Control.
I don't usually disappoint myself. I exist in a constant state of general disappointment -- off the top of my head, I'm disappointed in my mother for calling me almost twenty times between December 23 and December 25; disappointed that my only New Year's Eve option at present appears to be going to some party in Bushwick featuring a band that will be trading on our generation's endless thirst for empty novelty1 by using a vaccuum cleaner as an instrument; disappointed that my copies of Prince's Sign O' the Times, His Name Is Alive's Mouth By Mouth, and the last Coachwhips record resolutely refuse to rip properly to iTunes; disappointed that I am going completely bald2; disappointed with the book/comix-buying public that David B.'s Epileptic didn't outsell the far inferior work of his apprentice Marjane Satrapi. But I don't get disappointed in myself very often because I think that, generally speaking, I do as good a job as I'm able. For example, this blog entry could obviously be better written. Much better written, as a matter of fact. I just spent two minutes trying to decide whether or not "better written" should be hyphenated, and I'm still not sure. But anyway, sure it could be better written, but not by me. This is my level best, which I know is sad, but the point is that, while I'm not proud of this paragraph, I'm not disappointed in it either.
Yesterday, though, I disappointed the hell out of myself by losing my patience with a customer. I make it a point not to be overtly angry to customers for several reasons, none of which have anything to do with ridiculous notions of good customer service; mainly, I try to keep in mind that none of it matters, not just in the Grand Scheme but also in the Small, Immediate Scheme. So what if a customer is rude? So what if they can't understand basic principles like alphabetical order? So what if they come straight to the desk, after having made no attempt whatsoever to find the book they desire themselves3, and ask for something that is displayed prominently two feet to my right? It doesn't matter. This is not my career. I am, when you get right down to it, above that sort of pettiness.
But this guy. He comes in, and he asks for a book by what sounds like "Audrey Gronnit." Asshole move #1: When I ask him to repeat the author's name, he does it veeeerrrrryyy sllllloooowwwly, as if the reason for my incomprehension is that I'm a retard, not that he has an accent and is mumbling4. I do realize the second time that the author's last name is "Grant," pronounced with a British accent to rhyme with "gaunt." Asshole move #2: he then realizes my problem, and pronounces it the "American" way, but in an exagerrated way which I think was supposed to parody a New York accent but ended up sounding more midwestern. Quite why he felt the need to do this was unclear since I'm pretty sure I don't have any sort of identifiable accent, and if I do it's southern.
Thus enlightened, I find the books he's looking for in the computer and tell him they should be on the second floor in the Games section. "I've already been up there and I didn't see them," he replies. "It says you have them?"
"Yes, but there could be any number of reasons why the computer says we have them even though it's not on the shelf. They could be on hold for another customer, someone could have taken them off the shelf but not purchased them yet, they might just have gotten lost or possibly stolen5. It says here that some of the other stores should have at least one of them, I can call them if you'd like."
Asshole move #3: "Well, I don't think you're being very helpful."
Here's the thing: I don't give a good goddamn about the quality of the work I do at Barnes & Noble. I don't care even a litle bit about helping people find the books they want; I don't get a warm fuzzy feeling when a customer compliments me on a job well done6, and if a customer gets pissed off at me for any reason at all, it rolls right off my back. Usually. I think what happened here is that while normally a customer will get pissed off at me for something that's completely beyond my control, like today when I told a woman that her not having her gift card physically in her possession meant that she couldn't use it in the store, even though she had the gift card number written down and even though she came all the way from 60th Street, in this case he's telling me that I did not look up the books for him, did not explain to him the many possible reasons for the discrepancy between what the computer said we had and what he found on the shelf, and did not offer to call another store and see if they could put it on hold for him. Essentially, he's telling me that I am wrong, and there is nothing I hate more than being told I am wrong when I am quite clearly right7.
So. I, admittedly caught off guard, reply to his accusation: "Um, well, I'm gonna call another store and see if they've got it --"
"Well, I don't find you very helpful at all. You're telling me it might be this or it might be that, but you're not helping me find the book!"
This is where I start to lose it. "All I can tell you is what's on the screen here. I told you what the possible reasons for the discrepancy are, I don't know what else you want me to do. I can't tell you what's on the shelves up there."
"Well why not??"
I'm angry now. "Because I work down here! There are people on the second floor who can help you find books on the second floor."
"There isn't anyone up there," he says, which is generally code for "I didn't look for anyone."
"Yes there is. There are several people up there." I make no effort to disguise my anger as I point to the escalator and say, "You should probably go up there and ask one of them to help you find it if I'm not helpful enough for you."
He glares at me. "What's your name."
I hold up my name badge and glare back. He writes my name down on the piece of paper where he'd earlier written "The Club Series," "Play of the Hand," and "Audrey Grant." Keep in mind that a manager has been standing next to me this entire time and, amused by the whole thing, hasn't intervened at all. I'm not going to get into any trouble for this8.
"What's your surname?"
"I'm not giving you my last name."
"Why not?"
"I don't give my last name out to people."
More glaring. "Well, I don't find you helpful at all."
"And I'm really fucking upset by that. Go find someone upstairs."
He does just that, and I don't encounter him again. I pace around the info desk for a few minutes, unaccountably filled with rage.
Later, a customer tells me that her experience ordering some books from me over the phone was easily the quickest, least painful, and overall best one she's ever had. It doesn't make me feel any better.
1 If I had time -- I don't, but if I did -- this point would be a lengthy digression. Someday, maybe.
2 This is disappointment tinged with acceptance, as my recent haircut shows pretty clearly.
3 Funny story: Customer calls wanting to know what happened to an out-of-print book order (she actually wanted a particular essay) she placed recently. I look it up, see what book it is, and immediately it seems strange that she would've had to special order it at all, let alone that the only available edition would be OOP. So I tell her that the essay should be readily available in any number of collections in the store, and upon looking it up I see that sure enough there are no fewer than two collections containing this essay. Had she looked in the essays section to see if she could find it, I asked. The answer was, of course, no; she'd simply gone straight to the info desk and asked an (apparently rather dim) employee to find it for her. The essay in question was Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Self-Reliance."
4 More and more since starting at BN, I think that it's just human nature to assume that if someone says "excuse me?" after you say something, it's due to their inability to comprehend you rather than their inability to hear you/decipher what you're saying through your thick accent. Working there, I'm constantly reminded of my first psychiatrist, who in the course of asking me about the side effects of the medication he'd put me on, asked me if I was experiencing constipation, or if "the feces [was] hard." Because of his thick Mexican accent, I thought he'd asked me if the feces was "heart," which while very evocative makes no sense in a medical context, but when I replied "What?" he assumed I didn't know what "feces" meant and said "The....shit." Of course, because of his accent it sounded like he'd said "sheet," which confused me even more.
5 Given the books he was looking for, "they got lost or shelved in the wrong place" was by far the most likely explanation.
6 This is an entry unto itself, really.
7 It's also possible that the disappointment of my December staff recommendation never coming in was weighing particularly heavily on me yesterday.
8 Don't bother complaining about your treatment at the hands of a BN employee unless the employee in question was a complete bastard for no reason at all. Believe me, nobody cares.
Yesterday, though, I disappointed the hell out of myself by losing my patience with a customer. I make it a point not to be overtly angry to customers for several reasons, none of which have anything to do with ridiculous notions of good customer service; mainly, I try to keep in mind that none of it matters, not just in the Grand Scheme but also in the Small, Immediate Scheme. So what if a customer is rude? So what if they can't understand basic principles like alphabetical order? So what if they come straight to the desk, after having made no attempt whatsoever to find the book they desire themselves3, and ask for something that is displayed prominently two feet to my right? It doesn't matter. This is not my career. I am, when you get right down to it, above that sort of pettiness.
But this guy. He comes in, and he asks for a book by what sounds like "Audrey Gronnit." Asshole move #1: When I ask him to repeat the author's name, he does it veeeerrrrryyy sllllloooowwwly, as if the reason for my incomprehension is that I'm a retard, not that he has an accent and is mumbling4. I do realize the second time that the author's last name is "Grant," pronounced with a British accent to rhyme with "gaunt." Asshole move #2: he then realizes my problem, and pronounces it the "American" way, but in an exagerrated way which I think was supposed to parody a New York accent but ended up sounding more midwestern. Quite why he felt the need to do this was unclear since I'm pretty sure I don't have any sort of identifiable accent, and if I do it's southern.
Thus enlightened, I find the books he's looking for in the computer and tell him they should be on the second floor in the Games section. "I've already been up there and I didn't see them," he replies. "It says you have them?"
"Yes, but there could be any number of reasons why the computer says we have them even though it's not on the shelf. They could be on hold for another customer, someone could have taken them off the shelf but not purchased them yet, they might just have gotten lost or possibly stolen5. It says here that some of the other stores should have at least one of them, I can call them if you'd like."
Asshole move #3: "Well, I don't think you're being very helpful."
Here's the thing: I don't give a good goddamn about the quality of the work I do at Barnes & Noble. I don't care even a litle bit about helping people find the books they want; I don't get a warm fuzzy feeling when a customer compliments me on a job well done6, and if a customer gets pissed off at me for any reason at all, it rolls right off my back. Usually. I think what happened here is that while normally a customer will get pissed off at me for something that's completely beyond my control, like today when I told a woman that her not having her gift card physically in her possession meant that she couldn't use it in the store, even though she had the gift card number written down and even though she came all the way from 60th Street, in this case he's telling me that I did not look up the books for him, did not explain to him the many possible reasons for the discrepancy between what the computer said we had and what he found on the shelf, and did not offer to call another store and see if they could put it on hold for him. Essentially, he's telling me that I am wrong, and there is nothing I hate more than being told I am wrong when I am quite clearly right7.
So. I, admittedly caught off guard, reply to his accusation: "Um, well, I'm gonna call another store and see if they've got it --"
"Well, I don't find you very helpful at all. You're telling me it might be this or it might be that, but you're not helping me find the book!"
This is where I start to lose it. "All I can tell you is what's on the screen here. I told you what the possible reasons for the discrepancy are, I don't know what else you want me to do. I can't tell you what's on the shelves up there."
"Well why not??"
I'm angry now. "Because I work down here! There are people on the second floor who can help you find books on the second floor."
"There isn't anyone up there," he says, which is generally code for "I didn't look for anyone."
"Yes there is. There are several people up there." I make no effort to disguise my anger as I point to the escalator and say, "You should probably go up there and ask one of them to help you find it if I'm not helpful enough for you."
He glares at me. "What's your name."
I hold up my name badge and glare back. He writes my name down on the piece of paper where he'd earlier written "The Club Series," "Play of the Hand," and "Audrey Grant." Keep in mind that a manager has been standing next to me this entire time and, amused by the whole thing, hasn't intervened at all. I'm not going to get into any trouble for this8.
"What's your surname?"
"I'm not giving you my last name."
"Why not?"
"I don't give my last name out to people."
More glaring. "Well, I don't find you helpful at all."
"And I'm really fucking upset by that. Go find someone upstairs."
He does just that, and I don't encounter him again. I pace around the info desk for a few minutes, unaccountably filled with rage.
Later, a customer tells me that her experience ordering some books from me over the phone was easily the quickest, least painful, and overall best one she's ever had. It doesn't make me feel any better.
1 If I had time -- I don't, but if I did -- this point would be a lengthy digression. Someday, maybe.
2 This is disappointment tinged with acceptance, as my recent haircut shows pretty clearly.
3 Funny story: Customer calls wanting to know what happened to an out-of-print book order (she actually wanted a particular essay) she placed recently. I look it up, see what book it is, and immediately it seems strange that she would've had to special order it at all, let alone that the only available edition would be OOP. So I tell her that the essay should be readily available in any number of collections in the store, and upon looking it up I see that sure enough there are no fewer than two collections containing this essay. Had she looked in the essays section to see if she could find it, I asked. The answer was, of course, no; she'd simply gone straight to the info desk and asked an (apparently rather dim) employee to find it for her. The essay in question was Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Self-Reliance."
4 More and more since starting at BN, I think that it's just human nature to assume that if someone says "excuse me?" after you say something, it's due to their inability to comprehend you rather than their inability to hear you/decipher what you're saying through your thick accent. Working there, I'm constantly reminded of my first psychiatrist, who in the course of asking me about the side effects of the medication he'd put me on, asked me if I was experiencing constipation, or if "the feces [was] hard." Because of his thick Mexican accent, I thought he'd asked me if the feces was "heart," which while very evocative makes no sense in a medical context, but when I replied "What?" he assumed I didn't know what "feces" meant and said "The....shit." Of course, because of his accent it sounded like he'd said "sheet," which confused me even more.
5 Given the books he was looking for, "they got lost or shelved in the wrong place" was by far the most likely explanation.
6 This is an entry unto itself, really.
7 It's also possible that the disappointment of my December staff recommendation never coming in was weighing particularly heavily on me yesterday.
8 Don't bother complaining about your treatment at the hands of a BN employee unless the employee in question was a complete bastard for no reason at all. Believe me, nobody cares.
posted by Dktr. Blasphemy at 12:31 AM
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