The reason I’m here in LA is to clean up the last loose ends I’ve got before embarking on the more exciting legs of the World Tour. Little things like closing out bank accounts, settling taxes, getting rid of my car, and so on. This means I’ve spent a lot of time tangling with so-called ‘customer service’ systems, more often impotently than not.
Most were the common story, punching information in via keypad in a vain effort to categorize my request, prior to being dumped on Tier 1 and thereafter repeating earlier entries verbally to the peon who was more than likely being just short of actively whipped by some unseen overseer.
Two particularly hostile systems, however, stand out from this Rorschach blot of communication.
In order to obtain the permission to engage in productive tasks within the borders of my soon-to-be surrogate motherland, I, predictably, have been tasked with the filling out of work that is confined to paper. Standard things, date of birth, education, purpose of visit, employer, proof of income, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
However, the Government also requires what is known as a “Letter of Good Conduct.” This is, in meaner terms, proof that I am, by the official standards of the United States of America and, acting as Uncle Sam’s proxy in this matter, the sovereign State of California, worthy of being deemed Not A Terrorist. The prescribed procedure is, in theory, quite simple. Present oneself before an authorized fingerprinting agent, authenticate one’s identity, “get rolled,” as it were. Naturally, do not forget to pay the Stamp Tax processing fees. One to eight weeks later, depending on whether you’ve been naughty or nice, Santa State drops your letter in the mail.
In theory.
In order to check on the status of your review, you can telephone an automated assistance line, which politely warns you that between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM, Pacific, the volume of requestts is quite high, resulting in a potentially degraded Quality of delivered Services. You then proceed to navigate through the usual punch-button menu until you reach the Status Request item, at which point you may speak your Request Identification Number in order to check its status.
Now, the vox auctoris in this case may not have been the clearest, as Throat War I was raging across the esophageal battlefield, but I had the better of Kaiser Contagion at the time and was at least vaguely comprehensible. For a good week, the system reported a Negative to the requests for Status - that pleasantly neutral robovoice flatly stating, “There is no information at this time.”
Deeper requests are, of course, impossible with an automated system. Digging through the endless options of the system’s menus, Yours Truly tried many things to connect, even fleetingly, to a Real, Breathing Human who might be able to clarify why my “Live Scan” was not even entered into the Matrix yet. What I did reach was an answering machine, upon which I could leave a phone number and, supposedly, expect a call within two business days.
Four passed, and then once more into the tele-breach.
Eventually, on a second automated phone system listed on some Official State Fingerprint Request Documentation, I did stumble upon an option for the technologically-handicapped, wherein an operator would assist in getting through to the appropriate Record Review Unit. After a glimpsing eternity while on hold, a contestant for the hot new reality show, America’s Most Disaffected Teenager, answered. Requesting the Visa/Immigration unit, I was tele-shunted almost instantly to a recording.
A recording informing me that I had the wrong number and should call the first automated phone system and leave my call-back number there, to be contacted by the Unit within two business days.
A flash of red, possibly a vision of my embattled pharynx, is the only way to describe the sensation.
Still, weakened by Throat War II’s desperate struggle against the Fuhrer, I left my contact information again and returned to engaging in chemical warfare. Ah, Robitussin.
To my continuing surprise, this time my efforts bore sweet fruit. The next day, around noon, I was the overjoyed recipient of a ring, and learned that my Official Certification of Unterroristosity was in the mail.
Capital!
It was in the mail three weeks ago.
Crap!
Fortunately, as I was speaking to a Real Person at the time, a second, and no less official, copy was readily requested and promise of prompt dispatch obtained.
This stunning Odyssey of Unresponse from a State ostensibly by, of, and for the People. Still, it ended well, after a mere few hours of my own sweat, and there was an answering machine option available that is monitored. At least part of the time.
The second story, though shorter in text, is greater in Fury.
Another primary Order of Business before departing this venue is the constructive disposal of my automobile. Not terribly difficult, I have a relative in need who also is possessed of the requisite liquid assets. The transference of Liquidity to Loanholder is not, in the technical sense, rather complicated. The Primary concern is Promptness, as these rapscallions are rarely possessed of alacrity in any situation where the lack of Service does not involve themselves in the role of the Serviced.
Similar to the Department of Justice, little enough information - less even - is available via the Electrotubes, with the exception of opportunities to relinquish funds unto their coffers. However, there is, naturally, a Toll-Free number which can be dialed for “more information.” Lies.
Entering this telephonic labyrinth presents endless dendritic option-tributaries, with all requests blunted and shunted back into the central menu flow. Never can one directly elect to speak with a representative; not the barest shred of breath is wasted on such a taboo topic. For three days, I spent what seemed unconscionable eternities treading among those serpentine paths.
Information, of course, could be gleaned. There was an address to which I could ship payments overnight; never-mind that this is the Southern California office, while the payment would instead be Federally Expressed to Penn’s Woods. I could, if I wished, include a Letter of Authorization, enabling an Agent of mine to receive the mythical Release Of Lien. Nowhere, though, could one request that such as document be dispatched back via a courier known for Haste, nor guarantees of processing time be obtained, nor accepted modes of expeditious payment be explored. I became concerned that, should I remain lost in this Jungle of Assistance, the services of one Sir H.M. Stanley would be required for my safe and timely extraction.
On the Third Day, however, the brilliant notion of mashing the keypad for a while came to me. Upon placing this highly sophisticated technique in my employ, a blessed sound, which had not been heard by mine ear for ages, resounded through the receiver. A choir of angels. A thousand sweet-tolling bells, far across the pristine, undespoiled plains, disturbing only the dew of Morning, calling out promises of harmonic elation.
The phone was fucking ringing.
Taking up less than five minutes of the attendant’s time, my questions were answered and my account flagged for Immediate Processing once dollars were in the appropriate hands. Electronic Funds Transfer was recommended, as she could not guarantee the acceptance of a Suitcase (nor Hat) of Money by the High Court of Accounts Receivable. With further appropriate information, His Majesty The Lien-master could even deem it fit to dispatch my documents for delivery Overnight. A secret keypad handshake, previously stumbled on only by the Fancy of Chance, was revealed and an extension supplied, should any further concerns arise.
A happy ending, at least insofar as this saga has advanced.
How can one justify the dial-pad ordeal in light of prompt and courteous attendance once the Veil is Pierced? Is this some form of patronage purgatory, where Sins are stripped away through the dual Agonies of voice recognition and touch-tone selection? It fails, baldly, on its face. The Customer is Not Serviced. The Spice does not Flow. And only to save the merest tuppence - which, I remind the Dear Reader, would be owed to some employment-starved collegiate.
:argh:
Tags: California, car loans, customer service, David and Goliath, Department of Justice, fingerprinting, phone tag, rage
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