Lately it seems that nearly every transaction any more complex than buying groceries at the local market must be performed at least twice, sometimes three and four times.
A recent mail-order product return, for example. I had bought some jeans that I loved, but when I washed them, following the instructions, they shrank so much that they were unwearable. I decided to get another pair and figured I wouldn’t put them in the dryer at all this time, and so I went back to the store. But they were out of them.
The jeans still existed online—success, or so I thought. I ordered them, but when they arrived they were of a different style. Now, anyone who knows anything about jeans knows that that just won’t do. So I phoned and said I’d send them back and wanted a refund not only for the jeans but for the ten dollar shipping fee I’d paid, because the mistake had been the store’s (which was, by the way, a major nationwide retail chain).
No problem, they said. Thank you so very much, they said. They also said they’d email me a label for the return postage, too.
Great, right? Except for the fact that the label never came. So I had to call back a few days later and wait through their tooth-grinding phone message again. Listening to it was like going on a involuntary treasure hunt, it was that difficult to find a way to access an actual agent rather than a recorded message.
But I prevailed, and after some discussion with a human being, this time the label arrived as an email attachment. I prepared to return the jeans and even managed to get them back in the original shipping bag, although they have to be mailed by way of UPS, which involves a bit of a drive.
But before I managed to accomplish that chore I got a letter (that’s a real letter, a snail mail letter) from the store saying that “your shipment was recently returned to us because it was undeliverable by our carrier.” Now, how had that been generated? Nothing had yet been shipped back by me, and therefore nothing could have been undeliverable and returned. The refund amount listed on the letter was merely the price of the jeans alone minus the ten dollar shipping fee. Another error, which meant I had to call again (third time now), wait through the purposely confusing (are we getting paranoid here?) phone message, not to mention the hold, and talk to another person.
That person told me to disregard the letter. We’ll see whether I’ve heard the last of the matter. My guess is that there may be at least one more call to the store about this in my future.
I wouldn’t be complaining if this type of thing hadn’t become standard operating procedure rather than the exception. Is it super-important in the large scheme of things? No. But it’s the sort of petty annoyance, day after day, that chips away at people’s sense of trust and equanimity, and fosters the idea that something is falling apart, or perhaps has fallen apart.
What is that “something”? I’d say it’s the expectation of competence—caring if the job you do is good or not, and taking responsibility for your actions, both on the personal and corporate level. The entire thing is accompanied by the most galling (and almost Orwellian, under the circumstances) canned read-from-a-manual assurances about how valuable your patronage is and how very very much you are appreciated as a customer, in addition to fulsome praise for every small thing you might do such as give your name and address when asked, which is received with a heartfelt “thank you so much, Miss (fill in the name)”—all of which have the net result of making the call seem even more interminable than it already is (and almost as interminable as this sentence).
In other words, every such transaction now resembles an interaction with a government agency in terms of competence. And every such transaction now resembles an interaction with Uriah Heep in terms of fawning obsequious insincere pronouncements designed to divert you from what’s actually happening and create a false sense of service rendered.
NOTE: It took a while, but I found a tiny clip of Heep in the 1935 Cukor film “David Copperfield,” a favorite of my youth. He’s the guy who’s clasping his hands together:
I love those old black-and-white films.
By the way, in case you’re wondering: no, they would not give me any money back for the price of the original purchase, the jeans that had shrunk in the wash even though I used cold water and moderate heat.]

