Flash Non-Fiction Friday: The Evolution of Customer Service

The Evolution of Customer Service

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Customer service in this country, and perhaps abroad, has changed so much recently; and not necessarily in a good way. 

I remember calling 1-800 numbers and annoyed at punching number after number in a phone tree, many times getting nowhere. I finally figuring out simply pressing 0 several times, confused the system, and it eventually connected me with a living human being the wrong department. Nowadays, it's becoming more difficult to contact a company at all.

Have you ever tried to find contact information online lately? Open the company website, click on the "Contact Us" section, only to be rerouted to a general FAQ section containing canned questions and answers. If there is a number or email address for the customer service, it's buried behind some super secret squirrel website coding patter, in which one needs a masters degree from Sherlock Holmes to find. It's like I have to know some sort of crazy control+shift to uppercase letter+tab key sequence and type it correctly within 0.3779 seconds.

When I do finally find customer service service information, I rarely find a telephone number. Sometimes I manage to locate an email address, but most of the time the icon with the comic-strip-style dialogue bubble appears "Chat with Customer Service." Online chat: the equivalent to text messaging with strangers. However, as I found out recently, customer service chat can sometimes prove entertaining.

My package, from a certain online super giant who shares its name with a South American rain forest, did not arrive on time. Thanks to the handy FAQ section, I tracked my package only to find it was labeled as delayed, for whatever reason.When it still didn't show up on the new expected arrival date, I tracked it again. This time, a message at the top of the screen said, "Oh no. It looks like your package was lost. Click her for a refund." I don't want a refund, I want my stuff. This is where the FAQ section is no help. After successfully cracking the Sherlock Holmes keyboard sequence code, I was given the option to "chat with customer service." *Sigh.* Fine.

I am connected with customer service agent, named Queenie.

Say what? If you are familiar with The Berenstain Bears children's books, Queenie McBear is ringing a loud bell right about now.

Queenie asks how she can help me today. I have to type out the whole ordeal regarding my package. She apologizes for the trouble and states she will, as expected, help me out. Her next line is one that I have never heard from a customer service agent: "Everyone needs a hero and let me be yours."

Yeah, I just want my items delivered.

How can an online customer service agent can be my hero? Is she be able to dispatch an ambulance during a health crisis? What if the customer service agent's FAQ section can't reroute her screen to display my address? Does she even know where the real Washington is? Or will she connect to dispatch in Washington, DC?

Yeah yeah yeah, I know that's not what Queenie meant by being "[my] hero," but that does show how customer service has changed over the years. When we ordered something (even in the good old days of catalogs) it took a couple weeks or longer to find its way to our doorstep. We didn't start panicking until perhaps the six week mark. In a world of instantaneous satisfaction, we need customer service heroes to come to our rescue.

What I find strange, is that phone numbers and telephone calls are becoming obsolete. Why do companies make it so difficult to reach out to them? I don't understand why having a vocal conversation with someone is so off-putting. Even the supermarkets are pushing for those carside grocery pickups; where the customer places their order online, then an employee does all the shopping and brings it to your car (for a fee, of course). It seems physical shopping is beginning to be shunned.

It seems ironic that the world wide web was created to bring people closer together, yet appears to be having the opposite effect. Unless you consider online chatting or social media interactions personal, we are having less and less old-fashioned connections.

In case you were wondering, Queenie was able to reship my items and save the day. The evolution of customer service heroes rolls on.


Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction+ Friday: Bootlegging

Illustration from Pixabay under CC0 Creative Commons license

Recently, some family members compiled a descriptive time line of family history of my great-grandparents, which I greatly enjoyed reading. While there weren't lengthy details, there were some interesting stories which I expanded using some imagination. Therefore, this is a semi-biographical tale in whole, but fine details, characters, and dialogue is not necessarily accurate. Also, I titled this Flash Fiction+ because the word count is 1454 words, not quite within 1000 that I aim for. I hope my readers have patience for an extra four hundred words or so. Enjoy. 

Bootlegging

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“Quick. Roll the barrel into the corner,” Vincent ordered.

A teenage boy and teenage girl did as they were told. In the cellar, they stashed it in a corner, covering it with blankets and other boxes. Vincent went around the room, pulling the cord on the light bulb, steadying its sway afterwards.

They huddled, crouched under the stairs. Behind them were bottles with corks.

Upstairs, the front door slammed, followed by angry footsteps. Caroline spat various expletives at the unwanted visitors.

“Where is it?” a man said. His voice was raspy and deep.

“Where is what?”

“You know what,” a second voice said. It sounded younger than the first voice.

“Go away,” Caroline said. “I no invite you here.”

“Bootlegging is against the law. You know it,” the young man said.

“Go pester another. I no welcome you.”

Footsteps continued and soon the raspy man said, “Here.”

The cellar door creaked opened. A flashlight illuminated the steps and shiny black boots with jangling buckles descended. The first man stopped at the bottom, the second followed. Walking across the room, they found the light bulb Vincent had just switched off, and pulled the cord.

Caroline shrieked from the top of the stairs, ordering them to get out. Two more children came running from a bedroom; a boy of about ten and a younger girl perhaps eight. She instructed the boy to fetch the neighbors.

The men searched the cellar, speaking to one another and they pointed to various items of interest. The older man poked around in the corner and found the barrel. With the younger man’s help they threw off the blankets, a dismal attempt at hiding a large object, and rolled it out. The barrel stood mid-thigh.

Using a side to side rocking motion they heaved the barrel to the foot of the stairs. Its contents sloshed with the movement. Motionless, Vincent and the teens held their breath.

“We need to note the time the contraband was discovered,” the older man said.

Whipping out a pocket notebook and pen, the younger man stuck his flashlight under his arm and scribbled some notes. When he finished he looked up; something glinted in the flashlight’s beam and he grinned.

“Sarg, over here,” he said.

He walked around to the back of stairs and ordered the three to stand by the barrel. Vincent saw their polished badges pinned to their uniforms.

“Caught ‘em, did we?” the Sarg said. His boots jangled over to them. “This your property?” he continued, pointing to the barrel.

Vincent stayed silent.

The younger officer asked the teens, “Yours, is it?”

The boy was about to answer but Vincent held up his hand.

“If you wish to take it, then take it,” Vincent said.

“Oh? You hide it but are now gonna give it to us?” the younger one said.

A toddler in pajamas screamed from the top of the stairs. Caroline scooped him up, scolding the men for upsetting her children near bedtime. Yet another child appeared and clung to her skirt.

Sarg shook his head. “All these kids. Too many.”

His comment made Vincent frown. Before his anger could grow, Sarg spoke again.

“You,” he pointed to Vincent, “and you,” pointed to the teenage boy, “get this barrel upstairs. Now.” Turning to the girl, “You just stay outta the way.”

Vincent instructed his daughter to go upstairs. She hurried up the steps.

Looking as his son, Vincent said, “Faustino, we do as this man says.”

The Sarg permitted their request to obtain a contraption with handles that wrapped around the top of the barrel, allowing for easier, quicker transport. One step at a time, they lugged it up the stairs. At the top, they were sweating; Caroline handed them handkerchiefs.

“Out the door with it,” Sarg instructed.

Tucking the cloths in away in their pockets, Vincent and Faustino obeyed. Once outside, they paused again and the officers spoke to one another.

“Where should it happen?” Sarg asked the younger man. He phrased it like an examination question. The younger man must be a trainee.

“Mmm. Sidewalk?” the trainee answered.

“Works for me.” Sarg turned toward Vincent and Faustino. “You heard him.”

Vincent nodded and the two moved the barrel to the sidewalk. By now the ten year old returned with the neighbor, a big burly Norwegian man. He was twice the height of Vincent and his chest equaled the width of the barrel.

“What is it you want with my friends?” he demanded.

“Stay back. This doesn’t concern you,” Sarg said.

The man’s wife shouted from down the street, gesturing for him to return as she pointed at something. The Norwegian told Vincent he’d be right back.

“Now what?” Vincent asked the officers.

“Drain it,” Sarg said.

Vincent wondered why the men didn’t take care of it themselves.

Caroline reappeared and spoke quickly in Italian as she dashed to the sidewalk standing with the ten year old. Vincent began answering, but was interrupted by commotion from the Norwegians. They spoke sternly to a man in a brimmed hat, telling him to go back; that there was nothing to see here. Ignoring them, he continued walking toward the scene.

“Christ,” said Sarg.

The stranger was holding a square box with a bulb on top. He was a newspaper reporter.

“How the hell do these guys know when and where to show up?” the trainee asked.

“Who knows,” Sarg answered. “Well, let’s give ‘em a show.”

Unsure and fearful of what Sarg meant, Vincent instructed Faustino back to the yard with his mother and brother.

“Hey fellas,” the reporter greeted.

“Ignore him,” Sarg said to Vincent. “Pour.”

Vincent stared at the barrel. He labored in secret making its contents, and it wasn’t easy. How the police found out, he didn’t know. With a twinge of sadness, he pulled the plug and in a steady stream, the red succulent wine splashed onto the concrete. The officers touched the flowing wine as the reporter flashed his camera once. Vincent looked up as the bulb recharged; the reporter snapped another.

Shamefully, Vincent watched his wine disappear as Caroline and the children watched in silence. His whole family was outside now.

“Plug it,” Sarg said.

This command confused Vincent, but he obliged.

“Should be light enough for you now. Throw it in the cruiser.”

“Sure thing,” the trainee said.

“But I only emptied it halfway; maybe a little more,” Vincent said.

“Gotta book some in for evidence,” the trainee said.

The reporter saw the scene dying and left.

Expecting to be arrested or at the very least, cited, Vincent stayed put on the sidewalk, but the officers got into their car and drove off.

Turning back toward his family, he motioned for everyone to go inside. He waved goodnight at the Norwegians and they all went inside.

***

“Of course, you will go to school today,” Vincent said to his children over breakfast.

“Pa, we’re too embarrassed,” Faustino said. “Ask Elnora and Giovanni.”

The teenage girl and ten year old boy nodded their heads in agreement.

“Bah. If anyone gives you trouble, hold your head high and ignore them.”

Faustino picked up the newspaper again and groaned. On the front page was the reporter’s photo of Vincent and the officers with wine pouring out of the barrel. The headline read: “Italian Vino Busted.” The article gave an accurate depiction of the events, making a mockery of the family’s good upstanding reputation.

“I’m too mortified to face my friends,” Elnora said.

“Me, too,” Giovanni said. “The whole town is laughing at us.”

“They shouldn’t; we were taken advantage of,” Vincent said.

“How?” Faustino asked.

“It’s against the law to drink alcohol, no?”

“That’s right, Pa,” confirmed Faustino.

“The police came and confiscated it from our home. They made me dispose of it. Wasted. In front our neighbors, no less.”

“Yeah, then the stupid reporter took a photo and now it’s there!” Giovanni said, gesturing to the paper.

“Did none of you notice that nothing happened to me?” Vincent said.

“The jail is probably full,” Elnora said.

“But they took the remaining wine,” said Vincent.

“Right. ‘Evidence,’” Faustino said, biting into a slice of bruschetta toast.

“No. They took it to the police station. And drank it themselves.”

The children were stupefied into silence.

“That’s right they took my wine, claimed to confiscate it for evidence, only to enjoy it themselves. That’s why I got no punishment.”

Elnora inhaled loudly. “Well, I’m still too embarrassed to face my friends. My father on the front page of the paper; in front of our home. What will they think? What will their families think?!”

“They will think, ‘I wish I had brought my glass.’ Now get ready for school.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Muddy Waters

Sorry for the delay this week. 

Muddy Waters 

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“My galoshes splashed the mud as I sloshed through it, desperate to get away because I didn’t understand what exactly had happened.

“Boating out on Spargus Lake was a normal occurrence for me. After launching the boat, I motored out onto the sheet of glimmering water. I cut across the calm surface, making a messy wake, to my fishing hole. I threw the line in, and waited.

“Waiting was the easy part, or the hard part depending on how one decides to look at it. I thought it was going to be the easy part today, but as it turned out, well, you’ll see.

“With the line was in the water, I eased back in the seat, hands behind my head, eyes closed, feeling the breeze sweep over my face. Coots quacks and flapped their wings as they ran over the water surface before lift-off. It was a typical day as I waited for a fish to bite. Strangely, after three hours, there wasn’t a one. Not even a nibble. A no-harvest day happened occasionally. Didn’t like it, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.

“I wasn’t going to give up. Turning on the radio, I ate lunch and stood to stretch my legs. That’s when I noticed it. Bubbles breaking the water’s surface. It was like the whole lake was boiling. I touched the water; it was cold as it normally was. Whatever was causing the bubbles, it wasn’t heat.

“The depth finder beeped, alerting me of shallow water. Strange. That spot was plenty deep. The depth crept up from eighteen feet to fifteen, twelve. What on earth is going on? I wondered.

“At the six foot mark, I saw the lake bottom. That’s when I realized the water wasn’t dropping, the floor was being pushed up. I could see sediment surfacing.

“Quickly, I put the boat in gear and headed for shore with the depth finder’s alarm continuing to beep like Morse code. About two-thirds of the way there, the bottom of the lake hit the propeller. It didn’t feel like scraping on a rock, which is typically what happens to boaters who don’t pay attention to depth. This time the propeller, motor, and hull were trapped in thick bubbly mud.

“Helpless, I watched as the lake floor pushed and pushed itself upward, then the boiling action began to slow. I wondered where the excess water was even going, but that was the least of my worries. How the heck do I get off this lake—or should I say, muddy swamp.

“I fear what will happen next if I wait for a rescue and decide the best option is to escape on foot. Not sure how anyone could get another boat or vehicle out here, anyhow.

“Luckily, I wore my galoshes on this fishing trip and hopped out. My feet sunk a few inches, but not too far and I am confident I can trudge to shore. I must make to shore, I tell myself. My truck, my escape vehicle, is in the parking lot. My steps are agonizingly slow and make a sllllurp! slllllurp! sound when I pull them from the mud.

“I notice not a single life form, lest myself, is visible. No fish, crustaceans, or seaweed. In fact, there wasn’t even trash or debris. Where did they all go? It’s like someone filled the bottom with a horrendous amount of dirt. Dirt soaking up the water; that could explain all this. Who am I kidding. None of this makes any sense. But my legs are tiring and I need to keep my brain occupied as I stomp through the new Spargus Swamp. I wondered how far the boat had been from the launch when I abandoned ship. Two to three miles? I had at least a quarter mile left in this thick sticky crud.

“But I made it. You’ve got no idea how happy I was to feel the firmness of solid ground. I ran to my truck, the mud dripping off me.

“I started it up and peeled outta there. But not long later a game warden stopped me, asking why I had an empty trailer. I told him what happened. He didn’t believe me and so I reluctantly agreed to go back with him.

“What do you know. The lake was right as it was when I drove onto it. No mud in sight. My boat was gone and I was dumbfounded.”

“So what happened after that, Grandpa?”

“Nothin’ happened, except I never got another boat.”

“Why not?”

“Grandma wouldn’t let me. She said I was too reckless and fudged enough fish stories as it is.”

“I like your fish stories cause they’re true.” 

“Well, she insists I should be more careful and not sink the boat.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

When You’re Too Old for Text Messaging

This story was inspired by actual events. 

When You’re Too Old for Text Messaging

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Jane: Hello, Cathy, Dina, and Marah. I found these photos of our kids from five years ago. They look so little.

Cathy: (thumbs up emoji) How adorable!

Dina: Love the photos. We should have a bunch reunion.

Jane: A brunch get together would be fun. The kids would love it.

Dina: I typed bunco, but brunch would be fine.

Cathy: Actually, you typed bunch.

Dina: Stupid automobile!

Jane: Oh no! What happened to your car?

Dina: Nothing. I didn’t say anything about my car.

Dina: Grrr. That was supposed to say “stupid autocorrect” for changing bunco to bunch which you read as brunch. Then it changed autocorrect to automobile.

Cathy: Haha!

Jane: Well, a bunch of old bunco queens could get together for brunch.

Cathy: You only sent the last message to me and not the group.

Jane: I did? Hmmm. I hit reply all.

Dina: I got it!

Cathy: Got what?

Dina: Jane’s message.

Cathy: The one she sent to just me by mistake?

Dina: No, the one she sent to everyone about us bunco gals going to brunch.

Cathy: I’m confused.

Jane: I think I hit reply all and you thought I did just a single reply.

Cathy: Wait. Was there an email?

Jane: No ???

Cathy: I don’t have a reply all on my phone.

Jane: Me neither. I didn’t know what it was called to send a reply in a group text versus to a single person.

Cathy: I’m confused.

Dina: Don’t worry. Just pick up the conversation with a bunch of bunco queens reuniting for brunch.

Cathy: (thumbs up emoji)

Marah: Sorry it took so long for me to get back to everyone. I didn’t receive any photos.

Marah: Messages might me out of order.

Jane: (resends photos)

Marah: Cuuuuute!

Marah: So the kids are playing a bunch over lunch and Dina needs a ride because her car broke down?

Jane: No.

Marah: Ahh! Will someone call me?

Jane: Do I have your number?

Dina: You just proved you do!

Jane: Huh?

Cathy: Text messaging uses phone numbers. Same ones as calling.

Jane: When I tap her name it goes straight to text messaging.

Cathy: Well, that’s odd.

Jane: I will mail out letters with a few suggestions for brunch and everyone can mail them back with their selections.

Dina: Good enough for me.

Marah: Yes, that sounds much simpler.

Cathy: (thumbs up emoji)

Jane: Shoot. How will you guys get your updated addresses to me?

Cathy: Why can’t we text them?

Dina: Because automobile might screw up the street names.

Marah: Don’t rely on your GPS.

Dina: What are you talking about?

Dina: Oh! Not again!

Jane: Change of plans, I see. Whose house are we meeting at?

Cathy: No house. We just need to get our addresses to you without our phones automatically changing the spelling of our street names.

Jane: If we met at one our houses, we could play bunch, too.

Jane: *bunco

Dina: Oooo! Jane’s hosting brunch!

Marah: Yes!

Cathy: (thumbs up emoji)

Jane: LOL That works, too. Then I only have to worry about one address.

Marah: Perfect.

Dina: Pick a date and time and send away.

Cathy: (thumbs up emoji)

Jane: Coordinating via text is compounding.

Dina: What?

Marah: Huh?

Cathy: I’m confused.

Jane: Stupid automobile.

Jane: Dammit!

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller