Oh No! My Car Has a Hanging Chad

It seemed like a good idea to get new tools. I mean, it was Saturday, there were a ton of Father’s Day specials going on. Plus, it was my birthday. For those of you who keep up with such things, this means I’m a Gemini, which as I understand it means that I’m tall, handsome, and smarter than most Nobel winners, but too humble to admit it. So these things are eerily accurate.

Earlier that day, I’d taken one of my old cars to my favorite shop for a little transaxle leak. Okay, it was gushing enough oil to have triggered an alert to Green Peace. So I drove my trusty truck to what USED TO BE “Where America Shops” and began shopping for tools, atypically clutching coupons and door buster specials. (My wife was proud of my shopping prowess. All of it was her idea.)

A red-vested “Product Specialist” appears, sensing a valid Visa card, “Can I help you find something special today?” he asks. “Well, lucky you,” I responded, “I need a new tool chest, some shiny things to go in it, and it’s my birthday.” Smiling he responds, “That’s a good start!” Things went downhill from there.

Oh, we found the deals. We fondled the socket sets (not together mind you, that would’ve been just weird) and I even selected a lighted work bench, with a drawer and external plug. All was well, and then my cell phone rang.

“Uh, Mr. Hudson” said my normally confident mechanic in a voice that sounded apologetic, “I’ve got some bad news.” I braced, “Hit me,” I said.

“Seems we already did. My dad backed into your car. I am so sorry.”

Wishing Reality was a Dream

Wow. My car is 34 years old, wearing totally original paint. In fact, it is a totally original car other than stuff I couldn’t leave alone. If you’re a car nut, this matters. If you’re not, there’s no help for you.

I finally mustered a response, knowing his dad to be an ageing, very well-meaning supporter of his son’s struggling enterprise…

“I can’t get mad enough to make that dent pop out, so that won’t do us much good. Tell your dad I’m sorry it happened and I’ll deal with it Monday,” I said.

With sincerity that true remorse brings he said, “Hey, we’ve called the insurance company, they’ll be out here Monday. I’ve taken pictures of it. It’s honestly not that bad, but that probably doesn’t make you feel any better.”

His attitude made the difference. He didn’t cause it – which is why they’re called “accidents” – and he’d taken the steps to prove responsibility. No amount of teeth-gnashing, blood-vessel swelling, or name-calling ever helps in these situations, though many attempt this course. All I could say was, “It’s okay. Just a car. No one was hurt. It’ll be fine. Thanks.”

I snapped the cell phone shut, in suspended disbelief, and was snapped into reality by my new best-vested friend, “I’ve got your total rung up for you!” he said beaming. And then the second car wreck of the day ensued.

Wishing a Dream Was Reality

I figured I’d be outa there by noon. It was just 11:40 am. Keep that in mind.

Mr. Red Vest developed a puzzled look on his face as he repeatedly pushed secret buttons on his magic computer. Apparently, the life-ruling computer was changing the rules. “We don’t have any more of that 5-drawer tool chest, even though the computer says I have two.”

The computer lied.

“Can I get the floor model?” I queried, sensing bargains-a-plenty. “Sure,” he responded, “for another 10% off!” I go to inspect for major dents or chewing gum in the drawers. Looks fine. “Ooops, no keys,” he says, “I’ll just throw this lock and key set in with the deal. Is that okay?” I’m slightly less enthused, but he was trying, “Sure thing.”

So we walk back to the check-out and the computer won’t let us check out with this new discount. Ten minutes elapse, and a frowning gray-vested managerial person appeared. He had quiet but stern words with my comrade, whose body language seemed defensive.

Another few minutes pass and he informs me, “Uh, I can’t give you the lock and keys. You’ll have to buy those.” He did the old eyeball glance at the non-speaking manager to let me know why. I felt the value-over-ride switch in my brain click. This switch also bypasses my better judgment, so without thinking I turned to gray vest…

“Are you the manager?” He nods. “Did you just tell him that I am to pay for the locks in this purchase?” He nods. “Do you have any proof that I’m the one who lost them?”

“No,” he utters his first word, and appears to be scanning the store for security.

Stopping point. Note his attitude. Note his cowardly nature. Note his inability to see that his “Product Specialist” has rung up a sizeable total yet believes the $7 lockset is recklessly gratuitous. Note the short guy assessing a marketing meltdown…

I collect my thoughts, sort of. “Since I didn’t lose the keys, can you see any real reason that I should have to pay for them? And before you answer, please notice the $580 of merchandise that will easily fit back on your shelves.”

Need an Attitude Check on Aisle 4

With this, he takes his little official card-swiping necklace thing and swipes it into a machine, allegedly giving me “credit” for the $7 lock in question and turns around. At this moment, I was torn. I didn’t know whether to cancel the sale to teach Worm Man a lesson (ripping the commission away from a man who earned it) or to let his terminal customer service defect go unchecked.

Fortunately, Worm Man catches that I’m staring a $580 hole in the back of his vest. He turns and says, “I really do appreciate your business; we’ve just been under a heck of a lot of pressure lately. I hope you enjoy your purchase.”

Smiles all around. It’s 12:05. I pull my truck to the loading door where I’m told it’ll take “5 minutes” to go get my stuff off the floor. Make that ten. Okay, it’s 12:20, no tool chest. Apparently, the computer never told the loading fellows that it was on the floor. (Funny, the computer never asked me anything.)

They eventually locate the runaway chest and load almost everything in the truck. “You’ll need to go to the warehouse to get the workbench. Just show them this receipt.” It’s not far, but my teeth are grinding to the point of expelling little teeth chards and the guy thinks I’m choking on a Trisket. It’s 12:30. I stuff my wad of receipts in the console. As I’m driving away, it hits me: “Why do I have a wad of receipts?” (This is the male shopping gene. Females look at receipts and say, “I don’t have NEARLY enough!”)

In the warehouse parking lot, I unroll said wad to see I was charged twice for my tool chest. I briefly consider redelivering my entire purchase through their front door.

I’m staring at the warehouse entrance. A big bay door is open, and one lone worker stands at the loading dock. I have a partial order in my truck, an overcharge in my hand, and have spent a full hour trying to give this store $580 of business. Above the door, in faded paint, I see the tagline, “…Where America Shops”, and think, “Not any more.”

Points to Ponder –

What is your customer process?
Why would anyone recommend you? What do you do to encourage referrals?
How hard are you to do business with? What one thing would make it easier?