Previously, I described one excellent and three dreadful customer experiences with greedy monopolist Comcast. We left with the open question of whether Comcast's wretched service is guaranteed to trigger a PTSD episode. I have more data
to share.
Once again, I want to start with a shout out to the many individuals
who are committed to serving customers. Such as Comcast’s intrepid technician Eric,
who came to the house and worked his magic in time for our family to watch the
season finale of The Flash.
Similarly, in three hours of phone calls spread over three
days before Eric’s pleasant visit, the very first person I spoke to at Comcast was
the only one who correctly identified the culprit for our suddenly
missing cable channels: a degraded cable
signal that, like so many dubious gentleman callers, decided it needed to be
amplified before coming back into my home. I don’t know whether this was an
example of a stopped clock getting the time right twice a day, or if I happened
to run into an accented Sherlock Holmes or Dr. House whose remote diagnosis
skills are wasted in a call center in Bangalore. (Yes, IT Clubbers and my brother Brian, I
tried turning everything off and on.
Repeatedly.)
So it’s not like everyone
at Comcast treats customers with the dismissive arrogance of a Paris gendarme extending
his arm to halt traffic on the Champs Elysees. Or Miss Diana Ross gesturing you
to stop in the name of love.
But.
As I previously mentioned, for months after we moved to Bellingham, Comcast
charged both me and my landlord for the same service. Even though they eventually stopped this
dubious practice, Comcast told Carl they wouldn’t even consider
refunding our double payment until we returned every piece of electronic equipment
that had ever been registered at my address. It took a while, but I dutifully
gathered all the outdated cable boxes and routers prior tenants had abandoned
in various corners of the house.
I carried my box of obsolete treasures to Comcast’s spacious
local customer “service” center. Unfortunately, I discovered the self-service bin for returning equipment had disappeared since my last visit.
I asked the Stepford concierge where I should leave my
delivery instead. He told me I had to take a number and wait to meet with a
representative. There were already numerous customers sprawled on the existentialist
chaises lounges, pondering the emptiness of being as they waited for their
number to be called. I calmly described my mission, told him I was in a hurry
to get back to my children, and asked if I could just leave the box with him.
He said that was forbidden.
Further negotiation proved futile. Still calm-ish, I asked
to speak with the manager about my concerns with their new equipment return process.
He pointed a supercilious finger toward her office. I politely stood outside the
door until she finished meeting with someone and emerged. I described the
purpose of my visit to the customer service center, and my desire to convey my
concerns about how her concierge had handled my request. As we walked together
back toward the front desk, she told me I had to take a number and wait –
pointing out the room was already filled with customers, so she had to pitch in
and help them rather than talk to me.
I was out of time and patience, and needed to go pick up the
kids. I asked for her name. She refused to answer. I tried taking a picture of
her employee badge. She covered it with her hand. Recognizing the signs of a
PTSD episode, I left my box of goodies at the front desk and walked out.
Later that day I got a telephone call from another very conscientious
Comcast employee, a regional Human Resources manager. Comcast had traced the
serial number on one of the ancient routers to my landlord, and Carl gave them
my phone number.
My regular practice these days is to begin potentially
stressful telephone conversations by disclosing that I have PTSD, and warning
the listener that talking on the phone can be challenging. She told me her father
is a veteran, and she's familiar with PTSD’s effect on seemingly ordinary
interactions. I shared my friend Mick’s observations of similar problems he had
encountered after serving in Afghanistan as an Army Ranger medic.
She reported that the folks in Comcast’s Bellingham
service center had described an unpleasant encounter, including the manager’s
concern I had approached her breast too close.
Unlike most PTSD sufferers, I have the advantage/disadvantage
of also suffering from serious codependency, which makes me empathetic
to a fault. I could tell what kind of mental image of me she had before calling.
So I told her I appreciated where her colleagues were coming from – they were
well intentioned, but the encounter involved problems of perception on both
sides. I could now understand the manager’s threatened reaction. She didn’t
know I was a harmlessly gay dad who happens to have PTSD, as well as a veteran
ACLU lawyer with trigger reflexes when someone in authority tries to cover
things up. Rather than one of Comcast’s typical leering and disgruntled male customers.
I apologized for causing offense. Of course, I also pointed out none if this would have happened
if Comcast had either good customer service or effective employee training.
The woman from Comcast HR did an excellent job of handling a
challenging and atypical customer. Most importantly, she seemed sincere – not smarmy and trigger-happy like both the manager
and concierge, who merely repeated scripted lines from some ineffectual customer
service training. We ended the call on excellent terms.
Of course, Comcast still hasn’t sent a refund for our double
payment.
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