Column, etc.

MY APOLOGIES

Busy. Sorry. Not much time to blog. Second week as an editorial assistant at the Gazette and it's reminiscent of when I began as an intern at AM 1500 radio: I clearly have a lot to learn about the industry.

It's interesting. I'll draw the line at calling it fun only because it's extremely stressful. By the time I leave there at 5:00 my eyes are blurry from staring at a tiny computer screen all day. It's the "little things" that drive me nuts. For instance, they use Apple computers rather than PC's, and though the differences are negligible they're just enough that I want to hurl my keyboard across the room at times. I feel like a total novice.

I have some ideas floating through my head regarding my writing that are interesting, to say the least. Usually I jinx it by spilling the beans and never coming through, so in this instance I'm going to bite my tongue, post my column, and go about my business.

I hope you're all doing extremely well.

COLUMN OF THE WEEK

There’s a folder on my desk containing tasks I reserve for when I’m in “Take no prisoners” mode. It’s no so much a “honey do” list as a “honey, make an individual or corporation wish they had never been granted the gift of life” list. If I have a bad day at work or if my wife and I have had words, I remove a task from the folder and proceed to destroy the self-worth of an unsuspecting customer service representative.

One of these tasks was a telephone call to an energy utility company. I won’t divulge their name; suffice it to say they xcel at what they do.

The company sent me a letter stating that for the past year they’ve been misreading my meter, which means my household owes an additional $200, due immediately. Happy Holidays.

My first thought was that perhaps the cross-eyed meter reader responsible for the debacle should have the $200 deducted from his year-end bonus check, so I picked up the phone and prepared to show no mercy.

The girl who answered the phone was amiable enough but clearly wasn’t the decision-maker. I couldn’t even ask “How are you today?” without her having to check with her supervisor, who told her to say she was fine, thanks. I was put on hold so many times I was treated to nearly the entire Air Supply catalog.

I put Amber through her paces for quite a while, and to her credit she held up well though I made her earn every cent of her $9 per hour wage. I was firm: Under no circumstances was I paying $200 for their meter-reading error. It’s not as if under cover of night I surreptitiously switched meters with the old lady next door who, thanks to her fixed income, doesn’t turn her heat over 40 degrees. “It was your mistake, Amber,” I insisted, “therefore it’s your problem.”

Amber reassured me in a pleasant voice that she understood completely, and that if I liked she could connect me with a Specialist.

Something in her voice capitalized it.

I told her that I would very much like to speak to a Specialist, and after a couple more minutes of hold music (more Air Supply, enough already) Amber came back on the line.

“I have Melissa on the line,” Amber said, “She’s a…Specialist.”

Amber’s previously eager-to-please lilt had been replaced with a tone similar to that Cleopatra might have used when sending a haughty servant to the lions.

“Mr. Bonnett,” the Specialist said as if annoyed already, “my name is Melissa. What’s the problem?”

Melissa’s demeanor made it clear that in order for Specialists to reach the ten dollars per hour threshold that had eluded them as customer service reps, they had to make certain concessions, namely their souls. Melissa’s voice was utterly devoid of inflection. One could picture her on the stand at the energy utility equivalent of the Nuremberg Trials, her face stoic, voice defiant: “I was merely following orders.”

Still, I wasn’t about to be threatened by some punk kid ten years my junior earning $11 per hour. Just because she makes more than me doesn’t make her a better person. After a full ten minutes of my insistence that I was not paying the bill, Melissa said something strange.

“Mr. Bonnett,” she said, “I have a button in front of me and I have no clue what it’s for. I think I’ll press it and see what happens.”

The lights in my town home flickered briefly.

“Funny thing, this button,” Melissa continued, “It seems to serve no purpose at all. I think I’ll press it again.”

The furnace stopped. My throat clenched.

“What a useless old button,” said Melissa, “I think I may just leave it pressed down permanently, unless there’s something you want to ask me. Is there something you want to ask me, Mr. Bonnett?”

“Yes, Melissa,” I replied meekly, “there is. May I pay the $200 on an installment plan?”

“Of course, Mr. Bonnett. We’re here to serve.” The furnace purred back to life.

The utility company is generously allowing me to pay for their $200 error over a period of 12 months, no interest. Once in a while I reflect upon my conversation with Melissa and get so angry I grab another item from the “Take no prisoners” folder, eager to reclaim my manhood.

But then the lights flicker or the fridge kicks off. Maybe it’s coincidence, but then again, maybe somewhere, somehow, someone is watching, ensuring that the snotty guy in Woodbury doesn’t get too cocky. Just in case, my post-holiday shopping includes a stop at Home Depot for a back-up generator.