Enter Janice (Part 1)

Janice is nice.  Janice is very sweet.  Janice might be the worst coworker I’ve ever had to work with.  With a stroke of irrationality and flexed muscle, The Bobble Head has decided to go over Cock Bombay’s head and make his own hire.  The Bobble Head took a look at the applicant pool and picked the sweetest smile with the gentlest voice.  Incorrectly guessing about what the customer is looking for, the Head has gone back on his word.  Instead of his promise that we should be able to assuage every concern by talking about 'the network', he now champions a new mantra-- “just be nice.”  I don't entirely disagree.  Kindness, understanding and compassion go a long way in most service industries. It's hard to argue with nice.  However, in this industry of temperamental invisible technology, a grasp on how it works(or rather why it doesn’t) goes a pretty long way too.

The Bobble Head doesn’t get it, because he doesn’t have it inside him, but honesty is the only policy the customer will fully agree with.  They have to.  Truth without bias is not a perception--it’s truth.  It definitely doesn't make The Company look better when I agree with the customer.  When I agree that a $100 monthly phone bill is outrageous for terrible service, I'm doing The Company no favors.  And yet, that’s why my own satisfaction rating is in the 97% range by the end of every year.  If I were to, as Cock Bombay would have me, explain to the customer that the survey they are taking is entirely about me, my scores would suffer.  The reputation of this company would drag mine down. 

Instead, I now explain honestly and with competence, that I’m sorry--that I agree.  I admit with just as much confidence that it might get better and usher in a quick warning that it probably will not.  No one is thrilled by these tempered expectations, but most, having already endured a tumultuous relationship of lies, are relieved to hear the truth.  "Have a party," I say.  "Invite a bunch of friends over to your house and see whose cell phone works.  Then go with that company.  We may not be your best option."
This shocking admission has lost some business.  More often, though, it has incited the response, "the service doesn't work in my house, but I'd rather buy all my phones from you."

Janice has mentioned that she is old enough to have a granddaughter.  I am polite enough not to know exactly what that means.  I do know that her daughter is dating the current Tour Manager of a ’70’s disco band and I suspect, at the risk of being called ageist, this makes Janice too old for our industry.  Janice finishes her two weeks of training and walks in the door with perfect hair, bright red lipstick around her smooth chocolate skin and her infectious smile.  She is a calming kind of person.  Your first look at Janice and you feel your blood pressure drop.  Your third shift with her will make you scream.

I don’t want to belabor the point because I feel guilty speaking ill of someone so sweet.  I ask that you, instead, focus on the men who put Janice in her current position.  See this as additional proof that the company placing her in our store, under the impression that anyone can follow the script and succeed, is beyond misguided.  The Company is out of touch and they put Janice out of her league.

Her third week on the job, Janice is still struggling with where the contacts are stored in the phone.  She has already deleted complete address books of three customers before she comes to me for help.  I explain to her that there are two storage locations for contacts in each phone.  
"There is a hard drive in the phone and a smart chip.  Most phones store the contact automatically to the phone memory because it is a more robust directory.  You can store physical addresses, birthdays, multiple numbers and e-mail addresses.  The smart chip can only hold about 250 contacts with single numbers per name."
I further encourage her that she should explain this to her customers because most of them think the contacts are on the sim card when, in fact, they are on the phone.  I explain nicely, “If you ask the customer where their contacts are stored, they are usually wrong because they just don’t know.”
She nods and smiles, understandingly before batting her eyes and gently grabbing my shoulder.

“What’s a hard drive?”