A Week in the Life of Customer Service Hell

A memory flickers: I am a child, a tyke of age 3 or 4, and my mother has taken me out shopping. We are in a huge place with a long staircase, black and silver, and the stairs move, as if by magic. Holding hands, we take an exciting step and soar upward. It’s like something at Disneyland, and as we near the top I am mesmerized watching the steps recede and disappear. Mom’s voice: “You have to step off.”

Last week, I returned to Montgomery Ward. This time, it wasn’t in Santa Ana, but in Eagle Rock Plaza, just over the border from Glendale. This time, the experience was less than enchanting.

Today’s topic is Customer Service Hell, and this column is dedicated to everyone who has ever been there. As of this writing, I’m still in Customer Service Limbo. You see, I have to finish this piece in time to accept delivery of my new refrigerator. Mary, the nice saleslady, has promised me that my new refrigerator is supposed to arrive between 3 and 7 p.m.

My old refrigerator died a week ago. Bought eight years ago when my finances were tight, it was a cheap, small model, and far from frost-free. I wanted a new one anyway, so its death was not mourned.

When you lose your fridge, you want a new one fast, especially in the midst of a heat wave. You don’t want to drink warm beer. You want to replace this major appliance, this necessity of modern life, as quickly and painlessly as possible.

And I, for one, hate shopping anyway. I don’t like to scour back issues of Consumer Reports to find the ideal model for my needs. I don’t want to visit four or five stores searching for the best deal. I just want to get it over with.

Mary was helpful. She pointed out an Admiral. I forget if it’s 18 or 20 cubic feet, but it was on sale and had an ice maker thrown in. Ice sounded nice. This was Monday, and I had stayed home with a fever. Driving over, the temperature felt like, oh, about 130 degrees Fahrenheit.

It was about 2 p.m. Mary told me if I ordered it before 3, they could deliver it tomorrow. But any later, and I’d have to wait until the weekend. I didn’t ask why. Tomorrow would be fine.

That night a voice on my answering machine assured me my new fridge would be in my kitchen between 3 and 7 p.m. the next day.

I lingered a bit too long at work. I arrived home at 3:12 p.m. I know this because there was a note on my door saying that, sorry, the delivery truck had arrived at 3:05 p.m. The note instructed me to call an 800 number to arrange for another delivery.

OK, it was my fault. They were there, I wasn’t. I accept full responsibility. Just missed them, but the good news was the truck couldn’t be very far away, making its rounds. I would call customer service, they would radio the truck, and I’d still get my fridge.

Thinking back, I suddenly feel the urge to use a sarcastic set of quotation marks. What happened next wasn’t customer service, but “customer service.” I can’t say precisely when I called, but it must have been about 3:15 p.m.

Of course I was put on hold and forced to listen to some lame saxophone, interspersed with recordings telling me to please stay on the line, my call would be answered in the order in which it was received.

I saw my digital clock go from 3:19 to 3:20 and resolved to keep waiting. I closed the bedroom door, cranked up the noisy old window air conditioner, propped up some pillows, wedged the phone between my right shoulder and right ear and read an Edna Buchanan paperback, trying to ignore the “music.”

Time and again recorded voices asked me to stay on the line. Finally, after about 15 minutes, there was a human voice. This is what she said:

“Pleasestayonthelinewe’llberightwithyou.”

Then a click and more sax.

Edna, thank goodness, was a good read. Another 10 minutes passed. Again, a human voice. Again so fast I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Ten minutes later, it happened again.

At about 3:52, I was poised to hang up, call Visa, cancel the purchase. I’d set a new personal record for waiting on hold, topping the 25 minutes spent dealing with Alamo--to no avail. I don’t know what your record is, but I’m sure many readers have had it worse than I. I invite you to share your tales of woe.

We all know the psychology. If I hang up, I’ve wasted all this time. They don’t deserve my business but, hell, I don’t want to go back to square one.

I resolved to wait until 4 p.m. If I didn’t get help by then, I would never set foot in Monkey Wards again.

At 3:59, “customer service” answered. This time it really was my turn. When I told the her how long I had waited, the woman was very apologetic. She sounded nice and I try not to reserve my wrath for worker bees of the world. I told her, very firmly, what I wanted to have happen--to have my refrigerator delivered by 7 p.m. that day. Yes, I missed the delivery by seven minutes, but I just spent nearly 45 minutes on hold, damn it, waiting for “customer service.” Now get word to the truck so I’ll get my new fridge.

She assured me she’d get right on it. Absolutely. The fridge would be there.

That was Tuesday. On Wednesday I called the 800 number again and hung up as soon as I heard the recording asking me to wait. I called the store and asked to be connected to Mary. The phone rang 15 times before I hung up, called back and asked to speak to the manager. He would have to call me back. The secretary took my order number.

An hour later Mary called. Those sneaks. I wanted the manager, not the nice, helpful lady who would lose the commission if I told them where they could put their refrigerator. Friday was the earliest possible delivery, she told me.

So here I am now, still waiting.

The clock on my computer says it’s 2:35. I’ve got to hurry home.

And if I don’t get my refrigerator, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.