Although, in retrospect, I could be one by now given the torment I sustained last weekend.
The bartender handing me the potable portables?
Verizon.
I will preface this all by saying that my situation is no way comparable to the issues some New Yorkers are still facing to this day as a result of Hurricane Sandy. Our hearts still need to go out to them.
But, indeed, when I was quite proud to announce that my New York apartment came through the raging storm with flying colors, I might have spoken way too soon. And, for all those of my readers who think that my frequent romps to the Big Apple provide me with wonderfully festive weekends, I present to you...
Exhibit A.
The weekend of December 8 and 9. Oh, there were a few hours of frivolity thanks to dinner and a Broadway show on Saturday night. Everything else, however, could be easily disposed via a circular flush.
I came in for my December trip only to find that the land line in my New York apartment was dead. Groan. I went through the usual troubleshooting fixes we all do these days. Unplug a wire. Reboot. Disconnect the electricity. Reboot.
Nothing. No dial tone. Just a steady hum. As if the barbershop quartet in "The Music Man" was stuck.
On my cell phone, I called Verizon Repair. That, I might add, is not a simple process. Like any other customer service phone center in 2012, you only get an actual human being at the very last step. When I finally got past six or seven reminders of all the wonderful new products that Verizon offers, I connected with a guy and explained the problem with the product that was originally developed by Alexander Graham Bell almost a century ago. He flipped a few switches to see if he could jumpstart the line. No dice.
Huuuuummmmmmmmm.
A service appointment was scheduled for Saturday, which effectively was stabbing one half of the weekend in the heart. The technician would be here anywhere from 8AM to 5PM. I have yet to meet anyone in my life who actually had such an appointment met at 801AM. All of us usually see the person at 459PM.
Complicating matters was the fact that, since my land line was dead as Bin Laden, I would not know when the tech guy was here because our apartment building intercom goes through the phone line. As a result, I was very, very explicit.
"When he gets here, he needs to call my cell phone. And here is the number..."
I could have been an orderly in a mental hospital trying to get a patient to take his medication.
Naturally, trapped in my apartment all day Saturday, I heard nothing. Or saw nobody that had driven up in a white van with the word "Verizon" emblazoned on the side. I called the repair line again and, after a wait of twenty minutes with the worst hold music ever invented, I finally spoke to a live body. The guy was super helpful and called up the notes on my account.
"It says here they were there at 1230PM and there was nobody home. Couldn't gain access."
D'oh.
Now, this guy on the other end of the line was quite apologetic. He said there was no reason why this should have happened. He saw the cell phone number listed on the instructions. He pledged to get this fixed and would call me back with a resolution.
Five minutes later, he did. On my cell phone number. So, apparently, that number did work.
Verizon was eternally sorry and they would rectify this on Sunday morning. Between the hours of 8AM and 12Noon. I guessed that would translate to 1159AM. Once again, I provided the instructions.
"When he gets here, he needs to call my cell phone. And here is the number..."
No worries, I was advised. This guy was on top of his job. Five minutes later, I got a text on my cell phone confirming the Sunday morning visit. Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail confirming the Sunday morning visit. I figured I was good and only four hours of my Sunday would be on a slab at the coroner's office.
I woke up at 759AM and would have been happy to offer the Verizon repair guy a jelly donut.
In reality, I would be serving him dinner, not breakfast.
You get where this is going?
When nobody wearing anything resembling a tool belt had not shown up by 11AM, I called Verizon again. I had spent the first three hours of my Sunday morning shuttling between my terrace and the phone. Of course, after a ten minute session with the phone company's now completely annoying hold music, I got connected to another fairly nice guy. I wanted to make sure that my cell phone number would be called when the tech schmuck got there.
"It's there. And let me call the dispatcher to see where the repair technician is right now. Hold on."
He put me on hold. And left me there for twenty minutes. Perhaps the dispatcher was having a leisurely brunch at IHOP. Somewhere in between his third and fourth waffle, I was disconnected.
Grrrrr.....
Reluctantly, I called Verizon back. There would be another extended session with their automation. Now the recorded message had switched from telling me that I would be expecting a technician by 12 noon to "you were scheduled to see a technician by 12 noon but delays can happen." This time, I waited twenty-five minutes for a live voice. I hung up.
Miraculously, my land line suddenly rang. I picked up to hear the same hum but also a voice in the distance.
"Yeah, this is Verizon. We can't find your apartment building. Our GPS has us in Tuckahoe."
Several towns across from where I live.
I couldn't fathom this confusion. I have owned this apartment for almost twenty years. I have had all sorts of deliveries made. From cable guys to furniture movers to Chinese teenagers schlepping my Kung Pao Beef. Nobody ever had a problem finding my building. If you put my address into Google Maps, it comes up quite clearly. The photo attached even allows people to see an old beach chair I stowed on my terrace. My residence is completely visible from outer space.
Verizon couldn't find it.
Meanwhile, amid the snap, crackle, and pop of my Rice Krispies land line, I shouted to the guy and asked him why he wasn't calling my cell phone number that should be plainly listed on the work order.
"There's nothing listed here."
GRRRRRR.......
Then, the call was disconnected. It was incredibly ironic that I was having this much difficulty communicating with a communications specialist.
I called Verizon again. This time, the wait was only fifteen minutes and I suddenly was missing all the quality time I had been getting from the automated operator who could tell me all about FIOS and really fast internet communication but not explain to me where the hell my technician had been for the last day and a half. I finally got a semi-warm body and this time, a gal. After I told my sad story one more time and went ahead of "Cats" for the number of performances in one weekend, she helpfully offered to call the dispatcher.
PLEASE, NO!!!!
She took my cell phone number...again and promised to call me back in five minutes. Inexplicably, she did. A cure for all cancers is now likely forthcoming.
"Somebody will be there by 2PM and, yes, he will call the cell phone number on the work order."
My Sunday afternoon was now on life support and I would take no chances tripping over the plug. I parked myself in the damp cold of my terrace for the next hour.
At 157PM, I spotted land. Well, in my case, a Verizon repair truck.
He drove into my complex and immediately turned around to leave.
WHAT????
I started screaming from my balcony. Quiet naps on a damp Sunday afternoon were interrupted all over my building. I looked around for a rock to throw at his windshield. Failing that, I ran out of my unit and down the stairs as fast as my meniscus-less knees would allow me. As it turns out, he was simply going to park in a visitor's space on the side of the complex. I met the guy downstairs and welcomed him as if he had just returned from a tour of duty in Libya. Once I stopped hugging him, I asked him calmly if my cell phone number was on his work order.
You know the answer, don't you?
Of course, this was not a simple fix. He spent five minutes in my apartment and another eighty-five minutes in some phone room in the bowels of my apartment building. Those of you who think I got to do a lot of holiday pre-reveling with East Coast friends will be disappointed. I barely left the grounds on Sunday either. I might as well have been wearing a court-sanctioned tracking device around my ankles.
Close to 4PM, the Verizon tech guy came back and announced that he had to switch out some wires but all was working. It was a big anti-climax and a huge letdown. I had secretly hoped that the weekend drama would have been caused by a bigger problem.
I picked up the land line and dialed. Just because I could. I noticed that I had voice mail.
All four messages came from the idiot ringing my intercom on Saturday, trying to gain access to the building.
I looked at two empty soda cans on my kitchen counter. Instead of putting them in the recycling bin, I simply opened up my kitchen drawer and looked for some string to connect them.
Anybody else got a better idea?
Dinner last night: Cold cuts and salad.
1 comment:
Try dealing with AT&T's Indian techs with the fake American names. Waiting For Godot is quicker.
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