I received a notice from my cell phone company that I owed $376—last month's bill and this month's. I sent a check last month, but they don't have a record of it, and my service is in grave danger of being disconnected.
My daughters would be inconsolable if they knew because their phones are connected to my account. If one goes, they all go. With no communication method (using house phones = social suicide, unthinkable), my teenage girls would scream and run blind-bat crazy to the corner of Savage and Psychotic like they did when I lied and told them that Netflix wouldn’t be carrying Gossip Girl episodes anymore. They’d never know if Chuck Bass and his girlfriend would ever find a suitable ‘ho for their threesome. That tall tale was sweet revenge on account of them wearing my nice boots to the muddy Corn Maze.
I’d rather get a bikini wax from Phil on Duck Dynasty than call the phone company, but my husband wrote on the bill in all caps to “TAKE CARE OF THIS.” I don’t know why he feels the need to yell.
While I waited on hold fifteen minutes, I imagined that all the operators were returning from their “Margarita Monday” lunch at Taco Loco & Landscaping where you can get wasted and weeded on your lunch hour.
“Margarita Monday” was likely how my check disappeared in the first place. Some peon with a company ID probably used it to buy rounds of queso and Corona at Accounting’s last “Kiss My Assets” conference.
Charlene, God’s gift to Customer Service, finally came on the phone.
“ThisIsCharlene,MayIHaveYourNameAndPhoneNumber,” she asked without listening, just like my kids, but with more José Cuervo. “Thank you. What’s your problem?”
“I got a bill for $376 from you, which is last month’s bill plus this month’s. I already sent a check for $190 for last month. My bank says it cleared a while ago by your company.”
By the crunch, I could tell she was finishing her nacho basket. “We do not have record of the payment, ma’am, but I will credit your account the $190,” said Mr. Cuervo.
“Really?” I said.
“Of course not,” said Charlene.
“Well, I’d like to speak to your manager,” I said.
“She’s ‘in-disposal.’ Can’t come to the phone right now.” I might have detected a slight slur in her speech. “There’s nothing I can do, ma’am. There’s no way I can tell if it was really our company that ‘posited your check, IF you sent one,” giggled Charlene.
I reached for my corkscrew. “I’ve never heard an attitude like that!” I said. "Even when my computer broke and I had to talk to those condescending Dell techno-nerds in India! I’m going to call your supervisor about this. What is YOUR name again?”
I tried again, and this time I got a nice girl from Georgia. She listened to my story and wrote up an official inquiry, like a polite southerner.
After the cell phone ordeal, I realized I’m too impatient to be in a Complaint Department. On Mondays Charlene may spend her lunch hour with José Cuervo. But if I were answering calls from mo-rons all day, he’d definitely have to move into my cubicle.