preparation is beyond me. So, running into Chris planted the seed of this memory in my mind. I’ll add another thought that may seem unrelated, as many of mine do. “Beep Beep” was a song by the Playmates (1958). In a nutshell, the singer is rhapsodizing about driving his powerful, expensive car, up until he’s smoked by another guy in a Rambler (cheap car). Pretty much lets the air out of his balloon. After exchanging pleasantries with Chris, my paddling companion and I launched onto the open seas, headed out into the ocean for an island chain. While the weather and waves blessed us with good conditions, we knew that could change at any time. At first, we were a little “tight” as port receded into the distance. But, confidence swelled with time as well as no small amount of pride that we were taking on the North Atlantic. That is, until we reached the first island and rounded its tip to the far side. There, we encountered two paddlers in small, inexpensive rental kayaks. Kind of devalued our whole experience. They waved and shouted to us cheerily. My recollection was that all we could do was stare. Beep beep!

The Dinner Bell

No great insights into the meaning of life tonight. Just memories. A few years back, I got into reading a series of books by an author who sets her novels in Trenton, New Jersey, the site of my primary high school job. In one book, she alluded to a location that elicited some poignant (and humorous) memories. I was moved enough to hunt down her email address and thank her for the moment. That initiated and exchange of correspondence. It’s not like we email all the time, but we were in touch this week. The subject was The Dinner Bell. Back then, I worked in an auto supply store in a somewhat decrepit part of town (it’s a sliding scale in Trenton), mostly selling and installing tires, batteries, shocks, seat covers and an assortment of other related items. But, my primary responsibility occurred on Saturday mornings. I was to show up before the opening of the store, walk next door to The Dinner Bell, return and greet the arriving staff with coffee and doughnuts. A botched tire or seat cover job could earn me a frown. But, failing to have the provisions awaiting on Saturday was a capital offense. The Dinner Bell resembled a small road house you’d find out in the country. Wooden exterior with peeling paint. It was owned and run by Bud and Mary. Due to its proximity, we had many lunches there. Bud was a character. He looked and sometimes spoke like Will Rogers. If you were a regular, the ritual was to walk in, plop yourself down and ask Bud what was on the menu today. That was the setup for his response in a machine gun delivery, “Ham, ram, lamb, bear, beef, billy goat, buffalo and bacon.” Your response was to laugh. Every time. But he wasn’t the primary act. If Bud was there, so was Louie. He’d make his way around the diner to check on the quality of your food. By grabbing and eating some of it. He was also known to chatter loudly. Not great manners but somewhat understandable. Louie was a monkey. Try to sneak that by the health inspector these days. The supporting cast was the blue collar workers who ebbed and flowed through the place. There was always something going on. It was a fun place to be. My author friend told me that Bud died decades ago and Mary went to live with her sister in Asbury Park. The car dealer on the other side bought the property, knocked down the building (not that it needed a lot of help) and expanded their lot. The Dinner Bell may be gone, but it lives in our hearts.

Intelligent Life

I’m about over the delusions of my youth. One was that I bought into that intelligent life thing. Humans are brilliant. We split the atom. Eradicated major diseases. Conquered space travel. Developed the M&M so chocolate doesn’t melt in your hand. We’re pushing a score of 10 on the brain scale. The fallacy is in attributing the exceptions to the whole. And on the whole, my rating has plummeted to a two, with one being dumber than a bag of hair. My latest confirmation came this week when I received a friend request on FB from an attractive young lady, clad in a tube top that was imprinted with a suggestive phrase. I accepted because, by and large, these inquiries from unknowns are from other paddlers. And, one can always use a network for intelligence about local conditions. Shortly after accepting the request, I received a message from her. It said my photos were fabulous and I appeared to be in the condition of a star athlete. Both of these are credible since I travel to some exotic places and adhere to a strict diet of pasta and fermented grain. She included her phone number so we could talk and get to know each other. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. I go to my FB page to assess my profile photo for just how stupid I might appear. Not long after, I see a few alerts (or whatever they’re called) about some other men liking or commenting on her picture (assuming it’s even her), essentially fawning all over her to curry favor. Are you kidding me? Granted, guys attain a special level of stupid in these matters. But, are they really looking at her and then their own photos and information, concluding, “Yeah, she’s into me bigtime?” At least make her set the hook. Don’t jam it through your own cheek. The rating is creeping below one.