One of the less obvious and more annoying things about moving is having to get your new digs wired for the 21st century. I've been cable-less for over a week now, and although I've consumed plenty of wine to pass the time, I'm definitely jonesing for a long night in front of the boob tube.
If you live in NYC or any of the surrounding boroughs, you're pretty much forced to endure TimeWarner as your cable/internet provider. Confusing bills, outages, price hikes, and horrific customer service are just a few of the many joys of a year long contract. However, the worst part about the relationship is its termination.
Like a jaded ex-lover, TimeWarner can't just let you walk away - at least not without a fight. The incessant phone calls, pleading, offering specials and empty promises of "this time it will be different." And after all is said and done, the final straw is their irate demand that you "return their stuff."*
*Had I not been informed that the penalty for keeping the equipment is a ridiculous charge of close to $300, I would have happily Carrie Underwood-ed the cable box, Office-Space style, similar to the way I've destroyed the personal items of many ex flames.As one might suspect, they do not make the return process easy.
There are only three Time Warner centers in the greater NYC area. Fortunately one of them happens to be a ten minute walk from my apartment and is open until 8pm on Wednesdays. I convince myself that maybe this won't be so bad after all. I am wrong.
I arrive at the store on 23rd and Park at 6:45. I am greeted, or more accurately scowled at, by the nasty receptionist who asks me why I am there. It should be noted that I am carrying a huge cable box, a modem, and a remote. I am not there for a Big Mac.
The receptionist throws a slip of paper at me and tells me to take a seat to the right (where there are at least 35 other disgruntled TWC customers.) The paper I'm holding has the number 664 on it. They are now serving number 612.
I have officially found an establishment that is worse than the DMV. fml.
After squeezing myself into one of the last available seats between two decent looking guys, I begin waiting. I look down at the man's hands next to me, a move that I've done many times to check for a wedding ring before I begin shamelessly flirting, this time with a completely different objective. I contemplated stealing his ticket and offering him my phone number in exchange... until I looked down further...
This man was wearing Crocs.
I immediately abort flirting mission to furiously text my friends about the tool sitting next to me. I think the only thing less attractive than a man wearing Crocs is a man with a hairy back.
So I continue waiting....
48 minutes later I am called to the desk by a woman whose arms are quite possibly the size of both my thighs. She's too large and sloth-like to even reach over her desk to pick up the equipment. Her computer screen is strategically angled so I have no idea what she's typing into her magical Time Warner database of bullshit. A minute later my equipment was whisked away into a back room and I was being asked to sign some non-descript receipt documenting this transaction. This woman has not even asked for my name. WTF just happened?
I hesitate in signing the paper because I'm uncertain as to how I'm going to get my deposit back for all this stuff. Betty Big Arms informs me that "I'll be mailed a check," which would be awesome if they knew where to mail the check to! Every question I asked seemed to anger this woman further, when all I'm really asking is for her to do her fucking job. It's time like these that I wish people had a better understanding of what it means to be in a customer service position.
I left the Time Warner store in disbelief of how much they suck and went straight to the bar....Nothing a pitcher of margaritas couldn't fix.
No comments:
Post a Comment