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| 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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