Customer Disservice

When people ask how I’m adjusting to small-town life after four years in Toronto, my answers are generally positive.  “Small-town Midwesterners are lovely people.”  “My students are so sweet and awesome.”  Etc.  And the thing is, I actually mean it.   I have received some of the best customer service of my life since I moved here.  That is, until I came home tonight, too exhausted to even make a grilled cheese for dinner.  Em suggested I just order pizza, and even though it didn’t sound good, it sounded easy, so I did.

 

Half an hour later, my phone rings.

“Hi, this is Caitlyn (or Kaitlynn, or Katelinn, or Kaetelynne or whatever new spelling of that name is en vogue today) from Mancino’s.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t really want to get out and walk around in the cold looking for your apartment, so could you tell me exactly where it is?  I mean, is it like, on the first floor…or second floor…or what?”

Keep in mind, my apartment complex consists of only about four buildings, arranged in a straight line.  It has exterior markings that look like this:

It really requires extraordinary powers of deduction to find apt. 201C in said complex.  But whatever, I give Cate…Koete…oh whateverthefuckhernameis directions.  I do this thinking she’s calling from her cell in the parking lot, so go to open the door for her to make it even easier to give me my damn food.  Nope, no delivery vehicle yet – she has called from the pizza place.  This is also about the time that I discover that whoever built this complex decided that there should be a height requirement for rented housing, as my peephole is located a good three inches ABOVE THE TOP OF MY HEAD. 

I NEED A STEPSTOOL TO SEE WHO IS KNOCKING AT MY DOOR.

My apartment is so secure I won’t even know what my potential rapists look like.  Note to self: does Lowe’s carry very small periscopes for emergencies?

Katie eventually arrives and hands over my pie with a “sorry about that…”

I bring it inside and open it to find this waiting for me:

Now, I probably do not need to remind you, dear reader, that I do come from Midwestern stock.  And have also lived in Canada for a while, where I underwent an extensive training program in Non-Offense.  I am NOT a complainer.  But seriously, this thing is inedible.  This is a cheesy Elephant Man in a cardboard box.  I ordered a pizza with extra cheese, not half a pizza with quadruple cheese and the other half bread and sauce.

<sigh>

I’m going to have to make a phone call now, aren’t I?  And I do so hate doing that.

“Hi, Mancino’s.”

<insert politely-worded complaint about mangled pizza here>

“Um…hang on.”

(heard in background after a loooooong pause):

“Phone for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Complaint.”

“Hello?”

<insert ever-so-slightly less polite complaint about mangled pizza here>

“Okay, I’ll re-make it and send it over to you.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, but I’m going to need you to give back the pizza you already got when it comes.”

Um…excuse me?  You fuck up my pie, and now you’re accusing me of filing a false pizza disaster claim?  When did FEMA get hold of the Italian-American delivery industry?

Whatever.  I’m not kidding when I said the original was inedible.

What he really should have said was, “I’m sorry.  It’s Wednesday, and students get a 50% discount tonight, and nobody complains when they’re 18 and dinner is half price, and the dinner rush is over, so the A-team isn’t on duty.  We’re the…<counts on fingers and removes shoes and socks> J-team.  We carry pizzas vertically and don’t get out of our cars to find your apartment if it’s cold outside.  And the J-team doesn’t get fed on-duty and thinks the elephant man will go over really well when we bring him home to our stoned roommates (duuude…pizza on a spoon!  sweeeeeeeeeeeet…).  And have I mentioned I’m an 18-year-old pre-pharm major that will someday a) make more money than you and b) be fucking up your prescription medications to this very same standard?”

New pizza arrived shortly thereafter, and the swap made.  I realized too late that if they can ask for their pizza back, I can and should ask for my tip back. 

And I ate my pristine pizza. 

But it was neither good nor easy.