It's Policy

I don't mean to complain, but I would be enormously grateful for just one day when it wasn't necessary to declare war just to get something simple done and done right.

My trusty old Nikon lens begins to grind and shimmy on it's mount and I dutifully pack it up and send it for repair. A few weeks later, it's returned but being at work, I miss the Ups delivery truck. Fortunately, I live within a few minutes of the distribution center so I call to tell them not to bother with a second delivery attempt, I'll come by and pick it up once the trucks have had time to get back.

“No,” the Ups rep tells me shortly, “You can't do that.”

“No?” I say innocently and having no clue I'm about to unleash the demons of customer service,

“Why not?”

“The shipper has frozen the delivery options,” I'm told with a bored tolerance that's quite close to indifference, “It can only be delivered.”

“Okay,” I say mildly, “Then let me give you a different delivery address.”

“No,” the agent repeats, “We can only deliver it to the address you gave originally.”

“How,” I say tightly, “Do I get the delivery options unfrozen?”

It's another 20 futile minutes to get Nikon on the telephone, explain the situation, and have them tell me, in a tone of voice eeriely like the bored tolerance of the Ups agent, that no, they can't call and release the package. It's policy, they tell me flatly, once the order has been placed, there's nothing they can do. I demand to speak to a manager, not because I expect a different outcome but because somebody needs to be told how imbecilic this so-called “policy” is.

When the smoke clears and I decide I've had enough of this nonsense, I decide to do what I should have done in the first place and drive to the Ups distribution center to lay my case in front of the local people. I'm immediately apologized to and the package is traced within a matter of seconds - it's still on the truck and the truck is still out - but it's due back that evening and I'm welcome to come back after eight or first thing in the morning. With a brief but artful tap of the keyboard, the agent arranges for the pickup.

“Whatever did you call our 800 number for,” she scolds me gently, “They wouldn't know their collective ass from a hole in the ground.”

“How is it,” I can't resist asking, “that you still have a job when you can clearly think?”

Sometime in the night, the beginnings of a not very nice idea take root in my mind. I have an overwhelming urge to cause some mischief at Nikon and when I pick up the lens the following morning and sign for it, I take pains to use a name that's not my own and make sure my signature is indecipherable. I think I might just call their illustrious customer service department in a few days and ask them what they've done with my lens, maybe make a federal case out of wanting a refund. They'd catch on in time but maybe it might upset their policy applecart just a smidge.

The idea appeals to me. Betcha my mischief can out run your policy.