My Corona Diary (Take XLI): Hold The Access, Pass The Inconvenience

 

<"Thanks For Your Business..."

Take I/The Reckoner>

<i.>

A funny thing happened to the Squawker and I the other week. We were preparing to deposit a check, to bolster the account, and pay our taxes. It's the kind of boring, mindless daily task that makes you roll your eyes, but also one that inspires a knowing nod, and the inevitable sigh: "OK. It's got to be done."

We headed out at 5:30 p.m. After all, we live only about five minutes away or so, from our friendly neighborhood bank branch. The drive-through closes at 6:00, so that's plenty of time, isn't it?

Not so fast. Just as we began pulling into the drive-through, a disconcerting sight greeted us. The shades had already been pulled down over the double windows.

"Pull around to the front," the Squawker suggested. "Maybe the lobby's still open. We might make it yet."

"I hope so, because it's nearly a quarter to six now." I duly swung around to the front, where somebody or other's Jeep still stood, parked out front. 

For a moment, my heart skipped beat in hope. As any dedicated last minute straggler knows, once you're past those glazed double doors...They have to deal with you, even if it's one minute to closing, your brain suggests, if only to get you out of there. And get home faster.

Once again, not so fast. One hopeless tug at the double doors quickly confirmed that we were well and truly out of luck. 

A renewed wave of irritation flooded my brain, once I sulked back to the car. "What the hell's going on here?" I asked Squawker. "They've moved the goalposts on us. Again!"

"What do you mean?"

"The hours they've posted now say the lobby closes at 5:00, which has always been true. But the drive-through now shuts down at 5:30."

"Really? What does anybody do during working hours? That explains one thing, though." The Squawker had been doing some quick 'n' dirty online research, via the phone, and held it up to show me.

Now, it was my turn to ask, "What do you mean?"

"The downturn branch closes at 3:00. And, as you know, there's a branch in the Matthew's store, about 15 minutes from here..."

"Not anymore," I said. "They took that one out of there, completely. It's been gone for a couple years now. I don't remember them shouting that news from the rooftops, either."

What else could we do, except slink home, and concede defeat? I checked our bank's Facebook page, to see if they'd revealed those new hours, but no such luck. Nowhere did I find any announcement of those reduced hours. All their promotions, though, were present and correct.

As aggravating as this example sounds, I can recall worse ones, such as the surprise call we got a couple years ago, from our local independent pharmacy.

The owner had just sold out to a mega-chain, and guess what? They were closing for good, in two hours, so better pick your drugs while you can. And oh, yeah, thanks for the memories. I'm not going to recount the Squawker's response, which isn't printable in a family newspaper, as they say. At least we were home, when the call came in. I shudder to think of the alternative.

<"Thanks For Your Business..."

Take II/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

We've since made the deposit, and sent off the tax paperwork, along with our check -- render unto Caesar, and all that stuff, yada, yada, yada -- but that episode marks a major change, all right. When the Squawker and I moved here, the drive-through stayed open at the bank until 7 p.m.!

That particular closing time stuck through most of the pandemic. It's only recently that I've seen their hours creeping down, down, down, steadily and surely. First, to 6:30 p.m. Then, to six o'clock, and now this, 5:30 p.m., with nary a peep from our friendly neighborhood bank branch. So much for any notions of community.

In one way, it's not a big deal, since I'm still working from home, as I always did, long before the pandemic. Whether I'm cashing a check, or dropping a deposit, I just have to make time for the task.

But, in another way, it is a big deal. All their bright, shiny rhetoric aside ("Blah blah blah, where the customer is always number one, blah blah blah, your community bank's keeping you in mind, blah blah blah, service is our middle name, blah blah blah, your convenience is our command, blah blah blah, doing business with us has never been easier'), these incidents serve as a reminder, as if we ever needed one, that it's all about themselves, first and foremost.

If they could run the bank with only one teller, they would. If they could run it remotely, with Cheeky Charlie the Chatbot keeping you company, they would. (No need to pay overtime, nor those pesky personal breaks, right?) And if they could get by with shorter hours (4:30 p.m. closing time, anyone?), they'd run that game, too. 

Remember when banks competed on who could offer the most appealing interest rate? I just eyeballed my quarterly notice. I've earned four cents on my nest egg, it seems. That little factoid alone sums up the whole discussion for me.

In the end, you're just stuck dealing with the inconvenience, because they're passing the problem onto you. After all, you don't usually have anywhere else to go. And it's not like the token competitor or two would do a better job.

You're the customer, so it's on you to find a workaround, right? Their motto may as well be, "Hold the access, pass the inconvenience." Just another unpleasant fact of life that we're struggling to deal with, I'm afraid. I only hope that they don't start closing on Fridays. --The Reckoner

<"Thanks For Your Business"/
Take III: The Reckoner>

Life's Little Injustices (Take VI): The Customer Is Always...Last In Line

<i.>

I remember poring over the images in my sixth-grade social studies textbook.  Our latest unit, "Life Under Communism," offered no lack of photos to distract a young boy like myself: the cardboard grey tract housing, the supermarket shelves looking so threadbare and empty, the never-ending lines to buy basic items created a pretty striking visual effect...one that suggested, "The Soviet Union? Not a cool place to visit, and you definitely don't want to live there."

The images of those serpentine lines piqued the most curiosity. If you grew up with a fully stocked refrigerator during the '70s, as most of us did, you couldn't imagine lining up to buy staples like bread, milk and eggs. If you wanted something, you asked Mom for it, and hoped that she'd remember to put it on the shopping list...that's how it seemed to work, anyway.  So why, we asked our teacher, did our Soviet counterparts line up for hours to buy goods they couldn't afford, or wound up being unavailable? 

"Well, that's because..."  Our teacher ventured.  "Everyone knows there isn't enough to go around, and most folks don't make enough money, but they still need certain things...so they line up for them, anyway."

<ii.>

My mind drifts back to the late '90s.  I'm cooling my heels in a pastel gray suburban Illinois DMV office, in an equally pastel gray suburb...where strip mall after strip mall after strip mall zips by your window, and the main streets run indefinitely, to little effect.

I have no choice, though. I'm taking the postal exam next week, and -- having moved from another state -- need a license with the Illinois seal on it. Otherwise, my chances of driving one of those blue and white postal trucks might look pretty iffy.

The line snakes out of the DMV office and onto the sidewalk outside. It's like those scenes I often witnessed in college, when folks camped outside the hip record store, hoping to snag a ticket for the tour of their choice...why did all the good shows seem to happen in the middle of winter?

By 10 a.m., we're finally inside, but the line barely moves an inch, because only three stations are open. But the employees don't allow us to cramp their style. We see them fill in for each other, so they can take their 15-minute breaks. Still, the line barely moves.

An older guy behind me starts making conversation. "I've just moved here from Iowa, and it doesn't take nearly  as long...it shouldn't be this hard." He rolls his eyes, and so do I.

Around 11:30 a.m., I finally get my turn. Apparently, my old license is suspended over an unpaid ticket, but never got a notice. This is Chicagoland, after all, whose mail service is renowned for sucking like a wind tunnel.

The doors close behind me at noon. I have some detective work to do, it seems, but that'll have to wait till Monday. I catch a bus to the farthest available point, and end up walking the remaining mile or two home.

Unlike in Chicago, bus service is a more limited proposition here, because the suburbanites don't want to make it easy for the riff raff to show up. This means me, I suspect.

[Sorry: This Space Reserved...

...For Someone Standing In Line.]

<iii.>

Fast forward to last Saturday, in my old hometown.  I have to mail a payment to the IRS, and I need the postmark showing it's gotten out by the due date. It's the bureaucratic version of Willie Wonka's Golden Ticket...minus the chocolate.

I tell The Squawker to stay home. We're going out for lunch somewhere, but it's 11:45 a.m., and our local post office doesn't close until 12:30 p.m. Plenty of time to bound in and out, right?

No such luck. The scene looks eerily familiar as I walk inside, where just one postal clerk -- there's three windows here -- struggles to expeditiously tackle the needs of these dozen-odd customers, myself included. She's pretty efficient, but hard-pressed.

At one point, a woman struggles to lift an enormous box back onto the counter for processing to its destination.  "You can put it there," the clerk says, pointing at the second window. "I've almost thrown my back out once already."

Another woman exiting the line stops to rattle off a number at the bottom of her receipt: "Call this line and tell them to get more people in here on Saturday!"

Nobody bothers to scribble down a digit. We've all seen that movie before, haven't we? I tell myself. Their teeth click-click as they cluck in sympathy, but nothing ever seems to happen, so... 

I stand on tiptoes as the line inches closer. Normally, I can see the clock positioned behind the clerk...but not today, though. It's gone, taken down by the painters working inside the building. Damn! 

When my turn finally arrives, the clerk glances at the envelope that I've dutifully pre-stamped. "Next time," she says, "you can just walk up and hand it to me."

I flash a weak smile.  "Now I know, I guess."

I walk down the ramp outside, and pause to look at the bank clock across the street. It's now around 12:20 p.m. "Squawker will love this one, I'm sure," I mutter under my breath.

[Keep Calm...Hurry Up And Wait.]

<iv.>

Over and over again, government agencies and businesses remind us -- in the same crisp, solemn tones that Winston Churchill used to reassure a wear-weary British nation -- that the customer is always right, your satisfaction is the number one priority, and so on.

Of course, it all rings hollow when they pass the inconvenience to you in a heartbeat. How many times have you fidgeted at the automatic checkout in some chain grocery store, only to find yourself standing in line -- yet again -- when the machine's whistles and bells don't work as they should?

I never did get around to driving one of those blue and white postal vans. I wonder what it would have been like...it's too late to find out now, of course.  Ah, well, I tell myself, at least we can still make our lunch date.

I switch on the ignition and try to push those grainy social studies textbook images out of my head. I've seen enough graying bureaucracy for one day.  --The Reckoner

[Congratulations....You've Just Finished This Post. And You Didn't Need To Stand In Line To Read It!]

Life's Little Injustices (Take V): A Chair! A Chair! My Kingdom For A Chair!

http://verybradyblog.blogspot.com/2014/03/architect-mike-brady-kept-his-sketch-of.html

"Hi, dear -- no, save the casserole, I haven't finished

 my latest design. I call it 'Art Deco Ugly Stick...'

If you spent any time watching America's favorite TV family, The Brady Bunch, you know that a fair proportion of the jokes revolved around Mr. Brady's architectural career. Many a domestic scene at Chez Brady revolved around scenes of Mike in his vomit-colored patterned shirts and polyester suits -- oh, and let's not forget that quintessential '70s fashion of patches on the elbows!  Makes me queasy to think about, even now.

That being said, I'm "happy" -- those who didn't take Sarcasm 101, you may want to cover your eyes and ears at this point -- to report that Mike's questionable architectural legacy is alive and well in my crappy little corner of the universe. Every time I take The Squawker to a medical appointment, I see the symptoms in full effect -- tiny, crappy, puke-colored art deco chairs with arms that nobody but the skinniest, wafer-thin California model could ever fit in.

A few offices here changed -- if ever so begrudgingly -- with the times by getting a few plush sofas to sink into, or even a full-length couch (gasp, shock, horror, oh, how innovative!) Our latest unhappy run-in occurred a couple of weeks ago, when -- you guessed it -- we walked in and found ourselves surrounded by a sea of tiny, crappy, puke-colored art deco chairs that somebody probably picked up at an '80s bankruptcy auction.

What made me feel worse, though, was seeing the medical staff sitting quietly at their plush chairs, gazing out with their usual bovine incomprehension (hey, uh, why's everybody so upset? can't you just put a finger down your throat and vomit up your meals like the rest of us?).  I was reaching the point of waving imaginary semaphore flags in their complacent faces when I finally snapped. I'd reached the end of my tether. As usual, my partner needed help, and nobody was lifting a fucking finger. As usual...

So I floored it home, grabbed this sturdy wooden chair that we keep in place by one of our computers -- zipped back, and came dragging it in full view. Of course, by then, somebody had finally roused themselves out of their semi-permanent nine-to-five coma, so I wound up having to put the chair back in the car -- but I'd made my point, I suppose.

(http://www.stevemargolis.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/brady1.jpg)

What else can I say about this image, except -- "Honk if you love Habitrail-style furniture?"

I can just imagine an alternate script exchange between Mr. Brady and the eldest member of the tribe:

(CUE upbeat transitional music: Bah-dah-DAH-DAH, Bah-da-dah-DAH-DAH...)

GREG BRADY (GB): Gee, Dad, these plans for the new Tippity-Top ice cream buffet complex look great!  There's just one thing, though...

MIKE BRADY (MB) (furrowing brow): Gee, son, what's that?

GB (points to schematic drawing): Um, why aren't there any handicapped ramps or elevators? Seems like I'm seeing those downtown now, everywhere I go...

MB (rattles drawing for a closer look): Hmm...well...I'm not sure if we should encourage handicapped people to chow down on Rocky Road, son.  It's bad for their constitution. (CUE canned laugh track.)

But that's OK -- they can leave their wheelchairs downstairs, and we'll have some volunteers carry them up to the second floor!  Sam the Butcher has already said he'd take some Friday volunteer shifts.  We'll pull 'em up by their bootstraps, 'cause that's the American Way!

GB: You're the greatest, Dad.

(Free frame father and son hunched over drawings in study as background theme begins to cue up.)

Life's Little Injustices (Take IV): Doin' That Phone Payment Plan Fandango

https://goldenoldieads.wordpress.com/2011/12/24/reach-out-and-touch-someone-bell-system-1979/

No, that's not a candid shot of John Gacy answering his latest fan's call...even if the actor's face here bears an eerie resemblance to the late serial killet's three-ringed alter ego, Pogo The Clown. How'd this one slip past the ad department, anyway? Even so, if you grew up in the '70s, you'll remember these AT&T ads well, not to mention the warm and fuzzy jingle that will probably dog you on your deathbed: "Reach out...reach out and touch someone..." 

A couple weeks ago, AT&T did reach out to me, but not in a warm and fuzzy manner. I was innocently skimming my emails, until I stumbled on one that gave me pause: somebody was trying to reach me...but the line seemed out of order. 

I promptly checked our three phones. Two were silent, while the third bleated a strange piping tone that definitely signaled something rotten in Denmark -- hell, it's just a technical glitch, I thought.  They can fix that in a heartbeat, right?

No problem-o, I figured: I needed to send a bill in the mail, so the Squawker and I could just schlep out to the truck stop, and hit up AT&T on the way.

After a couple attempts, we reached a customer service rep in Arizona whose computer knew nothing of a $64 payment that I'd made the day before -- which marked the second in a three-part agreement that I'd struck with them...or so I thought.

"Look here," I protested, "I didn't imagine this!  Why the hell would I recall agreeing to pay $64 apiece, on 'X, Y and Z Days', at So-and-So-Supermarket, after talking to somebody in Pasadena?"

No dice, Arizona Man responded: cough up the remaining $128, plus the appropriate restoration fees, or...get used to the sound of silence for a few more days. Nothing warm and fuzzy about that situation, right?

Totally exasperated, I demanded -- or should I say, "requested" -- to speak with a manager. For the next 10 minutes or so, I stood listening to some sort of bouncy, one-chord ambient piece of sonic wallpaper...if I'm shipped off to Hell, I told myself, this is how it'll sound. When no manager surfaced, I hung up.

The Squawker and I exchanged anxious glances.  "What the hell..." I sighed. "Let's try one more time before we call it an afternoon with these nitwits."

This time, we got the Detroit area office, whose rep sounded no readier to budge than the first one.  "Look," I tersely explained.  "When I say, 'I have a receipt for $64 at So-and-So-Supermarket, isn't that a clue for somebody?"

"Well, you could try the Accounting Department..." I heard the crackle of dead air that often precedes an uncomfortable pause (as in, Oh, crap, sounds like somebody f#cked up over there...glad it wasn't me!).  "It's only three o'clock now, so you should get right through."

"Fair enough, then," I growled. Sure enough, another woman came right on the line -- and I recited my woeful tale for a third time, not expecting too much.

Lo and behold, though, the account rep confirmed my payment. Another uncomfortable pause hung in the air.  "You're right. I'm so sorry about that -- you should have it back on before you get home."

"So why did I go through all this, anyway?" 

"Well..." I could have started making a sandwich during this particular uncomfortable pause. "The agent probably didn't note your details correctly. Also, our system is basically set up for  two-payment plans, not three...but I'm not sure which factor kicked in here."

"OK, fine, well...glad we got it straightened out." Click! I hung up for the last time.

The Squawker and I got in our van, relieved to have (finally) found somebody who didn't treat us "as guilty till proven innocent."  Of course, when you deal with a certified corporate megalith like AT&T, that's exactly how your situation plays out -- but it doesn't spook you any less.

How spooked? Well, I paid the third $64 installment a day early, and called to double-check when the boilerplate disconnect notice plunked itself down in our mailbox.

Once again, I heard an uncomfortable pause, followed by an equally awkward apology ("Oh, we're so sorry about sending that! out"), but that didn't bother me. I was taking no chances.

If you've ever suffered through that one-chord ambient schlock, you have a fair idea of what Hell sounds like. And I don't want to hear it ringing through my ears on my deathbed, either...anymore than "Reach out...reach out and touch someone." --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hey, Dude, Why's The Air So Full Of Static?):
Angie's List: Why Cable, Internet TV And Customer Service Sucks So Much:
http://www.angieslist.com/articles/why-cable-internet-and-tv-customer-service-sucks.htm

Forbes: Why Does Customer Service Suck?:
http://www.forbes.com/sites/ciocentral/2012/06/04/why-does-customer-service-suck/2/

Youtube: Reach Out And Touch Someone Ad, 4/79
(This Time, It's Bozo On The Line):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yt6DvapiK-w