Get The Ink Out:

Customer service.

Some days that feels like a four-letter word. Other days it’s a magical occurrence that puts a bit of a skip in my step.

I read a lot of business news. I like to see what the new credit card regulations are and the subsequent fallout (thanks for the interest-rate increase, American Express); what companies are doing to drive up profits (anyone remember the tough decision McDonald’s made on whether to charge more for its double cheeseburger?); and how consumers can get the best deals (going-out-of-business sales are pretty popular), but I rarely see anything about being nice to the customer.

Some companies, like Apple, get it. I hear AT&T; sucks, but I love my iPhone because if something goes wrong I can take her (her name is Gertie) in to the Genius Bar for a tune-up. I also love my mechanic (Ghassem’s in Long Beach) because he explains every job he has to do on my car and even shows me the worn and new parts. I especially love the Costa Mesa Omelette Parlor because the staff is really friendly and never freak out when I give my very complicated order (breakfast muffin sandwich, no onion, no tomato, sub fruit but not grapefruit or melon because I won’t eat them). Another feather in their hat is that my mother asks to eat there, something she never does with any other restaurant.

In this economy when people are pinching every penny, consumers don’t want to deal with a bunch of hassles to get a product they need. And if it’s only a product they want, they may decide the rude sales rep is a good enough reason to pass on that item or service not only that time, but each time thereafter.

Keeping a customer base could be something as simple as listening to what they want.

When I bought some DVDs for my sister in January, I requested no bag because I have way too many at home. Unfortunately, the cashier didn’t listen and put everything in a bag anyway. I’m not saying she did it to be cruel, but something like that now puts me, the customer, in an awkward place. Do I pull everything out of the bag and give it back, feeling like I’m being somewhat rude? Or do I take the bag home and add it to the stash of Squee Litter Box Bags even though I already have “elebenty” billion of them?

Or how about treating us fairly? My dad always tells the story of how men would come into his fly fishing shop with a rod or reel that wasn’t working. Dad would start to ask what was wrong with it and the man would inevitably turn to his wife/girlfriend/ sister/female companion of some kind and say, “Hey, honey, what’s wrong with it?” So Dad would talk to the woman because it’s her equipment. Eventually he realized that women liked going to his shop because he addressed them and didn’t act like fishing is a man thing.

Juli Hayden’s letter Saturday (“What happened to customer service?”) makes another excellent point.

“My husband stood there for at least 15 minutes watching this same employee work on a coffee pot,” she wrote. “Apparently the coffee was much more important than helping a customer. “

Juli, I feel your husband’s pain. I once sat at a local tire company for four hours for a simple tire repair. This was not my beloved Ghassem’s, but rather a company that guaranteed free repair for the life of the tire.

I was originally told it would take about an hour to repair. No biggie, I took a nice walk and came back with about 10 minutes to spare. But it wasn’t ready yet. Thus the waiting began. I asked at least every 45 minutes what was going on. I kept hearing, “Oh, only 20 more minutes!” or “Oh, the mechanics are on it right now!” and yet, I spent most of a Saturday freezing in a tiny waiting room trying not to have a conniption.

The four hours didn’t bother me so much as the lack of honest communication with the workers. I lived within walking distance of the shop. I could have gone home and come back, but because I was continually told it would only be another 20, 30, 45 minutes, I didn’t think I had time to get there and back.

The real kicker is that not once did I get an apology. In fact, at the end of the ordeal, as the shop was closing, the worker seemed shocked that it took four hours to repair my tire. How he missed that detail when I asked him at least twice what was going on, is beyond me. His response, “Well at least the repair is free.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sort through my mountain of plastic bags.

JAMIE ROWE is a copy editor for the Daily Pilot. She may be reached at (714) 966-4634 or [email protected]. Squee is eagerly anticipating starring with his girlfriend, Cleveland, and his mom in Auntie Alicia’s Squapra.