"Part II?" you say. "I didn't realize there would be a sequel!"
Ah, yes. I have a great many things to say about Customer Service "Professionals"-- most of which can be summed up by my use of ironic quotation marks around the word "Professional," but I encourage you to delve into my history with CS"P"s by going here and here.
All caught up? Excellent. Then allow me to tell you of my recent excursion to Martin's.
Pause. I lied. Story not immediately forthcoming. First, some Martin's background for those of you non-Richmondites. Martin's, owned by Giant Foods, bought Richmond's longtime local grocery store chain Ukrops, much to the chagrin of most older members of the metropolitan area. These folks felt they would miss the chipper pleasantries of their local Ukrops employees, and their grocer's fastidious commitment to a high-end shopping "experience." The rest of us were siked that we would now have a grocery store nearby that was open on Sundays and sold beer, and an immediate end to the Food Lion trips that necessitated a full-body sanitation ritual upon leaving. I was also pleased to find that after leaving Martin's, I no longer had to find a satanic circle in which to sell my soul to afford my groceries.
But anyhoo, people are generally bummed about the absence of Ukrops.
I am here to tell you Martin's Nay-Sayers and No-Shoppers: Martin's Customer Service Does Not Suck.
Here's why:
So I'm doing the pre-vacation shop. You know what this means. I am buying anything I want. Eff Special K. I'm getting Lucky Charms. Screw double-fiber wheat. I'm getting Wonderbread. We never buy frozen chicken wings, but hell -- its vacation! They're in the cart. Everything is in the cart. Another cart is in the cart. You get the picture.
And I'm wrapping things up in the produce section, when I realize I need a few of those ice pack things you stick in coolers to keep shit cold.
Now, where would you go to find those-ice-pack-things-you-stick-in-coolers-to-keep-shit-cold? No really, think about it. What aisle are they in?
[Insert Final Jeopardy Ditty]
Exactly. You have no effing clue. Its okay. Neither did I. But what was worse: I had absolutely no confidence that a single human working at Martin's would know either. Especially someone in the produce section. I thought this would be like a trip to Home Depot, where you are wandering the paint aisle, and you see a CS"P" and ask him where you can find -- oh, I don't know, something super complex, like painter's tape, and CS"P" says "Oh, I don't know. This isn't my section. You'll have to find Jim." And then you spend 15 minutes looking for Jim, who is apparently explaining the nanochemistry of latex paint to a customer because you have now waited so long you could have actually painted your entire house by now -- only to have Jim tell you that you are, in fact, standing directly in front of painter's tape.
But I risk it, people. I risk defrosted chicken wings, rancid whole milk and molded Wonderbread, and I ask red-pepper stocker Anthony where I can find those ice-pack thingy majiggies.
Anthony -- who is all of 17 -- pauses in in pepper-stocking and lifts his eyes towards the drop cieling. I'm waiting... waiting... Then -- boom! -- a light goes off! He's got it! He holds up one finger in my direction and then --
He takes off. He totally ditches me amidst sweet potatoes and pre-packaged pistachios. I am now standing there -- list and pen in one hand, cantaloupe in the other -- looking like I need directions to the deli counter. And I am having a slight crisis:
What to do now? Follow him? What if I can't find him? Continue shopping? What if he can't find me? What if I just keep missing him amidst the aisles and we end up playing this awkward game of marco-polo? Stay here? For how long? How long can I keep perusing legumes before people think I'm stalking someone?
Don't tell me you haven't experienced this sort of anxiety over standing awkwardly and conspicuously in a place where everyone else has a purpose. Its like waiting for someone in a restaurant -- everyone else has something to do, except you. Which is why you are checking facebook on your phone for the 47th time in the last 15 minutes hoping people think you are reading an Important Work Email.
No one thinks that, FYI.
Ultimately, I scuttle myself and my cart full of goodies over near a display of wine and pretend to cross stuff off my list.
After only a brief expanse of awkwardness Anthony returns [relief!] with a variety of ice-pack-thingies [joy!] and he knows the price [shock!] and location [amazement!] of every one of them.
I am awed by Anthony's customer service professionalism. And I decide to tell someone this. So after selecting my preferred ice-pack I waltz myself and my cart over to a guy who appears somewhat managerial, and I tell him my story. However, this person is not a manager at all [embarrassing!] and recommends I fill out a comment card at the customer service desk.
I get Anthony's name and sachet my happy shopper ass on over there. I ask the person behind the desk for a comment card and she looks at me like my head has been replaced by a cantaloupe. Service Desk Woman (SDW) claims no such card exists.
Hm. A conundrum. She looks at me in despair. How to take my compliment without a comment card?
I politely suggest that perhaps A PIECE OF PAPER would work just fine.
Christalmighty, people.
But before I can even get pen to not-a-comment-card paper, an actual, real-deal manager walks up and SDW suggests I just tell him what I was going to write.
Which I do. And this guy is just peeing himself he is so thrilled about my compliment. And I'm confused, until two things happen:
#1: He repeats the sentence "Usually we just hear complaints" three times.
#2: He drags me over to the Regional Manager -- who just happened to be visiting that day -- so I can recount my story to her.
At this point I am telling the story for the fourth time, and my groceries are melting and molding and otherwise rapidly going south, and my mind is no longer interested in this act of kindness anymore, which is why this happens:
I begin my tale of sojourning to the produce aisle and seeking ice-pack thingies, and how... um.... this guy... um... young guy.... uh... stocking peppers....
I forgot the kid's name.
You know what that means? It means all three of us walk further away from my grocery cart, and back to the produce section so I can point awkwardly at Anthony and say "That kid" while I watch him turn six shades of embarrassed by all the attention I have now brought to him.
By the time I get back to my cart and head to the checkout, I have really racked up some stats in Martin's:
Number of Ice Packs Anthony Found and Brought Back to Me: 4
Number of Times I Told This Story to a Martin's Employee: 4
Number of Minutes Attempting to Pay Martin's a Compliment: 27
Number of Cart Items Now No Longer Edible: 6
How Much I Think Anthony Actually Appreciated What I Did: 0
You know what? Next time, I actually will get it my damn self.
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