I don’t often feel like flinging my phone into the woods behind our house, but the urge does hit me on those rare and awful occasions when I’m forced to call a toll-free “helpdesk” number.
It happened recently when my mother asked me to help her download some books for her e-reader .
Easy-peasy, right? Shoulda been. Coulda been. Wasn’t.
In an effort to foil identity thieves, my mom uses different passwords on different websites. That’s fine, as long as one can remember all those passwords. But on this day, that wasn’t happening. There was nothing left to do but to call the online bookstore helpdesk.
“Bob” from Mumbai fielded my call, and he and I both grew increasingly exasperated as he tried to prod me through the crazily convoluted steps required to discover and change the email address and password on my mother’s account.
I’m about to burst a neck artery recalling it all now.
Bob’s confusing instructions and my responses felt like a very unfunny version of Abbott and Costello’s famous “Who’s on First?” comedy routine. Around and around we went.
At one point during the long, long interchange, my computer-savvy husband strolled through the room. I put my hand over the phone and desperately pleaded, “Please TALK to this guy! I am losing my mind.” Joe smiled and kept right on walking. The rat.
My conversation with Bob was nearly the most frustrating helpdesk experience I’ve ever endured, surpassed in vexation only by a conversation I had a few years ago when I called about a satellite TV problem.
“My name is Lisa and we want you to enjoy your (company name) experience,” the lady began.
“Yes, thank you. We want to enjoy it, too, but we’re not,” I replied as pleasantly as possible.
This wasn’t my first call to report our satellite woes. I’d tried several times before and had been guided through the same long rigmarole each time. But it never worked. Not the first time; not the sixth time.
I was braced for the same spiel and Lisa from Fargo didn’t disappoint.
At one point, as we waited in silence for my satellite receiver to do something, I decided to make small talk.
“So, where are you?” I asked.
“North Dakota,” Lisa said, sounding somewhat surprised by my question.
“Do you like living there?” I asked. (I mean, who could, right?)
“Yes, I do,” Lisa replied, confirming my suspicion that I might be dealing with an alien life form.
We’d barely started down Small Talk Boulevard when Lisa suddenly snapped back into robo-mode and quickly returned to her script.
The satellite problem still wasn’t fixed and it became apparent Lisa didn’t know what to try next.
“Well, we do want you to enjoy your (company name) experience,” Lisa recited again.
“But I can’t because my (company name) equipment still isn’t working,” I said.
“We’re sorry. We want you to enjoy your (company name) experience.”
I needed to get off this weird merry-go-round so I politely said, “Thanks anyway,” and hung up.
Weeks later, a local repair guy climbed up on our roof and quickly discovered our satellite dish was full of water, like a dadgummed bird bath.
Lisa from Fargo apparently didn’t have that little problem in her script.
HELPdesks. Could anything be so inaptly named?
Good help is just plain hard to find in this world.
Thankfully, we can look beyond this world for help, which is why we’re instructed in the Bible to pray about everything (1 Thessalonians 5:17). Every. Thing.
Far too often I’m reminded the hard way that God shouldn’t be the one I call when all else fails. If He were always my first call, I might not have to make so many others.