Customer Service Eruption

Maybe it was my last blog post that caused a lack of customer service explosion on my part, or perhaps it was simply the fact that I had reached my breaking point on people messing with not only my money, but my time. This morning, I diligently brought my car back to the dealer to finish round two of my major car repair. Arriving, as is my usual practice, right on time for my appointment, everything seemed as if it were going well. I settled into the service area with my work laptop when 90 minutes later, the service man came up to me.

“Forgive me,” he said trying to hide the bad news he was about to deliver with a chuckle. “But we ordered one part and it looks like you need a second.”

Dumbfounded, I sat there, peering over the top of my glasses at him, not yet feeling the rush of anger that would soon explode like an erupting volcano.

“We don’t have it here so if you can bring the car back tomorrow –“ he said before I sliced his sentence in two.

“Get that part now.  I’m here, you had all day Saturday to figure out what you needed.”

He then, unsuccessfully, tried to explain why the dealer warehouse would not deliver today to just one location. Then after telling me to return on Saturday, he came back and said that deliveries are not made on the weekend. The poor bastard could not shield himself from the onslaught of profanity and frustration that swept from my lips like a raging tsunami against the shore.

Perhaps it was the work week of IT mishaps and server crashes catching up to me, or the fact that my “service adviser” told me last week that driving my reliable auto would be a safety issue if driven much longer that fed the fire in me. Maybe it was a combination of every wronged customer service experience I had encountered up to this morning, but it was about time that my time (and money) be treated respectfully. If they weren’t going to offer it, then my outrage was demanding it. 

So, fifteen minutes later, underneath a grey and threatening Southern California sky, I walked into their rental car reception area only to be told by the girl behind the counter that for $12.99 more a day I could upgrade the rental. The look on my face shut her up before she uttered one more word. With my laptop beside me, I drove off in a GMC pick-up truck – the very first time I’ve ever been behind the wheel of a car bigger than a compact, but the first time a car has been covered by a dealer for the duration of the weekend. 

In all honesty, yes, I could have taken the car and returned for a third time on Monday, however, in some small way, my rage did what I have wanted to do so many times in the past: grab attention and make it known that a “customer service” person needs to do exactly what the title of their job tells the public what they should do. I deserve to be treated courteously, and if you tout on your website that you’ll get your customers in and out quickly with the best service, then I am here to make sure that I, your customer gets exactly what you advertise. And now, I'm going to settle into this mini pick up truck and attempt to feel butch for an entire weekend. Maybe by then, the volcano will go back to sleep.

Customer Service is Six Feet Under

Customer service is officially dead and buried. Perhaps I have such high standards because I began my career tethered to a telephone and the skills of follow up and courteousness were ingrained in me as if I were a cattle branded with its rancher’s mark.  For years, whether it was for a long distance phone company or an up and coming software firm, I was never allowed to let any customer wait for an answer. Even today, working in the entertainment industry, I'd like to think people outside of my expertise contact me because they realize the level of my customer service skills.

Just this past weekend, after spending almost 6 hours waiting for my car to be serviced, it was finally ready, but, as the service man told me. “We don’t have a part we need, so you’ll need to come back.” Since I made my appointment a week ago, didn’t they know the parts they would need? Dejected and tired, I walked up to pay my large bill and present my coupon for $50 off to the cashier.

“I don’t do coupons,” she said to me without a hint of apology. “You’ll have to go back to the service adviser to have him give you a new bill.”

Seriously “customer service woman”? Seriously? I have to do that?

And the good times kept rolling during my call to make a dermatologist appointment. After leaving a message because the office “was away from the desk,” I had to call again later that afternoon. Not once did they mention that they had heard my message. And, a day later, they did call – only to inform me that the office would be closed on my appointment day. Seriously, Dermatologist office? Seriously? You didn’t see your office was closed when I booked my appointment?

I hesitate to use the phrase, “back in the day,” but more and more, I’m finding that I continually look back to the past and wonder when it all changed. Just today, I called the Honda dealer to see if the part they ordered had arrived on time. I knew I would have to call them to check, but I remained hopeful that someone would follow through and take the initiative to call me. 

"Can I call you back," the man said to me.

 Can you or will you?

To combat it all, I continue to harken back to my training and give people what I think they deserve. And my reward? I get calls outside of my expertise because everyone knows that I will follow through and get them an answer, no matter if it can help them solve their problem or not. Though at times I felt brainwashed by the constant hammering of monitoring in my youth, I wish I could go back to those days and thank those task masters for the one skill that I am most proud to possess.

Men, Boys and the Bitches In Between

Is there a marked difference between boys from L.A. and those from other states? Before I continue, I need to clarify that I continually flip flop in calling  men boys. For one, they never really grow up and two, they seem to always be chasing a real honest-to-goodness one that it’s just easier to lump them all together under the boy topic. Occasionally, I meet a man but sooner or later he reverts back to his adolescence, so to save time – boys it is.

If there were any doubt how different boys can be, then you had to only spend a few hours at one of the three birthday parties I attended in Palm Springs this past weekend. Surrounded by countless gorgeous Atlanta boys at every turn, I was happier than Scarlett O’Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. Beyond their good looks, what amazed me the most was that no one possessed an ounce of the attitude I find in West Hollywood and L.A. in general. For a second there, I thought I’d driven too far down the 10 freeway and landed in some alternate universe.

For years, I used to say the difference between L.A. and San Francisco boys could be summed up thus: If I wore a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt out, the Bay Area boy would ask, “When did you go to Disneyland?” while his Southland counterpart would probe, “how long have you worked for Disney?” And now, I’m certain that the Atlanta boy would not even care but simply return the hello you throw his way.

Not only did the hosts welcome the two friends I invited along with me, but every guest we met was nicer than the next. From lipstick lesbians who surprised even my keen eye to boys who have been together for years – everyone I spoke to was welcoming and unassuming. And best of all – every boy was secure in his relationship.

“Don’t you mind that you always meet the married ones,” my friend asked me.

I didn’t even have to think before I answered in the negative. The single ones never pay me any mind and after I put it out there that I am indeed open and ready to know them more – they disappear. For years, this bothered me and only recently have I become secure in not caring simply because if a boy is secure in sticking around then I know he’s worth more than just a flash of my smile. I take the cards in front of me and play my best hand.

As with any gathering that results in an overflowing smorgasbord of boys, I was in my flirting element. Never at any point did any boy’s partner come up to me and threaten to beat me, cut me, punch me out or make it perfectly clear to steer away from his other half. Everyone I met was secure in their relationship and that is something I very rarely experience in L.A.

Once, at a restaurant’s bar, my friend and I were making eye contact with an incredibly breathtaking man.  Neither of us could tell his nationality and I took it upon myself to walk over and simply ask him his origins. I flashed my smile, said hello and presented my question only to hear a bitchy tone reverberate in my ear that I can still hear to this very day.

“His boyfriend is right here.”

“Yes, I see you,” I said without turning around to that nasty queen who was just one of a long line of bitter boys who spit their venom at me. “But your location wasn’t my question.”

I could write for hours on the boys who threatened to get me fired or throw a drink in my face for simply being me. The simple fact is that I know where I fall on the food chain of gay boys and I use the assets that work to my benefit. I continue to spend a lot of money on my dental work and am never shy about using it to say hello. And the fact that I have a full head of curly hair doesn’t hurt either.

Perhaps it was the Southern gentility that made every boy such a refreshing delight to meet. Or maybe, it was that I’ve become better attuned to choosing friends who are as secure as I have become over the years. At any rate – it’s good to know that there exists a class of man who doesn't just exist in the pages of a book. And it's nice to realize that like Scarlett - there is a belle deep down in that flirtatious facade of mine that will love only one man when he makes his presence known.