A study in exasperation

Last weekend Michael and I finally purchased a 'new' TV. This is something we've been looking forward to for the last year, ever since we decided that a TV didn't make the first cut of priorities from all the wedding present gift cards and such. We wanted to get the right model, so we took our time and planned carefully and saved up and researched for the perfect TV that would meet our needs, be nice enough to want to keep for many years, and be modern enough to accommodate the changing technology demands of the next few years without being so close to the cutting that it would be horrifically expensive. Our current TV turns ten years old this year, and isn't compatible with modern DVDs - older videos that have been made into DVDs without getting digitally remastered, such as our A&E P&P or Bertie & Jeeves, work fine, but most new releases flicker badly, so we pretty much have to watch anything on DVD on the office computer. So this will definitely be a welcome Christmas present to each other.

There we were in the electronics department, and Michael found the perfect model - big enough, but not so big as to be pretentious; HDTV compatible, which is apparently going to be important a few years down the road; sleek and silver; and best of all, discounted at a great price. It was an open box model, meaning that it had been purchased and then returned, so it couldn't be re-sold as new, even though it was essentially brand-new. I do love bargains. We tried to take it home that day, but it didn't fit in my car, so Michael came back the next day with his truck. When we finally got it home and unwrapped it, Michael noticed several scratches and other minor cosmetic defects on the front and side panels that certainly weren't there when we saw it in the store. Obviously, this must have occurred when they tried unsuccessfully to load it up the first time - I must admit, I had my doubts when I saw them trundling the TV out there on a barren dolly, with no padding or wrapping at all. 'I wonder whether we could call them up and demand a further discount?' Michael pondered. Good idea - we even looked at the label, and it was clearly labeled Used but clearly NOT labeled Damaged. Certainly if it had looked defective in the store, we would have asked about getting a cosmetic discount. So yesterday when I got home from work, I gamely sat down in front of the computer and dialed the store.

By the end of the next hour, I had decided that, regardless of how willing I was to overlook or forgive any cosmetic imperfections in our new TV's sleek silver exterior, I was by jingo going to demand a discount just for the time spent in addressing the problem. The saga became reminiscent of The Place That Sends You Mad, from The Twelve Tasks of Asterix. The trouble was that I was deeply into the mire before I fully grasped the absurdity and ridiculousness of the situation, so it wasn't until about half an hour in that I started writing down times, phone calls, and names.

It started innocently enough. 'Hi. I need to talk to someone in the Electronics Department,' I said brightly enough, after spending about three minutes navigating the phone system and finally getting a live person, the operator. I was transferred and the call was lost. Repeat scenario (another three minutes). This time I made sure to ask that she call over there first and make sure someone was there to answer. Turns out the electronics department's phone was out of order (at this point, early on, I was still amused enough to chuckle privately at the irony of the electronic department's phone being out of order, who of all people should be able to fix or replace it) and all the associates over there were busy anyway. 'Well, then I need to speak to a manager.' I was told I was being transferred to customer service. Hold. Then, 'I'm sorry, but that line is busy. Please hold while I try again.' (A recording.) The attempt was not successful. 'We are unable to transfer your call. Please call again later.' Argh. Another three minutes. This time the question of the TV was shadowed by the question of the phone system. 'Hi, I called just a moment ago. I need to speak to someone in electronics, but don't transfer me there because their phone doesn't work. Please get me a manager and make sure someone picks up.' 'Of course, ma'am.' And we had the same scenario all over again. Three more minutes. This time I am more explicit. 'I need to speak with a manager, and I need for you not to transfer me, but to put me on hold. I have called several times, and each time I call the call is lost.' So I finally got to talk to someone, and was about a minute into explaining my tale - to which he was sympathetic, at least: 'Oh, dear. That's not good. Yes, let me look this up for you. Do you have your receipt? What was the transaction ID? Let me put you on hold a moment while I look this up'- and there I was, cut off by the same busy recording. The situation was clearly becoming unreal. I called again. At this point I began taking names, so that there would be a clear paper trail should history repeat itself. I started from square one again with some other manager or sales associate, who was likewise sympathetic but with whom my conversation was again cut short by the untimely interruption of the busy recording. At this point I became convinced that it was not just the electronics department with a defective phone. 'Hi. I have been trying to call for the last forty-five minutes-' 'I'm so sorry, ma'am!' (Very friendly, helpful people! All of them! They just have a wretched phone system!) 'That's okay, but I just need to get through to someone. Please page a manager, make sure someone live picks up, and do not try to transfer the call.' No good. I am halfway through explaining my situation when the phone cuts me off. By now I am more than a little pipped. We go through the whole voice mail saga again. Once again I talk to a live person, who asks cheerfully, 'How may I direct your call?' Okay, a normal conversation is obviously not going to happen on this turf. 'Hello. I need you to take my name and number, and have a manager call me back immediately on a cell phone. I have spent the last hour on the phone trying to reach someone, and your phone system has consistently cut me off. Please have a manager call me back immediately.' 'All right ma'am, hold just one moment.' 'No, don't put me on hol....' No use. Busy. I repeat this scenario a few times, until I can get someone to believe me when I say, 'Do not transfer me and do not put me on hold. I need you to take my name and number and have a manager call me back.' Then this paragon of a helpful person reveals to me that it is not a function of the hold, nor of the transfer, but of the fact that the phone line cuts off after three minutes when the call comes in through the switchboard. I am floored. My problem cannot be explained in less than three minutes. 'That is why I need you to take my name and number and have a manager return my call on a valid line.' She transfers me to someone who offers to page a manager for me, and I barely manage to leave my number before the phone cuts off. At this point I conclude to leave well enough alone and hope that someone with whom I left my number will make sure a manager calls me back.

I cannot recall ever experiencing a runaround as bad as this before. And I was glad to note that even though I was frustrated with the situation, I was never inclined to be mad with the people themselves. Michael came in toward the end of some of my conversations, and I even asked him, 'Did you think I sounded mad? Because I wasn't, really, and was trying to achieve the right tone of firmness without irritation.' I've been on the answering end of a phone enough to know that angry callers accomplish nothing by belligerence or impatience, besides making helpless underlings who had nothing to do with the original problem feel miserable.

Perseverance pays off. Later that evening I did indeed get a call back from a manager who apologised handsomely for the confusion and offered an additional 10% off the purchase. I think that was worth an hour of my life.