A Funny Lady’s Journey Through Customer Service Hell

There are certain experiences in life that build character.

Marriage builds character.

Parenthood builds character.

Trying to assemble furniture without reading the instructions builds a lot of character.

But nothing—and I mean absolutely nothing—builds character quite like dealing with customer service.

I discovered this one Tuesday morning when my internet stopped working.

At first, I was calm.

“Things happen,” I told myself.

I restarted the router. I unplugged it. I plugged it back in. I stared at the blinking lights as if I could intimidate them into cooperation.

Nothing.

The internet was gone.

Not slow.

Not glitchy.

Gone.

My router had apparently decided to retire without giving me two weeks’ notice.

So, like any modern woman who had reached the end of her emotional rope, I picked up my phone and called customer service.

That was my first mistake.

Welcome to the Maze

The automated voice greeted me with the cheerful enthusiasm of someone who had never experienced inconvenience.

“Thank you for calling! We’re happy to help.”

I immediately distrusted her.

Nobody who is genuinely happy to help speaks in that tone.

“Please say or enter your account number.”

I entered it.

“Thank you. Please say the reason for your call.”

“Internet outage.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that.”

I took a deep breath.

“MY. INTERNET. IS. NOT. WORKING.”

“I heard you say, ‘My internet is not working.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Great! I can help with that.”

Finally.

A glimmer of hope.

Then came the next question.

“Please say your account number.”

I stared at the ceiling.

“I already gave it to you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that.”

And that was when I realized I had entered the customer service equivalent of Dante’s Inferno.

There were going to be levels.

Level One: The Robot

The robot asked me to unplug my router.

I told her I had already done that.

She asked me to unplug it again.

Apparently, my first unplugging lacked commitment.

I unplugged it.

“Please wait thirty seconds before plugging it back in.”

So I waited.

Twenty seconds.

Twenty-five.

Thirty.

I plugged it back in.

“Is your internet working now?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s try restarting your router.”

I closed my eyes.

“That’s the same thing.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that.”

Of course you didn’t.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect the robot was deliberately provoking me.

Finally, after what felt like forty-seven years, she transferred me to a human being.

I had never been so happy to hear a human voice.

Level Two: The Human Who Couldn’t Help

“Hi! My name is Kevin. How are you today?”

“Kevin, I’m hanging on by a thread.”

There was a pause.

“Okay.”

“I don’t have internet.”

“Gotcha. I can definitely help you with that.”

This sentence is customer-service code for:

I probably cannot help you with that.

Kevin asked me to restart the router.

Again.

I explained that I had already done it several times.

He asked me to do it one more time.

I considered telling him that I had thrown the router out the window, just to see what would happen.

Instead, I behaved like an adult.

“Fine.”

I restarted it.

Still nothing.

Kevin typed something.

I could hear the clicking of his keyboard.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It sounded like he was writing my obituary.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m seeing an issue on our end.”

I almost cried.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So you can fix it?”

Another pause.

“Well…”

There it was.

The word.

“Well.”

No good news has ever followed the word “well.”

Level Three: The Transfer

Kevin informed me that I needed to speak with the “advanced technical support team.”

Advanced.

This sounded promising.

Perhaps these people wore lab coats.

Perhaps they had degrees in routerology.

Perhaps they could communicate directly with the internet.

Kevin transferred me.

I listened to music for twelve minutes.

It was a smooth jazz song featuring what sounded like a saxophone having an emotional breakdown.

Then another human answered.

“Thank you for calling technical support. Can I have your account number?”

I gave it to him.

“And can you verify your address?”

I gave it to him.

“And the last four digits of your payment method?”

I gave them to him.

“And your favorite color?”

Okay, he didn't actually ask that.

But by this point, I would not have been surprised.

He ran a diagnostic.

Then another.

Then another.

Finally, he said, “It appears your modem may be defective.”

I looked at the modem.

“You think?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“We can send you a replacement.”

“How long will that take?”

“Three to five business days.”

Three to five business days.

I work from home.

My children use the internet for school.

My entire household depends on the internet.

Three to five business days might as well have been three to five geological eras.

“Is there any way to get it sooner?”

“We have expedited shipping.”

“Wonderful.”

“That will be an additional charge.”

Naturally.

Nothing travels faster than a fee.

Level Four: The Supervisor

At this point, I asked for a supervisor.

This is a dangerous moment in customer service.

As soon as you request a supervisor, the atmosphere changes.

Suddenly, the person you've been speaking to becomes extremely concerned about your emotional well-being.

“I completely understand your frustration.”

No.

You don't.

You have internet.

“I really want to make sure we find the best solution for you.”

Good.

Find it.

“I can transfer you to my supervisor.”

Thank you.

I waited.

Music.

More music.

Then silence.

Then more music.

I began wondering whether I had accidentally been transferred to another dimension.

Finally, a woman named Maria answered.

“Hi, this is Maria, a supervisor. I understand you're having trouble with your internet.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“Thank you.”

She sounded calm.

Professional.

Human.

I explained everything.

She checked my account.

Then she said the sentence that changed my entire day.

“Actually, there is an outage in your area.”

Silence.

I stared at the wall.

“An outage?”

“Yes.”

“So… the modem isn't defective?”

“No.”

I inhaled slowly.

“So I didn't need to restart the router seventeen times?”

“No.”

“And I don't need a replacement modem?”

“No.”

“And I've spent the last hour talking to four people because your company didn't know there was an outage?”

Another pause.

“Well…”

There was that word again.

I laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

It was the laugh of a woman standing at the edge of civilization.

Level Five: The Survey

After nearly two hours, my internet suddenly returned.

No explanation.

No apology.

No dramatic announcement.

It simply came back.

Like a husband returning home after being asked where he was.

I sat there staring at the router.

It blinked peacefully.

I felt betrayed.

Then my phone rang.

It was the internet company.

“Please take a brief survey about your customer service experience.”

Oh.

Absolutely.

I pressed one.

“On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied were you with your experience?”

I pressed zero.

The automated voice sounded disappointed.

“I'm sorry your experience was not satisfactory.”

Neither am I.

“Would you like to leave additional feedback?”

“Yes.”

I prepared myself.

This was my moment.

I spoke clearly.

“I spent nearly two hours trying to solve a problem that turned out to be a known outage. I was repeatedly asked to restart equipment that wasn't broken, transferred between departments, and nearly charged for a replacement modem I didn't need.”

There was a pause.

“Thank you for your feedback.”

And then the call ended.

That was it.

No apology.

No compensation.

No gift card.

Not even a coupon for a free emotional-support muffin.

The Customer Service Afterlife

Since that day, I've become a different woman.

I no longer fear customer service.

I respect it the way one respects a wild animal.

I approach carefully.

I have learned valuable survival skills.

I keep my account number written down.

I know my password.

I know the last four digits of every payment method I use.

I have memorized my address.

I have developed the ability to explain a technical problem using terminology I barely understand.

“Have you checked the DHCP lease?”

I have no idea what that means.

But customer service representatives seem impressed when I say it.

I've also learned the most important rule of all:

Never hang up.

If you've already spent forty minutes waiting, hanging up means surrendering forty minutes of your life for nothing.

Stay on the line.

Fight for your freedom.

Listen to the hold music.

Let the saxophone speak to your soul.

What Customer Service Taught Me

Looking back, I realize the experience taught me several important lessons.

First, patience is not something you're born with.

It's something you develop after listening to the same hold music for an hour.

Second, technology is wonderful until it stops working.

Third, every automated customer-service system eventually asks you to repeat information you already provided.

And fourth, there is a strange psychological transformation that happens when you've been transferred six times.

You start the call as a normal human being.

You end it as a warrior.

You know things.

You have seen things.

You have been placed on hold and survived.

The next time I call customer service, I will be ready.

I will have snacks.

I will have my account number.

I will have my charger.

I will have a notebook.

I will have the patience of a Buddhist monk and the determination of a woman who has already spent ninety minutes listening to smooth jazz.

And if someone says, “Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?”

I will smile.

I will breathe.

And I will say:

“Yes.

But before we do that again, could you please check whether there's an outage?”

Because I've been to customer service hell.

And I know the way out.