Trying to be funny relieves tension

I'm cleaning out my computer, and I found this old essay. I had a weird experience that left me pretty irritated, and I figured I'd feel better if I wrote the whole thing out. Since I'm uninspired tonight, I'll post it instead of anything new. It's about two and a half years old.

Complete Incompetence at Wal-Mart!!!!

Oh, I’m so irritated I just have to rant.

Last night we innocently ventured into Wal-Mart #212 to make use of a shiny new $50 gift card. Little did we know that it is easier to enter a Wal-Mart than it is to escape one. At the area optimistically marked “checkout” we attempted to use said gift card and exit the store, but the Wal-Mart gods would have none of it. Our gift card wouldn’t “go through.” The cashier called authorization and tried again. No success. The cashier called Manager Ruth, who also tried to call authorization. Why do managers think that dialing the same number the cashier dialed and pushing the same buttons will get them a different result? Authorization denied. Authorization denied again. Who is this authorization person and why won’t he let me take home my eggs?

No matter, let’s call him again! Nope. Again. Nope. Manager Ruth called yet again, and this time couldn’t even get Mr.Authorization to come to the phone. Evidently he was as tired of her as I was. My little son began to enter a stage of hunger known to nursing mothers as “go home and feed the baby now or spend the night suffering for it.” I tried to get the card back and just pay in cash, since I had decided that their “authorization” center had about as much authority as the bottle of Lysol I was so desperately attempting to purchase. M.R. told me to wait, studied the smattering of voided receipts littering the counter, and decided the problem with the card was we were paying the balance due in cash. Silly me, paying for something in cash! And I call myself an American. Still, they decided to accept this unprecedented form of payment and try it again.

As my frozen pizza slowly began to disintegrate into a soggy ball, I again handed over my cash. By then about 15-20 minutes had passed and the line behind us had stretched back to the display of Dora the Explorer placemats halfway through the store. Uncomfortable with the baleful stares I was receiving from my fellow consumers, I suggested they void the transaction and help the other customers until they figured out what they were doing. The manager just said “no.” Evidently this had become her Holy Grail and she was determined to keep me standing there until the skies magically opened. I nervously apologized to the persons behind us, who were beginning to look irate.

Since I nothing else to do but watch M.R. maniacally press the same keys over and over, I began to wonder at the patience of these people in line behind us. Why didn’t they go to another register? They were of no help, yet they felt compelled to stand there and wait as long as we were there. Had they appointed themselves our attendants in this bizarre saga? If we had a flat on the way home, would they have pulled over behind us in their cars and impatiently waited while we changed the tire?

At this point a small crowd of Wal-Mart employees had gathered. As each arrived, the entire 20 minutes (and counting) history of our gift card was explained in a fashion reminiscent of the Three Stooges. Who did it? What? Try this. No, no, no! Try this. Well, it should’ve worked. Maybe if we stand on our heads? Slide it three times chanting, “there’s no place like home.” Maybe if we try it in the light of the full moon? Cliff’s Notes on redeeming a freakin’ gift card are available on the book aisle.

Supervisor #4, laughingly referred to as the customer service manager, decided to void everything and try again at the customer service register. Follow me, she said. Numb, sadly forced into blindly following orders with the hope we could actually leave sometime before midnight, we obeyed. Thirty-five minutes had passed. Condensation from our gallon of milk had formed a small puddle that had been conveniently soaked up by our once-pristine pack of printer paper. My child, who by this time was well past his normal feeding time, had set up a piercing wail which I am certain could be heard throughout the entire store. They should have recorded it and used it as their “customer is being held hostage by incompetent employees” alarm.

Our move to the customer service desk did not, shockingly, produce the magical results obviously hoped for by M.R. and her entourage. I pointed out that they were trying the exact same thing they’d been doing for 45 minutes now, except this was a different register. Isn’t that a loose definition of insanity? When you get a burnt-out light bulb, do you unplug the lamp and move it to another outlet? Evidently Wal-Mart does.

My baby had by this time given up on any chance of milk and had passed out in his infant carrier. I marveled at his intelligence, proud that a child so young had already accepted and learned to deal with one of the basic rules of customer service in certain establishments. That is, there isn’t any, and the easiest escape is to give up and go home.

I decided that I should follow his fine example, and I insisted they return the damned card and allow me to pay with an alternative method. Fine, they said, and directed me back to the registers. (They even made me stand in line again!!) Before I left, I confronted M.R. and told her I wanted a different card. I’d lost my faith in that one, and I was also concerned it may have been “used” one of the 37 times they scanned it. Oh no, she said, you have to bring that one back. Don’t worry, she said, I’m sure it will work fine the next time you come in. No, she said, I’m promise the money is still there.

Why wouldn’t I believe her? She’d been so efficient with everything else...

We escaped with our sad load of groceries without further incidence. Or so we thought. The next day, I decided to try to call authorization myself and see what I could find out. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that my card had been “spent” the night before on one of the transactions that M.R. promised me were voided. This time, I bypassed customer service and called to speak to the store manager. Naturally, he was unavailable. The manager on duty listened to my complaints and assertions that not a single one of those “helping” the evening before had a clue about 1) how to fix a gift card problem 2) how to treat a customer and 3) how to soak up condensation without using printer paper. Whoops, sorry about that, he said. We’ll give you a new card. It should work.

Great.

I showed up the next day and, with only a little hassle, got another shiny new card. I spent it immediately just to make sure. On my way out, I spotted M.R. at the customer service desk and decided to tell her about the empty card. She spotted me as I approached her, said “Yeah, I already know,” and walked away. Yet another fine example of their award-winning customer service! I was so pleased I wanted to take out an ad. You know, "Give the gift of a nervous breakdown this summer! Give a Wal-Mart card!"

The moral of this story is: Never buy both printer paper and milk when shopping at Wal-Mart.