Lessons from Customer Service

My dad believed that I shouldn’t have to work my way through college like he did. I should be free to concentrate on my studies. So, while my friends were breaking rocks for cash, I was next door at the old quarry perfecting my cliff jumping skills. That was followed by my daily Nerds Blizzard, which was followed by a nap. I did take a class or two. Usually something like Botany for the Privileged, a 5-credit Pass/Fail class that met once a week for two hours of wandering around campus identifying plants - many of which had a plaque next to them.

Then I went on spring break to Panama City, Florida. MTV was there! Jose Cuervo was there! Master Card was there! Visa was there! AmEx! Discover! “Hey kids! Come get your free t-shirt and a life time of debt!”

I could face my Dad with the news of the literal and figurative unraveling of my finances and new credit-card-sponsored wardrobe. Or, less frightening, I could end my “work-shy” lifestyle. It’s not that I had never worked before. I volunteered a lot growing up and even had a brief summer job detasseling corn. (If you make it through a summer detasseling corn - which I did not - you can do anything.)

Most of middle school and high school I had a regular volunteer shift at the hospital gift shop. I generally worked the little concession stand at the back, pushing sundaes and cherry 7-Up. Sometimes I misunderstood an order and would start to make a cherry sundae. “Oh, you said chocolate? I’m so sorry. Let me start again.” I was allowed one fountain soda a shift. It was always a cherry 7-Up which, so as not to waste food, would often contain a scoop of ice cream.

Those skills translated nicely into my first job as a semi-adult. I worked the lunch shift at a popular downtown BBQ restaurant. The lunch rush was between 11:30 and 1:00. The line was often out the door. My job was to take the orders, make the orders and then deliver the orders to the correct customer’s table. I was also supposed to take phone orders, but people realized pretty quickly that was not a service I had decided to offer.

Every day was chaos. I had no game plan and I’m embarrassed to say it was actually a customer who suggested maybe I write down people’s names so I wasn’t just wandering around the dining room hoping someone recognized their order. The worst part was my self-diagnosed facial blindness. The second you stepped away from the counter I had no idea who you were.

“I’ll have my usual.”

Blank stare

“I come in every day.”

Red cheeks, blank stare

“The pulled pork.”

“OK. Uh. What’s your name again?”

<<sigh>>

I was supposed to be assisted by my manager. She was supposed to be preparing the meals for me. I was only 17 and for some reason that meant I wasn’t allowed to use the meat carving knives. She was twice my age and - believe it or not - the less together of the two of us. She showed up at 11 to let me in, left with her boyfriend, and returned at 4 when my shift was over. I think she thought because I was a relatively skinny sorority girl that I wouldn’t spend my downtime eating a second-lunch-rush amount of food. She was wrong.

Each day between 1 and 1:05 I cleaned up. Between 1:05 and 3:58 I nibbled. I nibbled on meat. I nibbled on coleslaw. I nibbled on potato salad. I nibbled on pickles. I made vats of lemonade of which I drank a quarter. Most importantly, I experimented with the roller of melted butter that spun atop the toaster. Turns out all of the aforementioned tasty foods are even tastier when saturated with butter and run through a toaster.

Much to the disappointment of my regulars, I had to quit the job after several months. I had gone on a handful of dates with the dinner shift guy. He was older and seemed cool at first. But then, on my 18th birthday, he left eight messages and five hang ups on my answering machine. I had told him I couldn’t have sex with him because I was 17 and that it would, sadly, be illegal. I was afraid to return to work the next day and started to think maybe being a 24-year-old college dropout still living in your fraternity house wasn’t so cool after all.

My next job was the front desk attendant at an airport-adjacent chain hotel. Possibly they had checked my references because they were only willing to offer me the night shift - 11pm to 8am. Very little happens overnight in a chain hotel lobby. And what does happen, is generally not good. The housekeeping staff has gone home. So, if for instance a guest finds one long curly nasty black hair in their tub, I was the one very very slowly making my way up the stairs to their sixth floor room. Only once did a handsome stranger approach my desk. Unfortunately I was in the process of stapling my bra back together - while I was still wearing it. No numbers were exchanged.

The one highlight was the Dunkin’ Donuts delivery at 3am. I was in charge of setting up the continental breakfast. It started at 6am and if you weren’t down to the lobby by 6:15, we were probably out of donuts. That’s not because there was a rush those first 15 minutes, there just weren’t that many left to start.

Having an overnight shift end at 8am is a terrible idea. You don’t let a bored, sleep deprived, sugar infused young woman check guests out and expect her to be pleasant. You also don’t leave a key to the comments box in the drawer for her to find and remove any cards containing words like “curt” or “disgruntled” or “slow to remove tub pube”.

My final affront to the customer service industry was in the shoe department of a major department store. I had started in the lingerie department, but my face had a hard time not sharing my opinions. Every older male customer seemed to be accompanied by a person who looked purchased in some way. Mail order bride. Human trafficking in progress. Former secretary turned third wife.

So, I was moved to shoes for the first day of a big blow out sale on comfort shoes. The older ladies were in early and ready to buy. By day three - or maybe it was only 3 hours in - I was exhausted. Life is short and these ladies had no time for my incompetence.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting, young lady? This is the most disorganized-“

“Next, please!” I had no time for them either.

Of course I couldn’t remember for whom I was grabbing what. I just announced the style and size and tossed the box in the general direction I heard squawking.

“Easy rider. Size 6. Wide.”

I was standing near the register. Since I saw someone move towards me out of the corner of my eye, I just started ringing her up.

I heard noise in front of me. More like a breeze than a squawking wind.

First the first time all day I stopped and focused on the person in front of me. Her head just cleared the counter on top of which she had folded her hands. Her lavender hair looked as soft as her voice sounded.

“What?” I assume my face also mentioned I was a mere minutes away from quitting.

“May I try them on first?” I had to lean in to hear her.

“Oh… sure.”

“Over there? Is there a seat?” She turned hesitantly to look at the mob behind her.

“Let me help you!” I took her arm and guided her towards a chair covered in boxes. I moved the carnage, got her seated, helped her get the shoes on, and, for the next fifteen minutes, acted like a proper salesperson.

That was my first and last day in shoes.

It doesn’t seem like that much of a story, but I’ve always remembered that woman. Well, not her face of course. I remember her general essence. Every time I feel like I’m flinging boxes at a mob of arm-flapping squawkers, I think of her. I think about slowing down, letting the background noise fade out and focusing on the human being in front of me. Sometimes I need a reminder that I’m moving through the world with other humans. We’re all just trying to get a little kindness, a little thought and respect, and a good deal on some easy riders.