September 2, 2008
by Carol Starr Schneider
“Thank you for waiting,” says the friendly male voice. “Your call is important to us,” he promises, pre-recordedly, “and will be answered by the next available associate.”
“And when exactly might that be?” I inquire.
I need a time frame. Am I looking at years, days, hours? If it’s a hefty amount of minutes, I could accomplish a few dozen household chores or perhaps attend to my profession of choice. A little guidance would be greatly appreciated. Could my new automated buddy please be more specific?
“Your expected wait time is greater than seven minutes,” he informs me. I scold him, ever-so-gently. “That’s a little vague, don’t you think?”
He says nothing. I tell him, respectfully of course, that I reject that estimated time on principle alone. To appease me, he offers up a peppy Caribbean track. Clearly, he’s in no hurry. He’s automated. And he wants me to chill because help is on its way. It might arrive today, or tomorrow or week after next. But it’s coming. Have a little faith, sister.
Okay, I’ll try. I wonder if a tropical drink might ease the tension. It would go nicely with the island melody assaulting my senses. My mind starts to drift. I’m on the beach in a really flattering bikini. The scent of coconut sunscreen wafts by. I flag down a hunky bartender. I taste Pina Colada on my tongue. I run my fingers through my hair. My mood slightly dims. If only I had enough to pile on top of my head in a cute clip like that feisty, gun-totin’ Alaskan governor. Why can’t I have her lustrous locks? I wear glasses. I could do the sexy librarian thing. I could –
“Your expected wait time is approximately six minutes,” pledges the voice. I start to rejoice. “Six minutes? I can live with six minutes. I can do that. Yes, I can!”
For three of those six minutes, I’m content. Then something shifts internally. I’m no longer in happy island mode. I remember why I’m on hold in the first place. Some evil soul has stolen my debit account – even though the card never left my wallet – and went on a wacky gas-buying spree in Florida. How did this happen? Man, I’m steamed.
The remaining three minutes feel like an eternity. I start to hate that cruel and bubbly Musak with every inch of my being. And then, at last, a man comes on the line, and pleasantly asks, “How may I help you?”
I launch into my sad tale. I am a victim of fraud, I tell him. I can’t hide my emotions. I lay it on thick. I’m feeling sorry for myself and I want him to feel sorry, too. Yet he seems unmoved. He hears this same tune every six minutes or so on a daily basis. He’s tired of it. Don’t I know I’m not the first and certainly not the last to fall prey to the counterfeiting gods?
Whether I know that or not is beside the point. This is my trauma of the week. Let me wallow it in, sir.
He reads me a prepared statement in a monotone voice. They’ll send me an affidavit. I need to fill it out and send it back. If I don’t send it back in the attractive envelope they provide within 21 days, they’ll assume I’m no longer filing a claim and drop the whole thing.
What a strange assumption, I remark. Why wouldn’t I mail it back in a prompt and obedient fashion? I’m good for the postage.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks. This guy is so done with me. “Just one,” I say. “Do I ever have to call you back again?” “Only if you have any questions,” he says. “I pray to God I never do,” I say and bid him goodbye.
When my new card arrives, I plan to study it closely before making a move. I’ll look at my reflection in its shiny blue plastic and ask myself the following:
Should I trust humanity again? Should I throw caution to the wind and use this debit card I hold in my hands? Should I toss it in my next pot of moose stew and be done with it? Or go ahead and activate the heck out of it and hope for the best?
I’ll keep you posted, of course. Whatever I decide, I’ll go with my gut. I’ll do what feels right. That’s the way we handle things over in Sherman Oaks. We’re a lot tougher than you think.
Comments
Cara_Fidler (anonymous) says...
Well done. I think you captured the grin-and-bear-it essence of what it feels like waiting to talk to a real, live person, as the minutes tick by. "If only I had enough to pile on top of my head in a cute clip like that feisty, gun-totin’ Alaskan governor. Why can’t I have her lustrous locks? I wear glasses. I could do the sexy librarian thing. I could –" Go for it!
I wear glasses, too, and think I'm going to trade these in for a pair like "that feisty gun-totin' Alaskan governor."
September 10, 2008 at 9:25 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )
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