We all have our horror stories about lousy customer service. My most recent was when my husband and I were standing in line at an office supply store. The clerk was yapping into her cell phone while scanning our purchases. Without so much as a word or a glance in our direction, she managed to bag our items, take our money, and hand us our receipt. Her name tag identified her as the assistant manager.

I absolutely loathe handling problems over the phone. I especially hate it when my calls are being outsourced. One day the power went out and I tore my house apart looking for a phone number. Thanks to my dependence on the Internet, I had tossed away my phone books. Digging through a pile of old bills, I located the number for my local utility company.

The person on the line had a heavy accent. I pointedly asked where he was from. He replied that he was in the Philippines. I felt like a heel for complaining — Previously, my husband had traveled to the PI for business and had witnessed their poverty and lack of utilities.

I wondered as I always do what these foreigners must think while taking our calls. 

Over the years, I’ve learned a few tricks in dealing with phone customer service. Be patient, swallow the anger, and be as humanly nice as possible — sometimes beg. Otherwise, you’ll hear elevator music, or click!

Over and over, I’ve heard the old saying, the customer is always right! I’ve never questioned it until I took a job in retail.

One day I decided to take a seasonal part-time job. I had always thought that cashier work looked fun. I figured it was an easy job — stand there, smile at the customer, scan items, and count change. What a glamour job. I could paint my nails, wear pretty rings, and do something nice to my hair. How hard could that be?

The only place in town that hired me was K-mart. Never mind my job history or college education. My lack of retail experience qualified me for one thing only.

The store rotated me in both the men and women’s clothing sections. My job was to hang clothes that had fallen from their racks, refold tee shirts, and to assist the customers. It wasn’t cashier work, but it looked easy enough.

On my first day, the rumpled clothes piled high on their tables. In less than an hour, I had witnessed five customers drive their shopping carts over a dropped dress or a pair of jeans. Some people didn’t even look ashamed — they’d just carelessly toss merchandise on whatever shelf was nearby. If it slides to the floor, oh well. Abandoned beverages were left dripping on shelves. A wad of gum pressed into a package. Management didn’t reprimand the customer. I watched clothes after clothes become damaged and unfit for selling.

One customer insisted she had to try on underwear. She ripped open package after package of panties, asking my opinion on whether they’d fit or not.

I was hired part-time evenings and fully expected to be off work at closing — 10pm.

Management pointed out that the doors are locked at 10. My job had just begun. My attention was directed to the sea of loaded shopping carts that were being parked by the registers. These contained abandoned merchandise that needed to be restocked or put aside. Many of the items were damaged, stepped on, spilt on, or torn open for theft.  My life flashed before my eyes — restocking toothpaste, picking up toys, and refolding panties.

I quit the next day.

I’m now more conscious of my actions. I’ll admit, sometimes I’m tempted to toss the shirt on the table. I have to force myself to fold.

With guilt, I drive my shopping cart past the clothes on the floor. No, I didn’t drop them, someone else did. My conscience sometimes makes me turn around, pick up the clothes, fold them, re-hang them, or brush off the dust. My kids watch me. 

It takes great effort to replace items from my cart into its original spot.

Instinctively, I almost took the manager up on his offer to replace my loaf of bread that I had smashed — or the bag of charcoal that I had ripped.

One evening I abandoned my shopping cart in the parking lot. Satisfied that it wouldn’t roll away, I swallowed the guilt and buckled my seatbelt. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man and a woman waving their arms and pointing at my cart. I slunk deeper into my seat. Pretending I didn’t see them, I drove away. From my rearview mirror, I spied the woman with her hands on her hips while her husband kept pointing at my shopping cart!

I was about a mile down the road when I reached over for my purse. With mounting horror, I realized I had left it at the register.

I tore into the parking lot, jumped out of the car, and dashed across the pavement. Just as I reached the entrance to the store, the couple that had flagged me stepped outdoors. “Ma’am, we dropped your purse off at customer service. You had left it in your shopping cart.”

Tweet  Print This Post

Tags: all work, money // Add Comment »