My online order should have been simple: click, pay, wait, receive.
Instead, it turned into a prolonged exercise in patience, confusion, and what I can only assume was a company-wide commitment to customer-service avoidance.
I should have listened to the little voice that said, “Don’t order that jacket online.”
But I ordered it anyway.
Three days later my purchase had spoken to a robot named Isabel, an offshore agent named Reuben, travelled from Pittsburgh to Charlotte, North Carolina, and still had no idea where my condo door was.
I had decided to break the online ice while in Florida by ordering a jacket. I immediately received confirmation noting the jacket would arrive in three business days. Looked good to me. Too good.
However, I immediately noticed my address was missing my condo unit number.
No problem. Let’s reopen the order and add it.
Unfortunately, the website had no option reading, “Click here if you botched up your address.”
I clicked on “About,” which raved about the company’s services, noting they would deliver their products right to my door. Bottom line: they didn’t know where my door was.
I considered placing a second order, hoping there would be room for a comment like, “Hello, remember me? Please also send that jacket I just ordered to the same place.” Not an option.
Then I noticed a “Contact Us” tab.
I telephoned and hit a robot called Isabel. Isabel offered numerous options, including billing, promotions and more sales information. I told Isabel, “Address error.”
I think she responded, “Your dress does not fit?”
Eventually I got through to someone live, Reuben. I asked where he was and he replied, “Offshore.”
That sounded reassuring. I imagined some guy floating around in a raft off the coast of the Cayman Islands, trying to figure out a way to get rescued while taking customer service calls.
Reuben said he could add the unit number but there was no guarantee it would be corrected before the package shipped within three business days.
He then asked how else he could help me. I was tempted to ask if I could help him by maybe alerting the Cayman Islands Coast Guard.
Before disconnecting, I received a survey prompt with one broad question: “Was your problem resolved?”
I shouted back, “No. And go rescue Reuben.”
Three days later I received an email notifying me that the item had just left Pittsburgh and would be arriving at a UPS office in Charlotte, North Carolina later that day.
As I was in Naples, Florida, I suppose there was some logic in the jacket first making a pilgrimage to Charlotte.
The email displayed my address, but still without the unit number. Reuben was right about there being no guarantee about that door.
The next day I received another email saying the package had arrived at a U.S. Postal Service depot in Naples.
I called the post office to see if I could pick it up. Unfortunately I could not get through. The recorded message said, “Due to the high volume of calls, expected waiting time is between 88 and 94 minutes.”
In all fairness the voice did make a useful suggestion: I could visit them online.
Silly of me to ignore this sage advice.
I then got a brilliant idea. I decided to attend the post office. This added a new dimension to going postal.
After all, my jacket should be there, after a strenuous voyage from Pittsburgh via Charlotte.
Ten minutes after arriving, I was successful. I figured out which line to stand in.
Then it happened.
While standing in the queue, I noticed a gentleman walking by who looked like my vintage: grayish beard, glasses and hearing aids. His name tag read “John.”
Unlike a millennial Cal, Jared or Zach, a John speaks to me.
I jumped in front of him pleading, “Online purchase hell.”
He smiled and kindly said, “Of course sir, come with me.”
John took some information and told me the package was indeed there. But he could not give it to me because the system required delivery by mailman.
However, he took my unit number and said the area mailman, Bob, would deliver it the next day between 11:20 and 11:30.
A Bob also speaks to me.
John was a savior. He added, “Guaranteed.”
That’s the stuff boomers are all about.
The next morning around 11:30 a.m., Bob delivered my package right to my door.
I thought about the online ordeal, entailing a maze of frustrating bureaucracy. Fortunately, it ended with a gratifying interaction with an old-school gentleman going benevolent postal.
I don’t know whatever happened to Reuben.