Sunday, December 18, 2011

#Comcast arrives and leaves: no #Internet in #Santa #Fe


Photo by Bob Benedetti

Michael, the Comcast tech, arrived at the correct day and time, a rarity in Santa Fe.  In less than 15 minutes, he announced that this home never had Internet or cable.
Michael said that a trench would have to be dug so the cable could come from the street to our home.  After stabbing a half a dozen white flags in the ground, he left guaranteeing me that everything would be “okee dokee” in a few days.  I now believe that okee dokee was originally a Native American phrase meaning, “Screw you, you’ll never see me again.”
More than a week went by and there was no call from Comcast or Michael, despite the clear directions on the receipt saying “Call B 4” visiting.  My wife suggested that I contact Comcast probably because she believed that we had been seduced and abandoned (women can be more aware of that than men, who, once they are seduced, might not know they had been abandoned for months or even decades).
When I called Comcast to learn “what’s what,” I was told that they had visited my property and were informed that we didn’t want cable or Internet service.
“WHAT?!”
A calm female voice continued, “Apparently we spoke to the woman of the home and were told that we weren’t needed.”
“Where did you go, because you certainly weren’t here?”
“We went to 6 Estambre Road.”
“But I live at 6 Estambre PLACE.” 
“The order that I have in front of me clearly states that we were to go to Estambre Road.” 
This screw-up is partially the fault of the people who ran short of names for streets in the El Dorado development.  In our immediate area we have Estambre Road, Place and Court. We might be lucky that there isn’t also Estambre Cul de sac, Estambre Alley, Estambre Culvert or Estambre Pothole.   Perhaps everything would have worked out better if they merely called all the streets the Estambre Confusion.
When I heard the woman justify and defend the phone company’s error, I suddenly understood why most companies offer pre-recorded warnings that the call may be recorded for “training” purposes.   I could feel invectives and a plethora of four letter words rising in my gorge (wherever that may be).  I was very close to taking the name of Comcast in vane. 
I said as calmly as I could, “I have in my hand a receipt left by your representative which plainly states that you were to service 6 Estambre PLACE.”
Without raising her voice, she informed me, “I do not have the benefit of that.  All I have is what is in front of me and what I see is 6 Estambre Road.”
“Who is responsible for that error?”  I figured the company might enact some punishment on that person.  Dare I hope that, after driving a spike through the frontal lobes of the error-prone computer form filler, that there might be a transplant of the lobes of a better, smarter typist?
“I am not allowed to reveal that, even if I knew who it was.”  The identity of the person who typed “Road” instead of “Place” is a secret held so tightly that I might learn the name of Guantanamo torturers before that person was revealed.
Then the woman, who probably spent her days fielding complaints of angry Comcast customers, added, “I could set up another appointment.”
“Terrific.  Could that happen sometime before I’m in my grave or will Comcast have difficulty finding even that?”
“Comcast will do everything in its power to satisfy its customers.  However, because of our heavy volume of installations, we couldn’t possibly schedule an appointment with you for at least two weeks.”
She sounded so bland, so assured.  She had the kind of voice that could say with little inflection, “You have been sentenced to water boarding followed by death by firing squad.  Have a nice day.”
At this point, my gorge was a busy place, with choice angry words rising up and needing to be heard.  Instead I said, “Let me talk to your supervisor.”
A long 10 minutes later, another woman with a bland voice that was only slightly perkier than the first got on the line.  Marianne, the supervisor, apologized for the mix up, for the delay, for leaving me (the valued customer) frustrated, for the last five centuries of heartless governance, for droughts, wars, hatred, prejudice, duct tape that re-pastes itself to the roll and elevator music. 
Her apologies were so heart-felt and fulsome that I began apologizing to her for being upset, for the sarcasm that must have tinged my voice and even for the unspoken rage that I felt.
 Oh, no, she apologized to me again, after which I apologized to her and so it went until each of us was somewhat satisfied and exhausted.  
Then Marianne said she was even sorrier because the earliest that a technician could be at my home was Thursday, 10 days from the present moment.  Engulfed in a cloud of mutual apologies and good will, I thanked her for her efforts and accepted the appointment.
Less than an hour later, another woman called us.  Susie B. said that she lived at 6 Estambre ROAD.  Although at times she was laughing, there was an edge to her voice when she informed us that, during the previous three weeks, people had frequently painting orange lines on her driveway and vegetation.  Once when she was on the property and actually confronted the almost-phantom line painters, she learned that they were from Comcast.  Sue B. informed them in no uncertain terms that they are in the wrong place.
   “They told me that they couldn’t be in error because that’s the address written on the forms that they carried.  They had near-mystical confidence that addresses on Comcast forms were never wrong.”     
The woman admitted to becoming slightly paranoid the next day when she saw new orange lines indicated that the trench would go right through a water line to her guest casita.  Her feelings of incipient persecution were heightened when she woke up one morning and discovered a Comcast-contract employee parking a backhoe in her front yard.
“What if they decide to put in the trench at midnight?  My partner and I believe we have to be alert round the clock,” Sue said.  “We seriously considered either camping on our driveway or sleeping in alternate four-hour stretches so one of us would be awake at all times.”
She finally spoke to the foreman apparently in charge of scheduling for the trenching company that was a subcontractor hired by Comcast.  He indicated that any change of address or cancellation of the job would have to come from the person who originally ordered it.  In other words, unless I said stop, the orange-stripe painters and backhoe-ers might continue until a trench was put in the wrong place whether my neighbor wanted it or not.
Then, in another, even odder turn of events, the next day, when my wife Grace and I were visiting local garage sales looking for almost everything that a new home might need (toilet plungers, salt shakers that look like tiny red and yellow peppers, etc.), we saw a scrawled sign indicating that there was a garage sale at “6 Estambre Road.”  We followed the signs to the correct home for the garage sale, and the wrong home for our Comcast trenching.  
Sue and her partner greeted us as if we were all veterans of the same mysterious war.   
Everyone re-told their Comcast tales, agreed to do everything possible to correct the situation and shook hands.  We also bought half a dozen CDs and some wine glasses. 

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