By Sherry Antonetti
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, August 13, 2007
I lost my cellphone, and I have to admit I feel lost without it. I think of six or seven errands I could handle while in my car if only I could find my cellphone, but no, now the errands require human contact and I am forced to actually reach out and touch people.
Those in the phone store, for example.
I have gone to the phone store three times in an attempt to resolve the lost-cellphone situation. I just want a new one with the old number. The store advertises all the time that it can do this, and that it wants my business.
The first time I went to the phone store, a nice lady greeted me with extra zeal. She then imitated Vanna White and gestured to where I should type in my name and problem. I dutifully complied and watched as four other people came in and were given the same warm greeting and physical redirection to type up their troubles. The nice lady must have tired of all the smiling and pointing, so a second greeter took over while she ran for a rejuvenating Starbucks next door.
One by one, the other customers were approached by yet a third and a fourth employee and asked to verbally repeat what they had typed into the computer. They were then directed to lines that would lead to additional personnel who could possibly give them a few seconds of actual help.
Apparently, mine was a problem case. After 20 minutes, I asked the greeter why I was still waiting and she asked if I had typed in my problem. When I said yes, she said she was sure someone would be with me shortly.
Twenty minutes later, as I scanned the phones on display and mused about which one I would buy, another greeter asked if he could help me. I started to explain that I need a new phone, but he said he'd have to get me the right person, and the right person was with another customer.
I was starting to feel aged by the experience. "I've been here 40 minutes; I just want to buy a phone," I recall telling him as I hung on to his arm so he couldn't slip into the back room.
He said I'd have to talk to someone in sales.
" You can't sell me a phone?"
"No."
"Why can't you sell me a phone? Why can't they sell me a phone?" I pointed to the greeters, who again were warmly welcoming people to use the computer and type their concerns and wait for further instructions and assistance.
"Because they're not in sales."
By this time, my volume control wasn't working. Yet another staff member showed up. "What seems to be the trouble?" he asked, with an "I'm in charge, I'll handle it" tone that gave me hope. I explained I wanted to buy a phone to replace the one I had lost.
He asked if I had insurance. I did not. He asked for my cellphone number and ran it through the computer, explaining that if I had gotten insurance on the phone, I already would have a new one, free of charge.
"Live and learn," I said dryly.
He looked at the screen and informed me that since my husband bought the lost phone, he'd have to buy the new one.
So no one but the person who buys the phone can buy a new one? He had to be making this up.
He assured me he wasn't. And since I hadn't had the phone long enough, I wasn't eligible for an upgrade, he added. A new phone would cost me $150 at least.
"But I'm still paying for a phone I can't and don't use," I pointed out. The rest of our conversation went something like this:
"Well, we can suspend the plan. You pay $9.99 per month and we won't charge you for the services you aren't using."
"But you are charging me. You are charging me $9.99."
"Yes, but we could be charging you $30 more."
"So even if I buy the phone for $150, you can't put it on my plan because my husband bought the plan?"
"Correct, but we can suspend your plan until you find your phone or your husband buys you a new one. What do you think?"
I thought it was time to go next door for a rejuvenating Starbucks.
The second time, I brought in an old cellphone, ignored the greeters and typed in my problem. Then I sat down on the floor in the middle of the store with my Diet Coke and a book.
"What are you doing?" the greeter asked.
"Waiting for the person who will come out and help me make this phone work so I can go back to having a cellphone."
The greeter said they preferred that I wait standing up.
"But then I can't read, and the last time I was here, it was 40 minutes. That's too much time to just stand around." I opened my book, took a sip of Diet Coke and signaled that the conversation was over.
The book was a bit dry, so I opened my purse and proceeded to put on base, eye shadow, lipstick and mascara. I blotted my lips and then brushed and redid my hair.
The manager type showed up within seconds of the eye shadow, but I finished my face before getting up to discuss the matter of the phone.
I told him about the lost phone and that I needed to activate the old one so I could go back to making calls as needed. I presented the old phone. It was gray and it was dull as could be, but it had been reliable and it was hard to lose.
He eyed it with distaste and let me know it was not compatible with the company's equipment and program.
I reminded him it was an old phone from that very same company.
Yes, he acknowledged, but that was more than six years ago; things have changed.
Maybe the sit-in wasn't such a helpful idea, but it had been emotionally satisfying.
The third time, I brought the phone and my husband.
"I'm sorry, just write your concerns on this legal pad; our computers are down," a greatly agitated greeter said. We wrote down our names and phone numbers and the problem.
Twenty minutes later, when our names were called, the manager came up to me. I was afraid he was going to complain about the makeup incident, but he just told us he couldn't make a sale right then. The computers were all down and he couldn't even dial out to verify a credit card.
Couldn't he use a cellphone?
The manager shook his head helplessly. "No reception in the building."
I recognized divine karma when I saw it, gave up and went to the pharmacy to buy some stationery, stamps and a pen.
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