charge!

I read the next name from the list.

“Susan?”

“Hi!” the sweet-looking woman responds. Her salt-and-pepper wavy locks bounce around a contagious smile. 

“How can I help you today?”

“Ah, it’s this screwy phone. I swear I’m terrible with these things. I charge it on its charger and I still don’t have any more battery bar thingies when I get up the next day.”

“Okay, that sounds familiar.  May I take a look?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“It appears to be charged now though, yes?”

“Oh yes, it charges in my car just fine. Oh, and here!” she remembers something in her bag, “I brought the charger from home too!”

“Excellent.  Thank you so much for doing that.  You’d be surprised how many people forget that something like this can help in the troubleshooting process.”

“Oh, I’m sure you get all kinds in here.”

“m-hm.  Let’s see what we’ve got.”

I plug in the phone and charger to the wall socket behind me. The battery bars blink once before beginning their ascent-and-empty routine. One bar, two bar, three bar, blank. One bar, two bar, three bar, blank.

I turn to Susan.

“When you plug it in at home, do you see the battery bars going up over and over again?”

“What?”

“Here,” I invite her around the counter to look at the phone as I continue monitoring its progress.

“Oh, no, they never do that at home.”

“Ah, interesting.  And you definitely have looked right here in the corner to see where this icon is doing its little dance?”

“Yes, my friend Geoffrey has the same phone and he told me to look there for that.”

“Okay, so it appears to be charging now, right?”

“Oh yay, thank you! You are my hero! What did you do?”

“Well, Susan, I just…plugged it in.”

“What?”

“Let me ask you another question.  The plug you typically use to plug in your phone at home, is it a plug you commonly use?”

“Of course.  I try it in plugs all over the house!  It’s something wrong with the charger, right?”

Well, see, I don’t think so because the charger seems to be working here and we’ve been watching it for a couple of minutes now.”

“But I don’t understand, is it the phone?”

“I don’t think it’s the phone because you said it charges in your car and it appears to be charging as we speak.”

“Is it the battery?”

“Again, I really don’t think that’s the issue here because the variable seems to be something at home.”

She shakes her head to ward off the logic flying toward it.

“No, no, no.  Can’t you just give me a new charger?”

“I could give you a new charger, but I’d hate to see you back here with the same problem next week.  This one you brought in still seems to be doing the job just fine.”

Her eyes close, her head is still deftly avoiding the onslaught.

“So……so…..what are you saying?”

She looks up and the smile and bounce have been replaced with strict schoolmistress intensity.

“Okay, so the phone doesn’t always charge.  But it charges in the car on the charger you have there.  It charges on this charger that you brought in here.  That’s the same charger that you use at home, but when you’re there, it doesn’t work. This is why I was making sure that the plug you were trying worked for other appliances.  It sounds to me like the isolated variable is your electrical setup at home.”

I cautiously add the last line. It’s the attempt to return some levity to our interaction and simultaneously further explain what I have yet to get across thus far.

Her sanity meter goes from three bars to blank.

“What…WHAT?”  She violently shakes her head in the denial of tragic news.  She looks around the room for help.  “WHAT? GIVE ME MY CHARGER!”

I hand her the charger.

“AND MY PHONE!”

Ditto the phone.

“I….I…I can’t believe what you’re saying.  What, that I have no electricity?  That I live in a shack?  YES, that’s it.  I LIVE IN A SHACK.”

She backs up toward the door to show me the storm of rage she is capable of creating in her eyes.  She spins to the door, throws it open, pauses and turns around to a now captive audience.

“I LIVE IN A SHACK IN AFRICA!!!”

She marches out in the direction of the parking structure.

Eight coworkers and thirty customers look in my direction as I have no choice but to give the I’m-a-dummy shrug and get back to work. Most of the room thinks that I clearly did something wrong. Shit, I’m wondering what I did wrong! My head is dizzy and I can’t help but think I let that interaction get out of control. I tried way too hard to get to the root of the problem. Any of my coworkers with half a brain (some being equipped with exactly that), would have sent her off with the number to the warranty center where she could have a replacement phone ordered. Never mind, if that isn’t the actual solution, get her out of here and get onto the next sale. And wait, AFRICA?? All right, shake it off. I’m about to read the next name from the list when I see those angry locks bouncing back toward the door. Forty pairs of eyes now face the entrance. Susan swings it open again, attempts to gain her composure, and enters, hand out, eyes closed, nose up, ticket offered:

“You forgot to validate my parking.”

Brooklyn Roads

"Which one of us?" I ask.
"Oh...um...Brooklyn."

Brooklyn looks at me with a what did I do now? and I shrug back with a beats me.

Brooklyn locks his computer screen and heads back to the already crowded corner office.  The Assistant Manager stays at his station.  He looks over at me with an apologetic look, reaches below the counter and holds a pose long enough to power down Brooklyn's computer.

I should be angry enough to yell.  I should be pissed that these guys are getting the best of a better guy.  At the very least I should be outraged by the fact that Brooklyn is escaping before me.  I feel nothing.  If anything, I'm pissed that I'm not more upset.

There is no anger where there is no surprise.  I don't have the facts, but I don't need them.  I know he didn't steal anything, was never late and he hit his numbers.  So maybe a customer had enough with his sarcasm, that becomes a manager's call.  Maybe Brooklyn talked back to Cock Bombay one too many times, still not an automatic termination.  Whatever he's in there for, I'm sure it's a judgement call by Cock Bombay and the Bobble Head and I'm sure the call is "execution." Whatever, I'm pretty sure Brooklyn can handle this.  He's a tough guy.

The Assistant Manager logs in to Brooklyn's computer with his own code and informs me he'll be finishing out the rest of Brooklyn's shift.  I nod, knowing that he'll be asking me for help and I'll be listening to him squirm to respond to customer curve balls.  The door in the corner opens and stays open.  A Union representative walks out first, with a clipboard and tote bag.  Brooklyn follows.  His face is red.  Shit.

With all the fantasizing we've done about leaving this place, this is not the way it was supposed to happen.  The ignominy of being fired shows in Brooklyn's eyes as they blink away the shock and the pain.  I feel a lump in my throat and find it hard to swallow.  I try to make eye contact but it doesn't last long before Brooklyn shakes his head and walks out the front door.  I make an attempt to clear my throat and my body exhales with a shudder.  There is a line of oblivious customers waiting to be helped.  Fearing "customer avoidance" could be my final act of insubordination, I know I can't take a break right now.  My voice cracks a little as I read the next name from the list.

I don't know where my friend has gone.  I don't know why he had to go.  Given Cock Bombay's enigmatic tendencies, I doubt Brooklyn knows too much about what just happened.  The only thing either of us knows for sure is that I'm buying him a beer at six o' clock.

A New Toy

Antonio Gold stops in on another of his 'just seeing what's new' tours and takes a look at the new 'toys.' He is infatuated by Android phones but I won't let him get one.  Too much has been invested in Blackberry instruction and, since he won't touch the A-phone, there really is no obvious, easy new device.  Still, he is insistent.

"Ees just a toy.  Maybe I take it home, play with it, see if it works.  If not, I bring it back."
"Okay, but you know we have to charge you the restocking fee."
"Ees okay, I'll talk to the Bombay when I get back.  My buddy."
He winks at me and Brooklyn before returning to the new toy in his hand.  He has no idea what to do with the home screen, so he just turns it over and looks at the back.
"A good cámerá?"
"Yes, very good," I reply, picturing the countless sidewalk shots I'll have to delete when he returns this thing.  "But there's no upgrade on your account."
"Check the other lines." He waves his hand with his new phone-cum-magic wand.
"I have checked the other lines."
"See what you can do."

It's been seven years of seeing what I can do with Antonio Gold.

"No lines are eligible for upgrade.  I can extend one contract, but there won't be a discount."
"What's the rebate?" he asks.
"$100."
"Plus the rebate I got for this," he pats the Blackberry in his holster, "and my son's phone, it's almost free!"
Once he leads himself down this path of delusion, there's no sense in bringing him back.  He uses the same logic of magical extra rebates every time.  Rebates that repopulate like the loaves and the fishes are reused in his mind to justify the next purchase.  Never mind that they don't bring the $500 phone anywhere close to 'free.'  He doesn't care about the deal as much as he cares about trying to get it.  He'll reuse this rebate to justify his next 'toy' as well.

I run his card for almost six bills and he goes over the transaction again.
"So I got the phone," he taps an empty pocket. "Where is it?"
"Here," I respond "I just moved all your contacts over."
"Okay, I got the phone.  You are sending me the rebate.  When I get it, I'll bring it in and we'll see what's new.  With that, the last rebate, my son's phone....ees like half off."

I say nothing to correct the math and finish filling out the impossible rebate form.  I slice off the proof-of-purchase, fill out every last box, affix a duplicate receipt, grab an envelope, address it to the tiny P.O. box in Minnesota and hand it to Antonio Gold.

"All you have to do is put a stamp on it and put it in the mail.  They'll wait 2 months to make sure you haven't returned the phone and then they'll send you your hundred dollar gift card."

It's a really bad deal, but there's no stopping him.

The Assistant Manager, recognizing royalty, comes up between Brooklyn and me and reaches over the counter.  "Mister Gold, how are you?"
"Oh, you know, wife, girlfriend, just so busy!" He announces the last line to the entire store as he backs up toward the doors. He again pats his pockets before looking up to me,
"Hasta luego, Jason!"
"Adios, señor!"

The three of us watch him walk out the door.  Brooklyn and I shake our heads and look back down to our computer screens.  The Assistant Manager stays between us for a beat before quietly announcing,

"Umm...Cock Bombay needs to see you in his office."

All Ages?

I read the next name from the list.

"Marg..." oh, no.  "Margot?"

Here we go again.

Listen, I don't disagree that cell phones do some good in the world.  They provide a sense of security and people, in general, like the convenience of having one around.  But if you are of the Baby Boomer generation, or slightly younger, and you are convinced that one or both of your octogenarian parents needs a cell phone...YOU should teach them how to use it.

Our society is bad enough when it comes to how we treat our elderly.  Now, with cell phones, it has gotten worse and everyone thinks they're doing something noble.  First, you stick your parents in a home. Now, to assuage your guilt, you stick them with an impossible piece of technology and tell them to use it.  It's like kicking a baby out onto the streets but, oh, you also give them a motorcycle.

Luckily for you, there's me.

"Hi, Mrs. Lewis.  How are you today?"
"Oh, I'm fine, thank you.  I waited for you."
"I see that.  Thank you very much.  What brings you in this time?"
"Voicemail."
"Okay, what's going on with it."
"Well...where is it?"

The children of this generation are the most impatient teachers of technology.  "Mom, push the green button!"  "Dad, red to hang up!"  They bark these orders while their attention is always elsewhere, never taking the time to truly instruct.  Without analogy, the lessons are not understood.  I've managed hundreds of "a-ha" moments by simply explaining, "it's just like a landline in that it's always on, always ready to accept a phone call, just look at pressing the green button as picking up the receiver and pressing the red button as hanging it back up on the cradle."

Oh yeah, it helps if you never give them the option to turn it off.

"We recorded your voicemail message last week, do you remember how to access it?"
Mrs. Lewis pulls out her 3x5 cell phone cheat sheet that I've been adding to and skims with a shaky finger.
"Press and hold 1."
"Exactly.  Let's try it right here."
She presses 1, the phone starts dialing.  Voicemails start playing.  But she can't hear them.  I jump in.
"Ah, after you press and hold '1' for a couple of seconds, you'll see the screen say 'calling' and then you need to hold it up to your ear."
She points to the card, "will you write 'dialing' and then 'hold to ear' after that?"
"Of course."

Last week we recorded Mrs. Lewis' greeting.  She asked, "What should I say?"  I responded, "oh, you know, something along the lines of "Hi, it's me, leave a message."  She exuberantly recorded, "Hi, me! Leave a message!"  I almost peed myself.

We work through her voicemail, playing back messages from her children and grandchildren.  There is a sense of amazement and pure joy in watching Mrs. Lewis listen to those she loves leave her messages.  I am lucky to be able to help her do so.  We practice deleting them and I call her phone to leave some additional messages.  She gets used to seeing the voicemail icon and pressing/holding/listening to them as we go.  She seems to have a pretty firm grasp on it as she pulls out the to-learn list she had written down while at home.

"Let's see, what else?  Text messages."
"Are you planning on sending text messages?"
"Oh shoot, no!"
"Then let's put that off for a future time."
"They should have classes for these things?"
"They should.  But in the meantime, you have me."

Toward the end of my hour with Mrs. Lewis, another elderly lady circles our conversation and leans in a little closer.  I begin teaching both of them together when the second interrupts me.
"I'll let you finish with her, but can I wait for you when you're done?"
"Of course you can."

Brooklyn leans in, "No good deed..."

If this were my job, I would absolutely love it.  If I actually got paid to teach the elderly how to use their cell phones, I'd be in heaven.  Unfortunately, the same Company that uses its mouth to say "take your time with each customer" is pointing 15 fingers at metrics I need to hit by the end of the month.  Now that I'm on Final Written Warning, I cannot afford to miss a single requirement.

But, screw it.  I take my time.  If I'm going out, I'm going out with these two lovely ladies.  I finish with Mrs. Lewis, give her my schedule for next week and, knowing full-well who will respond, I read the next name on the list.

Write Up Your Alley

The next week I am ushered into Cock Bombay’s office to meet with him and an Assistant Manager who, I am informed, is present as a witness to what is about to go down.  This is rarely a good sign.

“Mr. Jason, do you recall working on the day of the June 10?” 

“I don’t know, did I?”

“You did, and do you recall taking the lunch break?”

“I usually do.”

“And you are familiar with the Code of the Business Conduct training class.”

“I take it every year.”

“On the June 10, you clocked out and continued to work on the floor.  We see here in the tapes that you stayed on the floor to help the customer while you were off the clock.  Then, you finish with the customer, you do the clock back in and you go to the back to eat your lunch.  You eat your lunch on the clock and this is absolutely a wiolation of the Code of the Business Conduct as it pertains to the time clock.  So here is the final written warning.”

It is work watching him talk his way through it.  I am relieved when he finishes and resist the urge to congratulate him on getting the words out.  I look at the paper.  Final Written Warning.  I think about all the time it must have taken to coordinate my time cards and search for my behavior on the corresponding surveillance tapes.  It's almost flattering to think that I might be worth these hours of wasted work.  It's like an outlaw seeing his "wanted" poster and pleasantly nodding at the bounty amount below.  Not bad, guys.  You really went above and beyond on this one.  The write up is signed by Cock Bombay and the Bobble Head.  I take his word for it, politely refuse to sign anywhere and take my final written warning and walk back to the sales floor.

I get it, it's against the rules to clock out, work through your lunch break, clock back in and then eat.  I've been doing this ever since our store was put on high alert for an unusual amount of Untaken Meal Breaks.  By sacrificing my well-deserved hour of penalty pay, I am now holding onto a slim sheet of paper representing all that separates me from unemployment.

No good deed...

If there weren't a continuous line of people waiting for assistance, I would gladly take my lunch break at noon, instead of waiting until after helping customers accomplish what they need to do on their lunch breaks.

No good deed...

I'm not so selfless that I wouldn't take the extra hour of pay the Company owes me in these instances.  I'd love to take their money.  Legally, I am owed that money.  It's just not worth it to me to have this store, MY store on that list of reports and in the hot seat that follows.

No good deed...YES, I KNOW BROOKLYN!  NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED!

I get back to my computer, unlock the screen and the Assistant Manager walks up to my side.
"Hey.  Sorry about that."
"Yeah, it's cool.  It's not your fault."
"But...um...one more thing we forgot to mention."
"Yeah?"
"The...uh...United Way campaign.  Did you donate to that?  We need the entire district on 100% fulfillment and there are only a couple of stores that aren't at a hund..."
"Stop."  The anger chokes my throat and I clear it.  I set my hands to the side of the keyboard, grab the counter and hold on.  I squeeze.
"Please...just...stop."
"Well, we need to get to one hundred percent participation in the store."

I look coldly, through his eyes, into his dumb skull.

"I'll do it,"  I lie, managing to keep the curse words from splattering all over his face.
"Cool, thanks."

COOL?  THANKS??

Oh yeah, man, we're totally cool.

I log into the United Way campaign portal and enter my employee number.  My suggested donation is one dollar per paycheck for the year.  I can also give a one-time payment with credit card or I can...a-ha...mail them a check.  I click the final option, print out the donation form and refresh the screen that now says "Thank you for your participation in Operation 'United' Front!"  I take a second to mutter the curse words at the computer instead.  I exit the screen and go to read the next name from the list.

Sorry, United Way, I don't think the check will make it.  You see, I've already learned a valuable lesson about good deeds today.

Harder, better, faster, stronger (Part 2)

Brooklyn has an uncomfortable way of dealing with those who complain.  I watch him with no small amount of envy as he reads the next name from the list:

"Lisa?"
"Yeah, I got a letter in the mail saying I get a free booster or something."
"Okay, do you have the letter with you?"
"No."
"Well, we need the letter in order to scan the barcode on it."
"Well I don't have it with me and I'd rather not have to go find it."
"Okay, let me just look up your address to see that they sent you one."

Oh shit, you didn't think we could do that, did you?

"Hmmm....I don't see it anywhere in the system saying that they sent you a letter."  He leans back and flaps open a newspaper from the previous week.  It's the same paper he's been 'reading' every day now.  It's the paper with either a major tragedy or an unfortunate story painted all over the front page.  He flaps it as he waits for Lisa to begin her grievances.

"I don't get any service in my house.  My neighbor got a letter saying that they get a free minicell, so why shouldn't I?"
"Uggh, did you see this?" he folds the paper and points to the catastrophe on the front page as he goes on "terrible," then a beat, "sorry, so you were saying you didn't get the letter, right?  You can still get one, but they're $200 dollars."
"I...um...no.  And I don't think I should have to spend $200 on a cell booster when I pay you guys for service I don't get."
Brooklyn nods at her silently, holding her eye contact.
"I agree."
"What?"
"I agree that you shouldn't need to spend $200 on a minicell booster in order to get service in your house."
"So, you're going to give me one for free?"
"Oh no, not at all," he opens the paper so that Lisa can once again be reminded of the death/destruction/misfortune on the front page, "I just agree that there are better ways to spend your money."
"WHAT?! What are you talking about?  I came in here to get a booster for my house so I CAN MAKE PHONE CALLS." She drives home the last few words for the hard-of-hearing imbecile she  assumes she's talking to.
"Well, see, now we're back to that $200 dollars because we can't just give 'em away.  They cost almost that much to build, so it's a very strict list that gets the letter.  I suppose there's a chance that your letter hasn't arrived yet, but I wouldn't want to get your hopes up."
"This is ridiculous.  This is SOOOO unfair."
"I know," Brooklyn leans back into his newspaper one final time and shakes his head, "and to think there were children involved."


I'm not saying it's right.  It's totally wrong.  If I didn't know the guy and the fact that he donates a generous amount of his money and time to those less fortunate, I'd say this is a callous and cynical way of using a tragedy to remind others of their blessed lives.  But people like Lisa never even see the paper in front of them, just the obstacle of a human being preventing them from doing and getting what they want.

Harder, better, faster, stronger (Part 1)

What happens when your priority is to put a network-guzzling phone into the hands of every Angeleno?  Shrinkage happens.

From the be-careful-what-you-wish-for files, come this latest unforeseen blunder.  In the race to offer the latest smart phone that a network has no business trying to support, the coverage in Los Angeles, and many cities around the nation, has shriveled up like a constricted river in a devastating drought.  The water levels have dropped so low that people have forgotten that there was a time their phones would work in parking structures, in every room in their house, in a crowded football stadium.

And this is why the phone companies don't make money.  "Wait, what?" you say, "look at my bill!?!?"  Oh trust me, they're spending all that money as soon as they can get it.  They're all in debt trying to hang on to what subscribers they have while they dump any profits into either the network or advertised lies about the network.  The companies are grasping at any claims they can find by any reporting company brave enough to publish findings.

Don't you wonder how it is that EVERY cell phone service provider's network is either the:
a) largest,
b) strongest,
c) fastest,
d) most reliable?

It's because, depending on
a) the week,
b) the markets included in the study,
c) what those words mean,
d) who is getting paid to say it,

they all are.

"Largest" could mean most cities covered.  It could also mean most people or most land.  But what good is it if the most filled-in coverage map of the country is providing service to tumbleweeds?
"Strongest" could mean any one of the other three.  It's a good vague catch-all.  "Fastest" could refer to data speeds that could also result in your call ending the fastest when you fall off the mythical 4G network.  "Most reliable" is a nice way of saying that you settled for a good, hard-working provider that could never be confused with "sexy."

My Company changes the game plan every month now, depending on what the marketing team can come up with.  I swear, if we took a year off of advertising, stopped sponsoring the Football stadiums, EVERY basketball game, music awards and parades, we could put all that money into keeping thousands of people connected to their phone calls.
But the people want those commercials telling them that they're in the right relationship.  They love to see their phone company trash the other ones, don't they? They need that confirmation bias.

If these networks are all so great, why are we spending money developing ways to get people off them?  Why are we suddenly offering a minicell that connects to your home internet instead of the cell network and creates a mini network in your own house?  Oh, better yet, and PLEASE GOD ANSWER ME THIS, why did we send letters to thousands of people saying they could get one of these minicells for FREE???  And how did we not know that they would tell their neighbors, who did NOT get a letter, that they got it for free??? AND WHY AM I IN CHARGE OF ANSWERING THESE WHINEY PEOPLE WHO DID NOT GET A LETTER AND WHO REFUSE TO PAY THE $200 TO GET ONE OF THESE MINICELLS???

If it sounds like I'm shouting, it's because I am.  I'm screaming at the top of my lungs...on the inside...while you complain about the service in your home and that your neighbor got a letter and you didn't.  I'm screaming inside because it's no use screaming at the Company and it's no use screaming at you (even if you do sounds like a petulant child).  You'll never understand as you sit there telling me "it just isn't fair."  But really, of all the aforementioned superlatives used in our marketing campaigns, we never made claims to being the fairest.