I had a retail day, one where I have to go and deal with stores and merchants. I am the odd female who gets no kick from shopping, but every now and then, things sneak up on me, and I need to go out and get a few things. In this case, I needed to dispute a bill for cancelled long-distance service, pick up some canning lids, and find something to wear for the school auction (my wardrobe shrank considerably with my size).
I try AT&T’s online avatar, but she dons a frown when I tell her she hasn’t guessed what my problem is. She is the victim of a bad parser and bad animation, and I almost feel sorry for her. I end up on the phone (the call may have been monitored for quality assurance, at least I hope it was) with a customer service representative whose goal it is to provide me excellent service. But she is locked into screens popping up, asking her to read a script to me. The call drags on for nearly 15 minutes, as she tries to sell me more services for an account I thought I closed a month ago, but which keeps generating bills. I know she’s only trying to make a living, but I shouldn’t have to ask her to stop reading from the script twice. I am upset by how assertive and rude I must be with her, since I far prefer polite and kind. I blame the large corporate attitude that has taken away her power to read a caller and respond intelligently. Perhaps she and the avatar can have a cup of coffee together someday, and commiserate.
Next stop, Fred Meyer, once a local establishment, now a Kroger puppet. This time my checkout clerk is a computer screen, and it only takes a second to punch the button to interrupt the disembodied female voice asking if I have a Fred Meyer Rewards Card. I feel a bit rude cutting her off: maybe she can join the AT&T kaffee klatch.
All around me are people shopping with cell phones attached to their ears; one woman is having an emotional discussion while she throws cake mix in her cart. A man stands in the snack aisle, paralyzed by what he is hearing. A grandmother gossips about a mutual friend while she leafs through a rack of designer blouses. They are both disengaged from the here and now; they have chosen to be alone in public, to not connect. I wonder to myself if they hang up when they go through the checkout, or if they treat the clerks with respect.
I stand alone, the only adult in Nordstrom Rack who obviously hasn’t had her – or his – hair done recently (in my case, it’s something over 30 years). My highlights, shimmering silvery grey, are natural. This time, my clerk is a real person, with a warm, personable smile. When she sees me pulling a debit card out of a thrift store wallet, she smiles, and asks the question in the negative: “You don’t have a Nordstrom card, do you?” I smile and shake my head, and she says, “I bet you don’t want one.” We both laugh. “No, thank you.” She has been allowed to treat me as a person, and I can treat her humanly as well. I appreciate her smile, and hope that I’m not the only one who gives her one today.
