It should have been quick and simple, establishing a telephone account for a new place of residence. As Verizon was my existing provider, I saw no reason to take the business elsewhere. So I navigated Verizon’s website and, having found no option to complete this common transaction there, bounced through a complex telephone menu system until I came to “speak to a representative.” I held to Morris Albert’s “Feelings,” Barbara Streisand’s “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” and Starland Vocal Band’s “Afternoon Delight” until a young man answered. I quickly explained what I needed. He said, “Whoa, got to check the catalog.” The catalog? I thought. The line went dead. The dude had, like, hung up.
I wish now that I had immediately looked beyond Verizon. Why? Because, after that, Verizon became an obstacle—one that I couldn’t see around. I dialed, bounced through the menus again and held to ten minutes of what sounded like rodeo muzak. The next representative told me that I’d have to establish a new account, even thought I was only moving down the road. I didn’t protest.
Weeks rolled by and everything in my new home worked except my landline. I had no choice but to call Verizon and hold through Peter Frampton’s “I’m in You” and Norman Connor’s “You Are my Starship.” Then a service representative answered. I asked why my landline wasn’t working, and she told me that I wasn’t listed under the account they’d given me. I asked what I could do about it. The answer? Establish another account and wait two weeks—which I did. But I had a bone to pick; I’d waited in good faith on Verizon’s negligence. The obstacle had become a problem.
Two weeks went by and still no dial tone. I called Verizon and held through an orchestral rendition of The Ventures’ “Wipeout.” The person who answered wanted to know what my “issue” was. When I told her, she replied that there was no record of my name belonging to the account I’d established—she’d have to transfer me to billing. I held through the theme songs of Gilligan’s Island, Love American Style, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, The Dukes of Hazard, and Hawaii Five-O. After 30 minutes of superannuated television tunes, someone answered. I gave him my number. He said that I wasn’t listed under that number and there was probably something wrong with the line itself—he’d have to transfer me to a technician.
I held through another circle of schlock-rock hell before a guy in a truck—actually driving—answered. I told him my problem. He was puzzled. Why was I calling him? What could he do about it? He was a line repairman. Again, I called Verizon. After Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go,” someone picked up. I related all that had happened. Again the answer was that I’d have to establish a new account. I hung up and looked at the clock. It was almost 12:00 noon and I’d made my first call at 10:30 a.m. The problem was now a battle.
The next day I called the latest number Verizon issued me, just to see if it would ring. It did. A lady answered—a fatigued, annoyed lady. She told me that people were calling for me and she’d been trying to get Verizon to fix the problem. I steadied myself, took a deep breath and called Verizon again. The extended dance mix of Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely,” Vangelis’s “Chariots of Fire” and Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus” lubed my ear. Then someone answered. She asked for my number. I gave it. She asked for my social security number. I gave it. She said that Verizon’s new security policy required another verification of my identity.
“Security policy? The others didn’t ask these questions.”
“I’m sorry if others aren’t following Verizon’s security policy.”
“Okay, then, what do you need?”
She made thinking noises—”Um…eh…let’s see…er…eh…”—then asked the amount of my last bill.
“How am I supposed to remember that? I paid it over two months ago.”
“I’ll think of something else,” she said.
She thought.
Finally, she asked me what my previous address was. I passed Verizon’s security check. Then I stated my problem: “My account is someone else’s.”
“That’s impossible,” she said.
“It’s a fact.”
“How do you know?”
“I called the number and someone else answered—someone with a different name and address, someone who was tired of getting calls for me.”
She thought about that awhile and said, “The record states that it’s your number.”
“The record is wrong.”
“I’ll transfer you to billing.”
Before I could protest, I was listening to Neil Diamond’s “Forever in Blue Jeans,” Heat Wave’s “Always and Forever” and Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young.” The person who answered said that I’d have to establish a new account. I told her that I’d already done that—twice. She told me that it was all I could do. Overcome by frustration and futility, I went through with it.
Two weeks elapsed and I had ceased to believe that there would ever be a dial tone. And the mere thought of calling Verizon brought on waves dismay. But having invested so much time and psychic energy in trying to make it work, I couldn’t accept defeat. So I dialed. I made it through Tony Orlando and Dawn’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree,” The New Vaudeville Band’s “Winchester Cathedral” and Paul McCartney’s “Ebony and Ivory.” To lower my cortisol levels, I had to take deep breaths and imagine myself looking down on the situation from a great height. Then someone answered. She wanted my number. I gave it. She wanted to know how she could help. I told her. There was a pause. She said that she’d have to transfer me to technical support. Barry Manilow crooned “I Write the Songs.”
A technical support representative suggested that I plug my phone into a box outside the house and listen for a dial tone—”So you’ll know whether the problem is inside or outside the house.” I took the phone out to the yard, opened the box and—no jack, just wires. It was an old-style box that Verizon hadn’t replaced since its days as Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone. I took out my cell phone and called Verizon. I felt like a codependent: desperate and willing, yet pissed-off and alienated. I got through Kenny Rogers’ “She Believes in Me.”
The person who answered was sitting in a Kentucky call center, had limited access to information but suggested that a technician come out and check the lines.
“Will it cost anything?” I asked.
“Only if the problem is inside the house.”
“How much?”
“Well, there’s a $45-dollar minimum service charge plus $80 dollars an hour for labor.”
“Forty-five bucks just to show up?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there’s nothing wrong?”
“Yes.” Then she read from a script: “Verizon’s incentive maintenance plan provides unlimited service in your home for just $3.99 a month—”
“You’re trying to sell me repair insurance?”
“I’ll sign you up right now.”
“Wait, I just need someone to come out and check the line. How long would that take?”
“Two weeks from today.”
I said nothing. My integrity, will and self-esteem had caved in. I had the sensation of floating, spinning, grappling with something so high I couldn’t get over it, so low I couldn’t get under it, so wide I couldn’t get around it. It was a gigantic, formless polyp, not a single cell of which was capable of coordinating with another.
“I’m sorry you’re having trouble.”
“I’m sorry you can’t help me. I’m sorry we’re sorry.”
But I wasn’t sorry; I was exasperated to the point of resignation. I felt myself drifting away from the battle. I saw Verizon as an administrative Tower of Babel, layers of labor without a plan, devoid of quality, integrity and efficiency. Like so many boardroom-driven entities (Microsoft, AOL, Google…), it had bloated into an uncoordinated Behemoth. Its collective aim was quantitative, to become more, to launch new features and acquire new market shares. And, because it was a monopoly, I had to buy into this dysfunctional surfeit. Or did I? Was Verizon a monopoly? I asked myself, Can I do without this beast?
The way became clear. The paradigm shifted. Instead of depending on Verizon, I would dump Verizon. I felt instant relief, like Sisyphus dropping his stone. I asked her to close the account and send me the final bill.
“If I were you, I’d wait for a technician,” she said.
“And get charged $45 bucks for nothing? Then have to call Verizon again to find out why my number still isn’t working? Forget it. Close the account. Close everything.”
Surprisingly, it was the swiftest and easiest transaction I’d conducted thus far. She made no attempt to retain me as a Verizon customer. It was done in a matter of seconds. Then I called the only other telephone company in my area, Cavalier, and, without musical interlude, set up a new account in five minutes. My phone was operable in a couple of days.
A Verizonless month flew by. Then the envelope arrived. I hefted it with abhorrence, knowing that the Behemoth had erred on the side of overcharge and, worse, I’d have to call again. True to form, they had charged me account connection fees, service fees, dial tone fees, taxes, and fees for a full set of features for every single account—operative or not—they had set up.
Though I was tempted to pay to avoid the pain, I could not pay for dysfunction. I could only hope that dumping Verizon would continue to be more effective than depending on it. So, for the last time in my life, I called Verizon. I listened to Bob Seger’s “Like a Rock,” Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes’s “Up Where We Belong,” and Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me.” Then someone spoke. Number? I gave it. Name? I gave it. Nature of the problem? Billed for accounts that weren’t operable.
“Can you hold while I consult my supervisor?”
“Sure.”
Amazingly, there was no music. She returned two minutes later, apologized for keeping me on hold, and informed me that my new balance was zero.
“Zero?”
“Yes, zero.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for doing business with Verizon.”
After I hung up, I could hear the word zero echoing into the “sound of silence.” The beast had set me free.
-Jan DiVincenzo
© Copyright 2008, Jan DiVincenzo. All rights reserved.