YOUR CALL IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME
YOUR CALL IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME
Early in a budding romance, I called my intended to offer reassurance and encouragement at just the right moment. Since every moment in the budding stage is the right moment, I could hardly go wrong, and I didn’t. It was nervy of me though. Her boyfriend, slow to exit, might have answered and that would be awkward. He did, as it happened, and it was, but he was quite gracious. He called her to the phone and removed himself. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you there,” I said. “No,” she replied, “your call is very important to me.” Such a moving acknowledgment, I remember it clearly and savor it although, amidst the onslaught of organizations who cavalierly offer the same assurance it’s becoming more and more difficult to remember how precious those words once sounded.
Today the irs* told me the same thing fifty-three times in ninety-two minutes. Fifty-three times I was also reminded that all of their agents were busy assisting other taxpayers and that my conversation, in the unlikely event one ever took place, might be recorded to ensure quality control and for training purposes. By the time an hour had elapsed I was very eager indeed to provide them with a recording by which they might assess quality control and with which they might advance training. I was further admonished, fifty-three times, to remember that my call would be answered in the order in which it was received, and that I was not to hang up because such a rash action would only result in my being bounced back to the end of the line where my mood was not likely to improve. And fifty-three times too I heard the first 81 seconds of Pachelbel’s Canon played on a moog synthesizer. During minutes eighty-one through eighty-eight I visited the bathroom and, taking the cordless phone with me, hoped against hope that my chance would come during that interlude, when opportunities to expand on my frustration were so bountiful. It didn’t but during the ninety third minute a voice interrupted the fifty fourth rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon and said “You have reached the internal revenue service conflict resolution center. Our regular mechanical recording and voice messaging system is out of service. Please excuse the inconvenience and listen carefully because our menu has changed. For English press 1.”
I was about to press #1 when the voice coughed, and I realized that the aforementioned failed system had been replaced by a human. “Excuse me,” I asked, “are you a real person?” to which she replied, “For English press #1.”
I pressed #1. “You have chosen English. If this is correct press #1.”
“Inasmuch as you are a real person, I wonder if we might forego this menu mimicking,” I asked carefully and gently.
“If this is correct, press #1,” she repeated. I pressed #1 and she continued. “You have reached the irs conflict resolution center. Our regular business hours are Monday through Friday, 8 to 5 and Saturday 8 to noon.”
At the moment in question, it was Wednesday at 1:30 PM and accordingly I interrupted, to politely but less carefully suggest that this menu recital, and in particular the reporting of office hours, was a waste of time, compounding the colossal waste of ninety three minutes during which I had waited for this coveted opportunity. I took her silence as a willingness to suspend her mechanical recitation and to listen and I forged on. “All I want to do is inform the irs that my federal ID #..........” With complete indifference she continued to resist bonding with me, issued a complacent sigh, and droned on. “Our regular business hours are Monday through Friday, 8 to 5 and Saturday 8 to noon. If you are calling to request forms hang up and dial 1800555FORM. If you are calling about a refund or anticipated refund press 1#. If you would like to use the irs directory please press #2. If you are calling to locate the irs office nearest you press #3. If you are calling about an offer and acceptance press #4. If you are calling to acknowledge your delinquency tell us exactly where you are and then stay there. One of our friendly representatives, much more responsive than the ones with whom you are now dealing, will be in touch.”
Having discovered in the past that pressing zero will often circumnavigate the recorded menu and alert a warm body I did so and was un-nerved to hear another human voice making the same apologies for the malfunctioning voice messaging and mechanical recording system but similarly programmed to ignore my entreaties and determined, instead, to plod identically on through the menu for over ten minutes which menu, incidentally, offered no opportunity to discuss my particular issue. The last choice offered, at the one hundred and thirteenth minute, that of pressing #9, was to speak with a revenue agent and I did; I pressed #9.
“My name is revenue agent Juanita, badge number 904 23 21. What can I do to provide you with excellent service today?” I foolishly took that to be a serious inquiry and, having spent the previous ninety-one minutes contemplating precisely the same question, I set about responding. Instead of doing any of the things I suggested, she offered, from among the pseudonyms and adjectives I’d employed to describe revenue agents and their mission and the irs in general, several which she found troubling and informed me that I was going to be transferred to her supervisor. Her supervisor, a man identifying himself as revenue agent supervisor William, badge number 891 44 59, asked why I was calling.
“Because irs commissioner Rossetti, who is vacationing here, has fallen and is unconscious. Would you like him resuscitated?” I asked.
This is going to be a difficult literary transition to make but I’ll try. Those who profess to offer service, like those associated with the internal revenue service, could take a cue from my mechanic. I staggered to within a quarter mile of his service station with my VW bus before it quit altogether. He opened the back hatch, lifted the engine cover, propped it up with his head, crawled up to straddle the engine and with his feet and backside protruding from the back of the bus, sprayed ether into the carburetor and directed me to start the vehicle. Then, while continuing to spray, he directed me to drive on to his garage. When the van lurched forward the hatch slammed down on the back of his legs which, in turn, triggered the collapse of the engine cover onto his head. “Never mind, keep going,” was his muffled command and he continued spraying ether into the tiny, confined space that contained my engine and his head for the few moments it took us to reach his station. The door was open at an empty bay, so I drove it. There was no way for him to know, due to his position and related sensory deprivation, we’d reached our destination, so I slowed down using the clutch, shut off the engine when we were fully into the bay, and hurried back to see how he was doing.
“What else can I do today to provide you with excellent service?” he inquired while dismounting.
* the failure to capitalize here and in certain other places is not a mistake.