"WAR IS HELL" (Tecumseh Sherman)

         Please don’t tell Fortune or Forbes, but the businessman who best exemplifies our times is not Jack Welch, but rather Basil Fawlty, CEO of Fawlty Towers. Basil, with his smarmy attitude of the customer always being right, is the master of ‘Get This Person Out Of My Face’, which is the aim of modern customer relations.

         Walk into the modern office. Be directed to a friendly person sitting behind a desk. Tell them your problem. Be handed a questionnaire to fill out and then wait to be called. Be ushered into a cubicle and from there sent to another floor, and then to the basement, and at last out onto the street. I am reminded nothing so much as the old joke about Grandma’s whorehouse, where the john pays his money, goes through the door, and ends up behind a facade, having just been screwed by Grandma.

         Three days later, a customer satisfaction survey arrives in the mail, asking about the level of service. Please rate us on a level of satisfaction from one to five. I respond, but the form is designed for optical scanning, and after finishing it, I learn I should have used black ink, and marked my answers with large dots, not 'x's. I am told this survey will enable them to serve me better. But who is being served? And don't bother to telephone. Service is even worse. Oh, Basil Fawlty, where are you now?

         Basil came along before the voice mail system. Were he still in business, he would have had a ball:

"Press one if you want to speak to
Manuel;

Press Two if you want to make a date with Polly;

Stay on the line if you want to talk to the Colonel."

Voice mail is so easy to ridicule, but the principle is the understandable: Get the caller off the phone.

         I almost went into shock yesterday when I reached my wife's heart doctor's nurse on the second transfer, and both connections were picked up by humans. Three days before I called her pulmonary specialist to reschedule and listened to seven choices before they gave his name. "If you wish to make or change an appointment with Dr. Breathewell, press 'one' to talk to his secretary." Having seen the office, I suspect all options are answered by the same person, that same person who called yesterday to remind us of the appointment we had canceled.

         I called the City of Philadelphia Revenue Department and voice mail gave me a roster of choices. I selected mine and was told all operators were assisting other customers and to please stay on the line. I waited. My phone has a timer on it, at nine minutes, I considered switching to speaker phone so I could get some work done, but then the horrible music and announcements that were assaulting my ear alone would resonate throughout the house.

         Last year the recordings were read by a George Fenneman-like voice speaking from somewhere in voice-over land. George must have upped his price. This year's speakers lard their talk with 'dese's','dose's' but no 'youse'.

         It could be worse. I could be dealing with my cell phone company. Voice mail is hell, but attaining service for a cell phone is like searching for the Northwest Passage. Last winter I carried my cell phone to my second office in Philadelphia. As I arrived at the building, I tried to call home and found I had no service. Repeated tries produced the same message. My first client used the same 'Talktome Cellular' and lent me his phone, from which I called "611", the service number. It was explained to me that Talktome was having problems with their relay through Tincan Telephone, but it should be ironed out later.

         After a full day without service, and a futile call at night when all assistance was shut down, I called my local service number in New York the next morning from a regular phone, charging my phone card. Denise, the 'techie' who answered, heard me out and said 'that problem with Tincan was fixed last week, I don't know why they said that'. This saint spent forty-five minutes, on my dime but not her fault, trying to fix my phone by remote, but without luck.

         I returned home the next day and called 'Talktome.' The gum chewer that answered told me that many people had problems and "we are working on it." If that be so, I asked, then why did Denise spend so much time, and why did she seem to know so much more than you. I noted that Denise wrote out a repair report. The flak catcher paused and found the report, or said she did, and responded "Yes, they are working on it and will restore your service by tomorrow".

         Two days later and no service, I called again and was given some more 'tire talk' until I said quietly: 'Now let's cut this crap; all you want to do is get me off the phone.' I heard her say 'he sounds really mad' to someone near her. The next voice I heard was that of the woman who sold me this sucker deal. "Bring the phone in, we think it's broken." So I put the dog in the car, drove the ten miles and walked into their strip center showroom, leaving the dog displayed prominently in the front seat outside their door.

         It was a slow day, and the eighteen-year old at the counter, on hearing my voice and seeing my hand in my pocket, knew who I was. She did a wonderful Shaggy/Scooby feet-do-your-thing shuffle in her run to the back to tell the all-highest and to get out of the way, a madman had invaded their store.

         A minute later, out popped BASIL FAWLTY. 'Right now, enjoying Torquay are we, Mr. Lidle?'

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This was written January 30, 2001.