If Only it Weren’t for Those Pesky Customers
This is a long – though not tall – tale. Grab a coffee.
I need some photocopying done. Simple enough task, there are plenty of copyshops around. I could have my pick. So, I simply stop at the first one I come across.
08.55
It is situated a little off the beaten path, but no matter, it is on my path. Tiny little place, no more than 8ft square, the door is open, it is a little before normal opening hours. So, I call out to the guy sitting with his back to the counter chatting to an unseen murmuring colleague – “Hello?”. No acknowledgement. The irritation is already beginning to manifest itself in a tight chest. I was in a hurry to meet someone and wanted to get in and out quickly, bearing in mind there are no other customers. I think – hmm, my business is not very important here. Either that, or, more likely, I’ve dared to walk into the (open) door, before the 9am watershed. [Yes, I do understand that some places are not allowed to trade or use the tills 'til 9am.]
So, a little louder, but not wanting to shout (there is no need since the guy is about 3 feet from the counter, in a doorway), I call ”Excuse me!” in what I hope is a friendly, expectant tone. The guy moves. Turns around in his seat, takes me in and eventually gets up. His jeans are almost falling off. Now, I know that’s cool these days, but heck, I feel like I’ve disturbed him from his slouching posture while watching MTV since 11.30pm the night before. ”Yes?”, I feel chastised.
“You’re open, yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Great! I need this bundle photocopied.”
He looks like I’ve just asked him to rewrite my thesis by 10am and swiftly disappears beyond the doorway without answering me. I wait. Perhaps he’d forgotten to floss, pull up his jeans and was away to re-present himself?
Silent sigh, chest tightening (me).
He reappears frighteningly silent. “You want it done now?”, incredulously.
“Yes please. 14 copies. That OK?” I almost laugh, but don’t. I’m afraid he might cry. There are no other customers, there is no sound nor sign of activity at all.
Still looking slightly overcome by my request, eyeing my bundle of paper suspiciously. “Uh, I’ll just get the manager.” OK, I’m not asking for a life-size photocopy of the Giant’s Causeway, just my little bundle. What’s going on? He buzzes the manager, who appears to be upstairs. The forty-something manager appears sweating silently under the damp comb-over, dischevelled in the doorway in a yellowing (or is it patches of brown?) old shirt. Looks at me as if I (oh, no! What’s that awful smell, I shudder and wrinkle my nose, simultaneously taking a step back, without meaning to) have asked him at the wrong time. He pauses like what seems a very long time, as I look from shop assistant to ‘manager’ to see if anyone will throw me a lifeline.
“Right, turn on that machine. Have you turned it on? OK, luv, so what do you need done?”, smiling through yellowed teeth, feigning interest. [I'm not luv. I'm a grown woman and stopped being talking down to about fifteen years ago when I entered the adult world. I seethe.]
I take it in. The office, with random bits of paper and hole punch bits scattered over sticky, old lino, the mish-mash of new counter with old tables behind, and handwritten blue biro notices on walls, all the while avoiding the glazed stare of the manager, with his ill-fitting ‘suit’ and fetidly solid smell. I fear to follow my thoughts as they lead me to wonder how he lived to conjure such a physically assaulting stench.
I turn to say, “Oh, just this bundle please. Photocopied all together.”
“Pages numbered?”
“Yep.”
“Hmmm, so if we get them muddled, then it’s OK.” The shop assistant takes the bundle from me hesitantly.
“Ah, I just need them photocopied, not sorted or anything.”
“Right well, they’re numbered anyhow. [Indistinguishable name], have you got that thing going yet?”
“It’s ready now.” I leave the conversation, taking up pot-plant status.
“Right, OK. How many copied? Oh fourteen.” I smile, full of grace, clock ticking.
Reassuring photocopier sounds ensue, from just beyond the doorway. I relax a little, text my friend to say I’ll be there in ten, no, correct it to twenty. The manager starts to ring around to find someone to laminate something for him. Mutters to himself that no-one works on Saturday morning anymore. Walks past me several times back and forth on the customer side of the counter (there isn’t room), not sure why. Looks confused.
“OK, that’s done then.” The shop assistant seems to take over.
“Right put them in a box for the lady. Would you like a box?”, the manager directs. I view the proferred box quickly (a reused paper ream box).
“No, just dump them into my wee folder,” indicating the almost flurorescent blue folder I’d set on the counter for the purpose.
“Sure you don’t want a box?”
“No, they’re grand in the folder thanks.” (I’d had to run to a local shop to get change, as they didn’t take cards and had a bag of shopping and a large handbag to co-ordinate already.)
“OK, just put them in the lid then.” Silent shop assistant obeys the manager.
“Em, now.. OK, can you look after her now?”, seeming to delegate the payment stage to the shop assistant, while he continues to mutter on the phone, “OK, luv, now?”. No-one seems to be on the other end.
I’m losing the will to live. The smell is almost knocking me out in the tiny shop.
The shop assistant starts punching slowly into a calculator, making notes on a seriously crumpled compliment slip. I guess it might be around 20, so I rummage for cash, taking my time, as I know he will be. My life shortens perceptibly.
“Uh, that’ll be 17.50 then.”, he looks at me nervously, as if I might begin to barter him down a pound or two. I hand over my prepared 20 quickly, watched by the manager. Panic ensues.
“Right, have you got the key?”
“No, you’d left it….”
“OK.”, manager finds it, hands it to shop assistant. It is to open a strongbox (I kid you not – last time I saw one of those, I was buying 5p Bikers in the tuck-shop).
“Right.”
“There you go.”, shop assistant hands back 2.50. Uncharacteristically, I check the change.
“Lovely, thanks!”, I pick up my larger bundle in the box lid, together with my empty fluorescent folder and take to the hills.
Listen business owners. This story I relate not because it is unusual, but because I am still hurting from the memory. That and the odd manic chuckle as I wonder what it was all about.
I’m thinking of reworking our Customer Experience Management workshop to highlight the following:
- At weekend, wash clothes.
- Before work, shower, and brush teeth.
- Train your staff on:
- using the equipment your business depends on
- speaking to customers
- Install a card machine.
- Remind yourself that your customer pays your wage.
Pesky Customer
