Drill for Skill

Each week, when the machine produces our work schedule, there is a block reserved on Friday from 6-8am.  This is the time we are to meet and be reminded of the inferior nature of our job performance.   This early morning hellish morsel of time has gone by a few names.  First, it was called "bootcamp." But when The Union (oh yes, we are) caught wind of that, and its punitive connotation, they sent a 6th-grade-reading-level e-mail to someone whose reading capabilities almost match that level.  This is an outrage!  Changes are demanded!  How dare you compare a meeting to a strenuous weekend warrior cardio cross-training routine?!?!  Again, it was the disciplinary overtones of "bootcamp" that ruffled the feathers of our Union representatives.

And so, possibly by those who were also in charge of naming Operation Hi-Liter, the name of our Friday morning meeting was elevated to "Drill for Skill."  This appeased the Union who apparently decided that the "drill" mentioned must neither have been one referencing military exercises nor the tool which bores holes--in this case, into skulls.  

But, it rhymes...so how bad could it be??  It almost sounds fun!

Drill for Skill is scheduled for every Friday because the Union (bless their incompetent hearts) wrote us up a nice contract that demands the schedule be posted one week in advance.  So Cock Bombay cannot, in his hasty anger at 4:30am, plan a meeting for the following day.  Instead, the meeting is always scheduled.  Then the managers can, in their benevolence, send a text on Thursday night (usually around 10:30pm), telling us that the meeting has been canceled.  This poses a dilemma for the soldier worker.   We should technically show up at 6am for two reasons:

1) The schedule was not changed far enough in advance to be identified by the Union as valid.

2) The text message came in on our work cell phones, while none of us were on the clock.  So we should not have seen it until we clocked in again at 6am which, as those of you smarter than the average party involved know, would be too late.

It has crossed my mind to show up at 6am, only to wait outside of locked doors for 2 hours to prove a point.  Yeah, a fleeting thought.  Instead, I occasionally program my phone to send a text message to Cock Bombay at 6:15am:

Hey, where is everybody?!?

This, I believe, is why the Germans invented technology.

 

These aren't the 2am texts you're looking for.

2AM
Text Message
From: Cock Bombay
To: ALL

Team, very sad day today.  12 acts, 6 pp, 1 AAL, 18 ups, 32 FPO, 36 APO, 3 INS, 0 RA, 0 FM, 4 DB, 1 PTT, 0 TV

4:30 AM
Text Message
From: Cock Bombay
To: ALL

ANOTHER NEGATIVE -100% SURVEY!!  ARE WE HI-LITING???  WE MUST STOP THE BLEEDING!  THERE WILL BE A ALL THE HANDS ON MTG THIS FRI 6AM.


 And so it goes.  Every morning, I wake up to two text messages.  The first illustrating how poorly we executed sales the previous day, the second showing how poorly the customers rated us.  My daily affirmations are basically "I'm terrible" and "Nobody likes me."

 Our sales-related message laments the missed opportunities to up-sell people all day long.  These are 12 of the 25-30 things we should be "focusing on" during any particular month or sales cycle.  I've attempted clarification of this in the past:

 "Mr. Bombay, you know what a focus is, right?  It's a single point.  One thing.  Which of these things are we supposed to be focused on?" I ask, ignoring the etymology of the word and concentrating on its modern usage.
"All of them," he answers without hesitation.  Then, incredulous that I would ask for clarification, "we have to extra focus on every single one!"
 Not wanting to explore how "extra" redefines "focus"(Cock Bombay's circular reasoning could be Dante's 10th ring of hell), I simply plead my case in the form of a question.

"Do you think it's possible that we get low satisfaction scores because customers get the distinct impression that we are more concerned with sales than we are with helping them?  We have to mention TV, Internet, Family Mapping, Insurance, Direct Chirp, Add-A-Line, Messaging, Roadside Assistance, Car Chargers, Cases, Batteries, Bluetooth, Speakers, Tablets and gift cards(seasonally).  Do you think the customer might get the impression that we care more about these things than we do about their dropped calls?"

He gives it some thought, rubbing his face from his cheeks, past his temples, to that spot on his forehead where the answers hide.  He leans in.
"The customer comes in because they want something and need something.  We have the job to discover what the customer need is.  When they come in, we have to offer all the things the customer might need."
"Even if they're just coming in to complain about service?" I attempt.
"Exactly!  That's the most perfect opportunity. Then we can find out exactly what they need!" He is excited and victorious in his response before providing one more nugget of wisdom.  "But we have to ask them, because they might not know."

As though connected by a string, sliding back into his chair stretches a broad smile across his face.  For some, this is nowhere close to where this discussion might end.  For me, it has to.  I decide to leave the confines of his office for more tolerable atmosphere.

I say nothing about the tone of the texts with which we are greeted each morning.  I've mentioned it before.  The process repeats, defying (proving?) Einsteins's definition of insanity, and we continue to receive the 2am text, the 4:30am text and are frequently asked to attend a 6am meeting.  
Surely, this time it will work.

Glamour Boy

I read the next name from the list.

Oh shit.

"Rage" owns the gym upstairs.  He and his fellow muscle-bound types pump iron over our heads all day long.  They specialize in personal sculpting and often times you can see Rage strutting his stuff on the balcony, showing off the product.  When not throwing hundreds of pounds of metal into the air, he likes to complain about the smokers down below and his cell phone service.  Sometimes we like to escalate his issues straight to management to watch him turn from white to glowing hot red while talking to Cock Bombay.

I see Rage coming toward me and can tell he is already angry.  I wonder if he is upset because it's been years since he has been able to put his arms down?  To be held hostage by one's own biceps must be upsetting.  Alas, that's not it.  He holds his phone up to my eye level and slams his other hand on the counter.

“This phone sucks.”

“I’m sorry, what’s going on with it?”

“It sucks!”

“Okay, how does it suck, exactly?”

“I mean it really sucks.”

“Okay, and what can I do to help you today?”

“You can fix it, Glamour Boy!”  And with that, he throws the phone at me.  

It hits me in the chest and, making no attempt to catch it, I let it fall to the floor before I take my leave.

“Excuse me.”  I walk straight to the back.

I pound the access code into the keypad and burst into the hallway that is our break room.  No one else is there and I'm relieved.  My face is hot, first with anger and then embarrassment for allowing it.

  I pace (as much as the small hallway allows) for 30 seconds, shaking out my hands.  I look at the empty cardboard boxes discarded throughout the hall and decide kicking them would be too unfulfilling.  Breathe.  In a decade, I've never been the target of an airborne mobile device.  Add to that the fact that this incident follows a day of frustrating ineffectiveness, of problems I could not solve, and it feels like the final straw.  I might as well be the one with steroids raging through my veins.  For hours, my defenses have been worn down by dropped calls, busted screens and expensive replacements.  Then this asshole adds insult to injured integrity.  Breathe, you idiot.  

The realization that my absence will soon result in a coworker having to deal with Rage prompts my return.  Better I deal with this than chance a more incendiary replacement.  Shouting matches between my coworkers and customers happen almost daily and this one could end in violence.  

My face cools as I reach for the door, step onto the sales floor and head straight for him. As I approach, it hits me:

“Wait...Glamour Boy?" I ask.  "Really?”  

Now we're both confused.  I am confused as to why he chose my new nickname and he is confused, perhaps, as to why it didn't make perfect sense to me.  To be sure, he is confused as to why I would challenge him on it.

My confusion leads to paralysis as, normally quick with a comeback, I am now dumbfounded.  Lacking capacity for thought, I repeat, 

"Really???"

He shrugs and I shake my head.  I pick up his phone from the mat on the floor and hand it back to him.  Not sure how to ask him to leave, I ask him if he needs his parking validated.  He shakes his head like a stunned animal and quietly replies "no" as he turns to leave.  Then he spins around on his way out.

“Wait, what?!?  I own the gym upstairs.  I’m here all the time!  I park in the lot.”

I let his words fall as I pretend to try to recognize him.  I squint my eyes, purse my lips and slowly shake my head in feigned ignorance.  He knows he can't stay.

It takes a lot to slam a door on hydraulic valves.  He does his best.  Walking outside, he asks my smoking coworkers to cross the parking lot, away from his air upstairs.  Acquiescing to the demands of a man who needs a small victory, they oblige and he retreats to the gym.  I don't envy the dumbbells he finds up there.

The A-Phone

The A-phone is the result of two massive companies, one in telecommunications, the other in computers, coming together to create a monster.  Billed as Savior, decried as Destroyer, part Bacchus, part Buddha--it's a phone with a gods complex.  It has its worshipers, its non-believers, devotees and detractors.  So polarizing a device, you can’t log on to the internet without seeing an opinion on it or an accessory for it.  It advertises for itself, for better or for worse.

We have sold three different versions of this phone and are now anxiously awaiting the fourth.  Of the first three versions, I swear we sold half of them to Los Angeles.  Our clientele, gluttonous for punishment, are the first in line every year no matter what it costs to buy this phone.  And even though they don't admit it, they all know it isn't really a phone at all.

The fact is, the A-phone, like all cell phones, is a computer that wirelessly transmits  data.  Sometimes that data will be in the form of a phone call.  Sometimes that phone call will go through.  In early generations, using the A-phone for phone calls was like using your toaster to make popcorn; it might work, but there’s got to be a better way.

The first trick The Company pulled off in selling this device was convincing the public that this A-phone is, well, A PHONE.  The evidence of marketing genius was the fact that these two companies got together and actually named this thing and put "phone" in the title.  They could have called it something sleek like The Stingray.  They could have named it something powerful like The Bomber. They could have named it something revolutionary like The Beatles.  In calling it a phone, the companies get people to buy it.  They can get individuals to sign up for two year contracts (service not guaranteed to work in all places) and get the phone at a subsidized price.  You don’t do that with a computer. You buy the whole computer.

This misnomer is extended beyond the reach of the A-phone to every cell phone I’ve sold over the course of my career here.  All cell phones are treated like phones when, in fact, they should be treated like computers.  Every mobile phone we sell has the ability to store thousands of contacts, organize appointments, connect to the internet and communicate wirelessly through Bluetooth.  Still, and this never ceases to amaze me, when people break their phones, spill coffee on them, lose them, leave them on top of their cars or at a bar, they are SHOCKED to discover that the replacement costs 300% more than what they paid a couple of month ago!  Of course, the ‘phone’ that they bought last time was in exchange for a 2 year agreement.  The Company, and I will rarely defend them, actually takes a loss on the equipment at that point.  Obviously they intend to make it back over the course of selling the customer sporadic service for the next two years.  
It’s only when something drastic happens to one’s phone that one is forced to discover the true value of it.  Why else would you be so upset?  You know it’s worth hundreds.  I can see it in the pain on your face.  You look like you just lost hundreds of dollars and thousands of friends.

If the people would start treating these things like they treat computers, the people would be better served.  The company can’t afford to label them as such, because mentally, the average consumer can only justify buying a computer every 5-6 years. If we called them what we should, we couldn’t sell them as often as we would like.  So we call them phones.  And because we call them phones, you’re in line for a new one every year.

The A-phone itself is innocent.  It's trapped between a company selling a computer and a customer buying a phone.  Its devotees and dealers are the lunatics.  How else would you explain that the person who comes into my store to complain every other month about their service issues is the same person to be first in line at 3am on launch day?  And by the way, when you do come into the store to complain, don’t think it’s the first time I’ve heard it called “The-Anything-But-A-Phone.”  When people curse the A-phone, they are actually cursing their inability to quit it.  They shake their fists at the gods, and should be blaming their own misguided devotion.  Time and again I see people projecting their ineptitude and addiction onto a (usually) inanimate device.    With the A-phone, I’ve seen the cycle repeat year after year.  

Brooklyn

“Irasshaimase!”  
The gentlemen working behind the counter at Cafe Sushi greet us as we pass the bar and lead ourselves toward the back room.  I never know how to appropriately respond to this shouted greeting.  I usually nod, throw a half-hearted wave that barely reaches my belt, and quietly say "heyyy."  So long as it means "come on in", I suppose I've always responded correctly...by doing exactly that.

We sit down and Brooklyn orders sake and beers.  He diligently wipes his hands with the proffered steaming towel, even though we won't be eating, and sets it on the edge of the table.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Oh, nothing.  I just needed a break from that guy," I explain.

"Tell me about it, he's been staring at me with those beady eyes all day long."

Realizing that Brooklyn is talking about Cock Bombay, I quickly forget my customer and move on to more permanent matters.  

"Ah yes, the stare.  Explain to me how it is that a human can look exactly like Grouchy Smurf?"

"HE DOES!  I don't know, but that...is...him." He pours the newly arrived sake into my cup before continuing.  "Ughhh, he pulled me into his office this morning to tell me about how great the new guy is doing."

"Oh yeah, what's his name?" I probe.

"Alex.  He used to sell cars."

"Great."

"Yeah, he pulls me in to the office and says that Alex is already hitting his numbers and doing better than most the store.  And I'm thinking, 'of course he is, he's brand new!'  We'll see how long it lasts until he's got return customers clogging up his bandwidth.  I'll bet he didn't have to fix the cars he was selling, or explain the loan details after that first prorated bill arrives!"

Brooklyn and I have gotten along since we were hired, one day apart.  Much of our conversation subsists on football, current events and the altruistic insistence that the other is way over-qualified for his job.  Of course we both are...and aren't.  I think we're both mis-qualified for the job.  

The Company is so huge that the entire sales process, from greeting to escorting out(another page copied from the Nordstrom manual) is scripted.  Training involves the rote rehearsal of hitting every step in the sales process under the assumption that the customer is an obedient sheep with slutty-loose purse strings.  And who are the actors of such a script?  The lowest common denominator, of course.  

Instead of paying enough to get the best applicant pool, The Company is convinced that it can create a mechanized process that guarantees a sale every time.  Even when the feeblest of minds is tasked to play the part, success is guaranteed by the words on the page.  When process favors the lowest common denominator, everyone above that distinction is over-qualified for their job. 

Unfortunately, our jobs don't end there and we are also required to assist return customers who have problems with billing, equipment, service as well as feelings of loss, hopelessness and abandonment.  While new guys like Alex are totally unfamiliar with the concept of 'customer care', Brooklyn and I have a conscience.  It's the damnedest thing.  We take care of our customers, sale or no.  And as Brooklyn likes to remind me, "no good deed goes unpunished."  So we're really good at the part of our job that The Company pretends to care about, and totally mis-qualified for the part that looks more like a bottom line.

"Then he apologized to me for being late this morning," he continues.

"Oooh, he was late?" I marvel.  "That must have killed him to have to apologize!"

"Well, it was a weird apology.  It went like this: 'Hey Brooklyn, buddy, sorry to be the late one this morning, my kid was sick...the fucker.'"

"Wait, what?"

He acts it out again, "my kid was sick.  Pause. The FUCKER."  He finishes his beer for emphasis.

"His kid is what? Six?" I ask--as if there's an appropriate age at which you can change your child's nickname from "sport" or "champ" to that of "the fucker".

"I said I hoped he gets better and the guy looked confused!  Like he wanted me to say 'It's okay' instead!"

I shake my head as I leave cash on the table and get up to leave.  Suddenly, a second wave of surprise comes from the fact that I'm not at all surprised by Cock Bombay's words.  I shake myself out of it, shrug it off, and pass the counter as the gentlemen working behind it yell something out to us.  I imagine they say something along the lines of "Get the hell out of here, you losers!"

So we do exactly that.

Consideration

There's a secret to customer service.

It’s simple, really.  It’s consideration.  It’s humanity.  Customer service is just about taking a moment to consider the other person.  Consider they might not be having the best of days.  Consider that they could be going through the worst of times.  Consider they are poor.   Consider that they're scared. Consider that they may be needing to hear nothing more than just some nice words.  And because I sell a product that doesn’t always work.  Because I deal with problems that I can’t actually fix.  Because I have to tell you that it’s going to cost something you're not willing to pay....  Consideration might be all I have left to give.

I read the next name from the list.

“John?”

“Yeah!!” comes a shout from the other side of the sales floor.  A man with wild hair spins it around, throws up a hand, turns to throw the display phone back on the rack and thunders toward me, Hawaiian shirt flapping up to reveal a hairy belly.  He’s greasy, big, a little sweaty and visibly upset.  I must try diffusing.

“Hello sir, how’s everything going today.”

“Well it could be a lot better.” I can hear his jowls.

“I’m sorry to hear that, what’s going on?”

“My phone’s broken.”

“Oh no.” I take the proffered phone into my hand.  The LCD is cracked on the screen.  I tread lightly as I continue, “Aw jeez”.  

I always adopt the ‘aw jeez’ voice when I’m trying to take a Code Red back down to the safe zone.  I don’t say “that sucks” because people don’t want to be reminded that about their life.  I don’t say “yikes” because people don’t need to be more alarmed.  I’ve discovered that it’s the most innocuous vocal affectation of empathy I can muster.  So “aw jeez” it is.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

I know what it means.  Experience has taught me that there is nothing I can do to this phone--nothing within the confines of my job description and corporate limitations.  Three things could happen: 

1. The LCD can be replaced at a third-party repair store
2. There is a chance that the customer has insurance or...
3. Maybe he’d like to sign a contract and get a discount on a new phone.  

John, as hundreds have before him, will react as follows to those options:

To the proposal of a third party repair shop:  “What?!? This multi-billion dollar company doesn’t fix phones?!?!”

To that of insurance:  “A $50 dollar deductible and I have to WAIT for it to be SHIPPED to me?!?! What am I supposed to do in the meantime!?!?

And to the idea of a contract:  “Why the hell would I want to sign up for two more years with a company that can’t even replace my phone in the store, that has a shitty insurance replacement policy and that drops my calls every other day anyway?!?  Do I look insane to you!?”

That's rhetorical, right?

So instead of launching into the options, I try and get John on my side and let him know that I am on his.  I take the battery out of the phone and put it back in as I ask him about the NY tattoo on his forearm.  I check for other signs of physical damage to the device as I inquire as to how he has enjoyed the seven years since he moved here.  As I look up his account in the computer, I ask him if he’d ever consider changing his 917 number.  I know he won’t--the 917’s never do.  

Small talk coming to an end, I decide to investigate a little.  

“John, do you know when this happened?”

He’s much calmer.

“Well, I always keep the phone in my back pocket.  It’s always fine.  This last time, I got up, pulled it out and now the screen doesn’t work anymore.”

“Well, John, you can see where some pressure has caused a little crack in the screen there?”

He gets defensive.  There’s no avoiding it.

“Well, I don’t know how that happened, I never dropped it.”

“But did you, by any chance, sit on it?”  And then quickly I universalize his problem to spread out the blame, “sometimes I see this happen where people sit on their phones or bump them in just the right way and this is the result.  Happens all the time.”

Suddenly alarmed he starts shaking his head wildly.  He can’t believe what he’s just heard and I am equally startled by his reaction.  He trembles as he exclaims, “I...I....No one ever told me I couldn’t sit on the phone!”

I nod in simultaneous agreement and disbelief.  I give him his options and he responds predictably, storming off and threatening to go to another provider.  I pause and I think of all the other advice we’ve neglected to give this man over the years.  Had we reminded him that he should look each way before crossing the street?  Did we ensure that he knows not to get in a car with a stranger?  Does he know what a black widow looks like?  The world is a crazy, dangerous place, John.  There are a lot of dangerous things out there you need to know about.  Your back pocket is also a dangerous place for your phone when lurking just on the other side of it is your fat, crazy ass.

 I lean over to Brooklyn, “I need a drink.”

The Bobble Head (Part 2)

“Mr. Head, with these scores that you’re projecting onto the wall, it would appear as though we do a pretty good job at helping the customer.”

“That’s true, Jase, you do.  What are your individual scores on the year?”

Thought you’d never ask.

“Ninety-seven percent.”  I articulate each of the six syllables.

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”  Oh boy.

“What do you think it would take to help you bridge that gap in scores?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you think it would take to bridge the gap between your scores for individual customer satisfaction and the scores for the customer’s Likeliness To Refer the company.”

“What??”

“Obviously your scores are great.  The customers like you.  They love you!  Now what do you think it would take for them to show that love to the company?”

“Well, in all honesty, I think the scores they give The Company include things that the customer acknowledges are outside my control.  Like reception, equipment, pricing.”

“But what if they weren’t?”

This is where shit gets crazy. He bobbles on: 

“What if you acknowledged that we have our challenges?  What if you educated the customer and helped them understand?  What if you set their expectations appropriately in the first place so they would know how cell phones work? Talk about the network.  Do you draw a diagram for the customer?”

“A what now?”

“A diagram.  Do you draw a diagram for each new customer explaining how cell phones work?  Do you explain that terrain, capacity and the age of their building are all contributing to their reception.  Back when I was a sales rep, I would sit down with every sale and say ‘Now, Mr. Customer, is it okay if I draw you a diagram to show you how these phones really work?’  They loved that!  Do you draw a diagram, bud?”

“Um, no.”  

Of course I don’t draw a diagram of invisible cell signal waves magically going from a tower to the cell phone and from the tower to the internet to which it is attached.  I also don’t draft a chart of probability explaining how the service I’m selling may not work in all areas and will likely fail the user every other day.  I don’t tell brand new customers that, in order to not be disappointed, they should probably assume their service won’t work anywhere!  I also don’t draw a fucking stick figure standing in the middle of the street giving you the finger because their phone call just dropped 8 different times while driving down Sunset Blvd between Doheny and Fairfax.  You absolute dick.

Inhale.  Exhale.  No one is going to get what they want here.

“Can you, uh, show me what kind of diagram you have in mind?”

I put him to work to amuse and calm myself as he draws, no joke, stick figures and cell towers on the white board in the classroom.  Incredible.

I am sitting in this class, with self-serving people all around me, looking up at this self-serving man.  I am surrounded by people who don’t give two shits about anyone outside their own sphere.  I look at coworkers from different retail stores all over the city and I look back at the Bobble Head.  I feel no pity for him and the situation he and The Company are in.  This is who you hired, I think to myself as I take note of a cohort who used to make twice the money it does now.  You hired them with the promise there was money to be made.  You hired voracious selling machines and you know it.  Now you are changing the rules in the middle of the game and you are attempting to teach sales machines to become hospitality specialists.  You are training sharks to tap-dance.  

After finishing up his lecture on how cell phones work, the Bobble Head turns back to the projector and hits the next slide.  A white screen with 5 corporate logos pops up on it.  Starbucks, Nordstrom, Disney, Ritz-Carlton and Enterprise Rent-a-Car.

“Take a look at this list and tell me what comes to mind,” he starts.

I don’t want to play this game anymore.  I know exactly where this is going. I look down at my training manual and begin doodling.  The point he goes on to make is that these companies have the highest marks in customer satisfaction and their employees get paid less than we do.  He finishes with, “So, it can’t be about the money.  It must be about the attitude.  We must change our attitude so that we can become highly-regarded like the rest of these companies.”

I bite my tongue and look at the products these companies are promoting/selling and imagine what these products would do if they were more like cell phones.  
1) Starbucks coffee would, 1 time in 6, just fall through the bottom of the cup and scald your genitals.  
2) Nordstrom would have to change their “return anything, anytime” policy to only cover the first 30 days with a $40 restocking fee.  
3) Disney would have to put an asterisk next to “Happiest”.  *nope
4) Enterprise rental cars would come with the disclaimer reading “cars may not drive on all roads--steering wheel not guaranteed to work in all areas.”  
5) And who knows, maybe a guest staying at the Ritz-Carlton would get back to their room one day only to find that the door was permanently locked and they were no longer allowed inside.  “But, all my stuff was in there!!  My life was in there!!”