Service Call: First Published in Family Talk Magazine

Service Call

Customer Service

At Your Service

Complaint Department

The Customer is No Longer Always Right

“I hate these bags.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing so I just smile, awkwardly I’m sure and mentally rewind the last time this happened.

My daughter was probably four, or so, so regardless of how long we’d already spent in the store I was ready to leave. The cashier reinforced that with her greeting. “These things are such a pain.”

“I’m sorry?”

“These bags, they don’t fit right. They’re a pain for those of us who have to use them.” I assume she means “cashiers” and consider that there’s generally some choice involved in what job one takes. I also consider that no other cashiers have ever complained about my reusable shopping bags, that many stores are encouraging their use and discouraging the use of plastic disposable bags by charging a per bag fee, AND, I consider that no one else has ever complained….well, and I also considered that if she didn’t like it, well….

“I’m sorry.” Why did I apologize? I hadn’t done anything wrong or out of the ordinary. “They’re actually really convenient…” Why did I feel the need to explain myself? “And better for the environment…” Duh! Why was I trying to make her feel better about my situation? What happened to service with a smile?

She didn’t apologize and neither did I when I approached the manager, overtired preschooler in tow. “Excuse me. Do you discourage customers from using reusable grocery bags?”

“Well, no. Why?”

“Because ……on aisle 7 over there says that she doesn’t like them. I just wonder why your store sells them if your cashiers are going to discourage their use…”

“No we don’t discourage them. You can use them.” She’s dumbfounded, blindsided, and I’m empathetic, because that’s how I felt minutes before. I hope that she’ll say something, anything that might ensure this doesn’t happen to anyone else hoping to save the planet one plastic bag at a time….
I glare over at aisle 7 and lead my daughter through the automatic doors. I don’t fall apart until I’m hidden behind the minivan’s privacy glass.

Back to round two, same store, different aisle. Different cashier. He’s about forty years younger, a foot taller, and apparently has a conspiracy theory about everything. My response is different this time. He’s not my elder. He’s a kid. I’ve got this, “You hate the bags? My bags? Really?” And then, I can’t stand not to, because seriously, how can you hate bags?!

“Yeah.”

Is that so? “Well, some places are requiring these. They charge you if you use plastic grocery bags.”

“Yeah, place like Maryland. Maryland’s communist anyway.”

Wait. “What?” I thought I was in the grocery store.

“You probably think I’m one of those people who walks around wearing a tin foil hat.” Well, actually…. “I used to live in Maryland. It’s communist.”

“How exactly do you define, Communism?” Why am I asking this?

I can’t recall what happened next. I either blacked out or he sucked my memory. The next thing I remember is saying, “Well, Hawaii has begun requiring citizens to use reusable bags too….”

“Hawaii’s communist too.” Really? I had no idea. My daughter looks at me, her eyes saying, “We’ve been to Hawaii…” I issue a silent “SHHH” through my teeth.

“Have you been there?”

“No, but my mom lived there for a while. She said it’s communist.” Of course she did.

This time, I don’t bother to complain. I actually laugh, out loud, through the automatic doors. Only when we’re at the van does my daughter ask, “What’s conmunsim anyway?” I roar, nearly doubled over, and reply, “Don’t worry about it!”

Most of my reusable grocery bags have worn out, fallen through, or torn apart. The few I have left I seldom bother to tote along anymore. I do recycle the limp plastic bags I receive instead. I haven’t seen my friend the communism expert in a while, but there are certain aisles I systematically avoid, even if it means standing in longer lines. Likewise though, there are certain cashiers, like the one who finishes each checkout with “God bless you,” whom I will gladly wait in line to see.

I don’t enjoy the barrage of solicitors who set up in front of superstores. I don’t mean those from local churches or the Girl Scouts, I mean those from organizations I’ve never heard of who clearly just want money I don’t have in return for a CD I don’t want or need. I don’t mean the Salvation Army either. I give them whatever I can whenever I’m able and each time I, or my kids, do, we’re given a proper thank you and usually a God bless too. But while I’m on the subject, the other thing I don’t care for is the recent tendency for stores to ask for a charitable donation at check out. I give, privately. When I’m at Goodwill, I happily round up, but when I’ve just dropped $300 on the family groceries for the last two weeks, and then come back the next day for the coffee creamer and aluminum foil I forgot, I get a little frustrated being asked. For a while I said yes every time, not knowing exactly how to politely say no. Then, I realized that if they didn’t feel bad about asking continuously, I shouldn’t feel any worse for saying no. When did that even become a thing? When did blowing an air horn each time someone made a donation in the checkout line become socially acceptable. Because, here’s the thing, I don’t even like air horns, and I sponsor a child in Honduras who these people don’t even know about….what does this have to do with the sale and purchase of my groceries?

When did the customer become wrong? I grew up in the 80s when you could ‘have it your way’ demand to know, ‘where’s the beef?’ and yes, we were told, “The customer is always right.”

Thrift and consignment stores are my favorite. Generally, the people who work in these shops are my kind of people: kind, down to earth, happy go lucky, and just plain nice. They love people and a bargain equally, and I value the casual exchanges with such good folks as much as the bargains I find in their stores.

So, you can imagine my shock when I was put in my place at one of my (no longer I’m sorry to say) favorite shopping spots.

I had inquired about a minifridge—the kind found in dorm rooms and hotel rooms. I simply asked if it worked, being second-hand and all. It was a great deal 75% off, but only if the thing actually ran.

I was shocked, not that she didn’t look at me when she spoke, but that she actually replied, “I don’t know. We don’t test them before we put them out.”

So, wait. You could actually be selling something that may or may not work. No wonder she wouldn’t look at me.

“Well, would you mind if we tested it? I’d like to buy it, but I need to know that it works.”

She points to what I can only assume is an electrical outlet near the floor. “People test things there.”

I realize that she expects me to do this myself, which I am not opposed to, only my recent fall down our basement stairs makes lifting anything half this size impossible. I try to explain this and when she does look at me she glares at my shoes. Three inch wedges. I understand that she thinks that I’m lying, which of course I’m not. My daughter is once again right by my side, but even if she weren’t I make a point not to lie anyway. “Is there someone who could move it for us?”

I won’t say that she rolls her eyes, but I feel like she does. She does yell into the back, a young man appears, and I explain all over again. He’s nice, helpful, even smiles, and he reveals that the extension cord she’d implied we should use doesn’t even work. He tries another. Nothing. I ask, thinking that maybe it isn’t working because the current is running across such a lengthy cord, “Could it be because we’re using an extension cord? Maybe a refrigerator isn’t supposed to run on an extension cord…” She looks directly at me and says, “It isn’t a real refrigerator.” Apparently, it wasn’t a functional one either…On our way out the door, I explained that mommy has a master’s degree and knows what a real refrigerator looks like (no, I’m not proud, but I said it). I overheard her telling the young man to take the artificial fridge to the dumpster. My daughter asks, “Why were they gonna sell something that doesn’t even work?” “I wondered the same thing myself,” I respond.

I always tip at least 20%. Always. When my family is especially cranky or demanding, I try to do even better and leave a note of inspiration or a God bless you on the receipt. I appreciate good service, but I’m generally not rude when the service is less than par. But being raised in a world where, or when “the customer is always right” I don’t always adapt in this new environment. When did customer service become whatever it is today?

Copyright © 2016. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.