come to me for service

I bought a new car this past May. I am enjoying driving around in a car that isn't 20 years old, not worrying about that new strange noise that I didn't hear yesterday and how much it's going to cost to make that new strange noise stop. 

A week or so ago, I came home from work to find that I had received a Safety Recall Notice from Subaru Corporate Headquarters. This recall includes my five-month old Subaru Crosstrek. Receiving a recall notice is the equivalent of your car being selected for jury duty. First off, it's an inconvenience. A day off from work has to be scheduled. A day sitting in the waiting room at the service area of a car dealership isn't most folks idea of a productive day. Personally, I dread the thought as well as the actual experience. (Same goes for jury duty.)

Following the instructions in the recall notice, I called the dealership at which I purchased my car. Once connected with the service department, I explained about the notice and the fellow on the other end of the phone asked "The wire harness recall, right?"

"Is there another recall?" I thought. What the fuck? What kind of bomb-lemon-reject did Subaru sell me? Instead, I just replied in the affirmative. "Yes," I said, "the wire harness recall." I briefly scanned the recall notice before making the call to schedule a service appointment. It seemed that a manufacturing flaw was detected and a plastic wire harness that sits atop the steering column could melt, thus short-circuiting the car's electrical system. The text explained that an inspection of my car would alleviate the problem, if caught in time. If left unattended, it could involve an all-day repair. None of this, however would incur any cost to me.... except for my time. I scheduled an appointment for a Saturday morning and told the service tech that I would prefer to wait during the inspection. He assured me it would take approximately forty-five minutes. The anxiety that accompanies waiting at a car dealership began.

A few days before my service, my friend Consuelo posted an account of a very positive experience with a Subaru dealer. Consuelo has a Crosstrek a few years older than mine. There was an issue with one of the car's tires. She took it to a Subaru dealer, not the one from which she purchased the car. The mechanic sent a video record, showing the repair. She was treated with respect. The service was efficient. The whole experience reinforced the "family" reputation that made me want to purchase a Subaru in the first place. My nerves were put at ease and I no longer had that sense of trepidation about my upcoming appointment.

Saturday rolled around. I had an earlier appointment for a haircut, but would have plenty of time to make it to the Subaru dealership in time for my recall inspection. I had only been to this dealership three times - once to buy my car. Once to pick up my new car and take possession of it and once more to have a little orientation about the sophisticated on-onboard computer system that controlled everything in the car. I was not familiar with the process of showing up for car service. I pulled into the dealership parking lot and parked in the customer parking lot. I walked in to the building and was greeted by a smiling young lady at the reception desk. "Hi," she beamed, "Welcome to Subaru! How can I help you?" Her smile took up most of her face. This was encouraging. I explained about the recall notice and that I had never been here for service. She stood up from behind the desk and escorted me across the lobby to the service department. This was also encouraging. She pointed to a space near the service counter and told me someone would be with me shortly.

So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. While I waited, I was ignored by every blue-topped, beige-pantsed employee that walked by. And there were a lot of them.

As I waited, I watched one young man behind the service counter tapping away at a keyboard as he conversed with a worried-looking woman. There were two other customers ahead of me, anxious to step up once the worried woman's issue was satisfied. The keyboard-tapping man left his post and returned several times, leaving the worried-looking woman to grow even more concerned. Once, he passed me and mumbled: "M'll bewithyoo mint." with I deciphered to mean "I'll be with you in a minute." He wasn't. My initial feeling of encouragement was waning.

I watched as more and more people entered the service area through a set of automatic doors that separated the service desk from the actual area where cars were queued up for there various services. Each of the folks who came to the service area were greeted by an employee and asked to take a place at the counter. I stood and watched like an outsider. An invisible outsider. More men and women in Subaru-logoed clothing passed me, hurrying off to tend to a customer that wasn't me.

Finally, I left my assigned post and went to my car. I pulled it around to the service entrance, following posted instruction to "PULL FORWARD SLOWLY. DOOR WILL OPEN AUTOMATICALLY." Sure enough, the door rose and I navigated my car into the building, stopping behind a green Forrester with a decal from a Golden Retriever Club adhered to the rear window. The car's owner exited the driver's door. She opened the backdoor to release a large, rambunctious Golden Retriever from the confines of the backseat. The woman — of slight build and stature — looked as though she could be overpowered by this hulking canine at any moment. She lazily attached a flimsy leash to its collar and the dog paced quickly in circles around her. She followed a serviceman into the showroom.

And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Mohommed, Jugdish, Sidney and Clayton

Eventually, a young man (a different young man) with an iPad approached my car. "Are you here for an oil change?" he asked. I explained the reason for my visit. He directed me to leave my key fob in the car and take my place by the service desk where someone would be with me shortly. I walked back inside and stood where I had stood before - in my spot of being ignored. I was instantly reminded of a scene from National Lampoon's Animal House when smarmy Doug Neidermeyer is trying to ditch prospective pledges Larry Kroger and Kent Dorfman at a Fraternity Rush Party. I felt like Larry and Kent. I was slowly losing my patience and all signs of the "family feeling" reputation at Subaru was slipping away.

After a few more minutes, a man in a button-down Subaru dress shirt stopped and asked if I was being helped. He had passed me several times earlier and I supposed he grew concerned when he saw I had not changed position in nearly twenty minutes. Again, I explained about the recall and he led me to a spot at the service desk at the very end of the counter. He introduced himself as "John" and in an effort to redeem the good name of Subaru, speedily checked me in. He led me to the waiting area, pointing out an array of complimentary refreshments on the way. He aske me to have a seat, assuring me that the inspection should have me out of here by noon. A few minutes after I found a seat by the front window, my phone vibrated with a text message from John. He told me to contact him if he could be of further assistance while I waited.

No charge

True to his word, John returned to the waiting area and announced my name. He led me back to his computer terminal, saying that the inspection was complete, the repair was made and there, of course, would be no charge. He reminded me that a six-month oil change was approaching in November. No appointment was necessary and it was complementary, He led me out to my car, thanked me again for my patience and for choosing Subaru. He waved as I pulled out of the service area.

Although, they did wash my car, I'm not looking forward to that oil change.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it doesn't matter what you had for lunch

One of my responsibilities at work is to order printing. In addition to design, layout and production, I arrange for collateral materials — brochures, informational "one-sheets," various types of signage — to be printed. (For years, these items were known by their actual names. In the corporate world, keeping with the trend of referring to common things by a new and confusing buzzword, they are now collectively called "deliverables.")

Over the course of my thirty-plus years in the marketing/advertising/publishing field, the amount of actual printing has dropped considerably. Chalk it up to the internet and, more recently, portable devices like the iPad and Kindle. You can also lump in the overall short attention span of the average person (a direct result of the aforementioned wireless culprits). But, every once in a while, some things still require a physical piece of paper with words and colors and a logo, if not simply to appease a bunch of old guys who haven't quite warmed up to progress.

Because most people are either not familiar with, oblivious to or not interested in the actual time frame or the effort that goes in to the printing process, I am lucky to have a full-service quick-print shop right on the premises at work. So, when another whim-driven printing project arises with an impossible turn-around time, I can send a PDF of the job via email and in a short time, I will miraculously have a quantity of professionally-printed pieces, ready to impress.

There have been three different managers of the in-house printing facility in the nearly eight years I've been with my current employer. The first guy — Chris — was great. He was well-versed in all printing terminology and was able to provide quality service and product. He was replaced by Dave. Dave was an idiot. He was forgetful and unresponsive. Dave was soon relived of duty and a new guy named Chris came aboard. New Chris is capable, knowledgeable, accommodating and friendly. Obviously, they should stick to hiring guys named "Chris."

A month or so ago, New Chris delivered a stack of freshly-printed newsletters to my office. I thanked him for his usual prompt service. He offered a heartfelt "You're welcome," immediately followed by an invitation that caught be off-guard.

"Hey, Josh," he began as he dropped the newsletters on my desk, "You've been giving us a lot of work lately and we'd like to thank you by taking you out for lunch one day this week." 

Wow, I thought, that's really nice. Then I thought about who I would have to have lunch with! In addition to printing services, this outside company also maintains our internal and external mail room. A team of sleepwalking boobs shuffle regularly about the hallways, pushing carts laden with envelopes and packages. At any given time during the day, I swear they have the same cargo and have just been pushing it aimlessly around for hours. When placing print orders, I only feel comfortable dealing with Chris, as the rest of the staff seem to not fully grasp the concept of... well, of anything. If Chris is out, simple explanations become lengthy and repetitious usually ending with: "You should probably wait until Chris is back." And now I face the possibility of eating with these goons. What on earth would I talk to them about? What sort of common topic could fill a lunch hour? Oh, jeez... this was bad.

The week went on and Chris never called me. I was relieved. It was a nice gesture and it looked like I was off the hook.

On Thursday, Chris showed up at my office door again and reiterated his invitation. Shit! This time, he said they would be ordering in. Ugh! Now, I'd have to sit in their office and make benign chit-chat for an hour! Maybe I could say I was really busy and had to rush back to work. All sorts of lame excuses rushed through my head. How could I spend little to no time at a lunch in which I was the guest of honor? This was gonna take some strategy and it wouldn't be easy.

Chris instructed me to visit the website of a local Ruby Tuesday's and select a lunch entree. I hate Ruby Tuesday's. Their menu is not very accommodating to vegetarians. Aside from spaghetti squash and baked potatoes, the pickins are pretty slim. However, I do eat fish (I know, I know, technically I'm not a vegetarian, I'm a pescatarian. Go fuck yourself), so I ordered a grilled salmon salad. And the anxiety started all over again.

All morning, I played the pending lunch date over and over in my head. Could I talk about movies? No, I haven't seen any recent movies, as my tastes tend to lean towards Hollywood classics shot in glorious black & white with most of the cast long deceased. Could I talk about sports? Not really, aside from baseball (which is all but done), I don't follow sports. How about books? Nah, I doubt any of these cart-pushers have read anything more advanced than Hop on Pop. The clock ticked. 11:30. 11:45. Finally, the noon hour struck. Soon, it was quarter-after. Then, 12:30. Had I been forgotten? It was today, wasn't it? My phone wasn't ringing. No "Hey, Josh, lunch is a-waiting up here!"

Suddenly, at two minutes before one, Chris appeared at my door. I stifled a gulp. He smiled and announced, "Here you are!" In his outstretched grip was a large, Styrofoam take-out container. "Enjoy!" he said, as he handed me the container and a sealed package containing plastic utensils and a neatly folded napkin. I thanked him. He returned a nod and headed back down the hallway alone. With a long exhale of relief, I popped open the lid — all ready to enjoy a solo lunch.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com