Lessons in customer service from a visit by the cable guy
Marshall Roy — December 16, 2008 @ 3:12 pm
The world is constantly head faking me into learning things about customer service.
I’ve lived in my apartment in Brooklyn for three months now, and still haven’t gotten around to getting my cable hooked up. I don’t have time to watch TV and I occasionally—ahem—reappropriate wireless internet from one of my neighbors.
But it’s time to get legit, so I called up a company that, for the purposes of this narrative, shall remain nameless. I scheduled an installation for this past Saturday between 1 and 5 p.m.
Saturday rolled around and I waited.
And waited.
I forced myself to dismiss every daring notion I had of sneaking out for an errand. Murphy’s Law dictated that the moment I left my block to drop off some laundry or pick up a gallon of milk, the telltale white van would round my corner, I’d miss my appointment, and the cable company would exact their revenge for my inconsiderateness by disabling all broadcasts to my apartment except reruns of Hannah Montana.
Turns out I could have gone to a movie. Twice. Two cable guys arrived at about 6:15, but the moral of this story is not about punctuality—sorry, that was a head fake. Cable companies are legendarily unpunctual. No, this story is about what happened after the cable guys arrived.
While one of the guys got gear from their truck, the other sat on the arm of my couch, jabbing at a coaxial cable with a beeping doohickey that looked like a digital kitchen thermometer. At one point he had to examine the cable outside my living room window, so I offered him my Maglite. A gift from my brother the previous Christmas, my flashlight looks kind of like a light saber and will reign as raddest gift ever—until this year, that is, when my bro unwraps himself some Pinkertons. (Don’t worry; he knows already.)
The cable guy took the hefty flashlight and asked me if I was a police officer. “No,” I told him. Then, an afterthought: “I’m a ninja.” He wasn’t listening any longer, just fiddling with the cable.
Suddenly he made an airy, strained yelping noise and keeled over. He tumbled backwards over my couch, eyes wide, and began convulsing on the floor. He was having a seizure. I pushed him onto his side and whipped out my phone, dialing 911. Then I remembered that seizure victims are in danger of swallowing their own tongues, and sometimes you have to put something between their teeth to prevent that. I snatched a wooden spoon from my kitchen table a few feet away and held it ready. For the time, though, he was breathing—albeit laboriously. I didn’t want him to be afraid for his life on the floor of a stranger’s apartment. I wanted him to know help was on the way. I knelt beside him and told him to lie still and just focus on breathing.
The 911 operator seemed inappropriately calm, though by comparison I was probably inappropriately hysterical. I shouted my address into the phone. She asked me if the man had hit his head when he tumbled over, and in response I shouted my address again. She asked for my cross street, and I shouted my address.
Funny, nobody said the EMTs would arrive sometime between 6 and 11. They were simply on their way. (Sorry, I said this wasn’t about punctuality.)
Suddenly my foot was wet, and I became aware of an acrid stench and remembered that seizure victims can also become incontinent. My immediate dilemma—do I leave the man’s side to fetch a roll of paper towels and abate the puddling urine?—was like something out of Seinfeld.
His partner, in the meantime, had finished his business at their truck and traipsed back to my fourth-floor walk-up. He stood in my doorway, perplexed, as I knelt beside his convulsing partner, wooden spoon in hand, shouting that he was going to be okay. (I was shouting a lot, actually, which didn’t strike me as odd until later. The man was seizing, not going deaf.)
When the EMTs arrived the man was conscious but hardly lucid. He didn’t know which borough of New York he was in. He knew how old he was, but couldn’t recite his address. The EMTs gave him oxygen and prepared to carry him down the narrow stairs to the ambulance in the street.
His partner looked at me. “You’re going to have to call and reschedule,” he said, and turned to leave. Suddenly I wanted to jam my wooden spoon down his throat. That was it? His teammate had just had a significant neurological (and urological) event on my living room floor and all he could say was You’re going to have to call and reschedule?!
I finally put down my wooden spoon when it became clear to me that I would need both hands to mop my floor—which I did, vigorously, twice. With my floor gleaming again I reflected on the experience. All right, so I certainly didn’t expect the able-bodied cable guy to stay and finish the installation after the EMTs drove away with his partner, but when your customer has been through something traumatic—even something that is nobody’s fault—you’ve got to show a little extra care.
At Bonobos, we strive to bring a sense of empathy to every customer service interaction. After all, good customer service means 1) we will do everything we can to make sure your experience is flawless, and 2) we won’t bail if something does go awry. We’re in this thing together.
Eventually, I dutifully called up the cable company. Next available appointment? This Saturday. Sometime between 11 and 2.
My wooden spoon and I will be ready.
7 Comments »
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I don’t about the rest of you but I am pretty much speechless in regards to this story. I think…no I know I would have been yelling a lot as well.
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Does this mean you’ll be getting your cable guy a pair of bodily-fluid-free Bonobos?
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Oh man. My cable guy owes ME a pair of Bonobos!
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as quoted…”Bright flashing colors can cause seizures in people who are prone to seizures, for example people with epilepsy.”
Marshall, you weren’t wearing your capertons, crush’s, clarks, or supersoakers were you?
If so you might owe this cable man an apology.
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I’d love to know what the cable company said when you called to reschedule and told them what happened…
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Yeah, this story is too good to leave out the follow up. Was the guy okay? Was the cable company sorry?
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Matt–
No! I was wearing (sigh) a pair of straight-leg jeans from Express… heresy, I know, but all my Bonobos pants were in the hamper!
The woman on the line was so darn chipper I decided not to rehash the whole experience when I called to reschedule. I really should mention it, though… maybe I could get some free premium channels?
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