BAD CUSTOMER SERVICE? MAYBE I’M REALLY INVISIBLE
I have suspected it for some time and now I’m sure of it. I am invisible.
I noticed the phenomenon years ago at restaurants. The server would take our drink order and bring me a beer without any problem. Then the food would come and the server would pop by to ask “How are the first bites tasting ?”
Oh, just fine, of course. (It’s always fine, even when it’s not fine. Complaining in restaurants embarrasses me. I’d feel more comfortable telling the server her dog was hit by a car).
After the first-bite question, I’d often say, “Oh, could I have another beer?” The server would say something like “certainly” or “right away.”
And then no beer would come. This happened too often, at too many different places, to be a coincidence. The only plausible explanation: I was invisible.
It happened again three months ago when I had to fix the kitchen faucet. I learned that you can’t fix a kitchen faucet on your own because the part that makes it not drip isn’t standardized like it used to be when the world made sense. You have to call the company’s 1-800 number and talk to a call centre because that’s an excellent way to fix a tap and drain your will to live at the same time.
The call centre woman took my information and said the new part would arrive within a month or so. Boy, did it ever not. After two months, I called back. It turns out the part I needed doesn’t exist anymore and I could get a whole new faucet for free. But no one told me that, or was ever going to, not even when I turned into a dusty skeleton clutching our old leaking faucet. Essentially, they forgot about me. And who could blame them, really? I was invisible! Invisible, I tell you! As invisible as a cackling mad Claude Rains in The Invisible Man! Moo-hoo-ha-ha!
I was reminded of the faucet snub when my orthotics hadn’t arrived yet. I was told it would take three weeks. I’m pretty sure that was six weeks ago. I hate to nag as much as I hate to tell restaurants their food is cold and their chicken Oscar is skimpy on the Oscar. But someone had to take the first step, so I called my foot doctor’s office and asked about the erstwhile shoe slats. I could tell by the assistant’s voice that she flat-out forgot to send the order in. It’s as if I was, yes, invisible.
I don’t like being invisible but maybe there are benefits. Can I get special invisible man parking at malls? Claude Rains certainly saw the bright side.
“Suddenly, I realized the power I had,” he cackles. “The power to rule! To make the world grovel at my feet!” (At his feet? I wonder if Claude Rains had sore feet like me. Come on, orthotics, come on.)
Of course, all this is speculation. I might not be invisible. To make sure, I decided to visit a mirror store.
I called to ask what time they closed. They put me on hold. It’s been four hours now.