Lend me your ears

The phone rings.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Is this the Smith residence?"

Yes. Yes, it is. Because we at the Smith residence always answer our phone like we're running a pizza joint.

*facepalm*

I was told there would be no math

The phone rings.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, I have a coupon for a specialty pizza for $12.99."
"Okay, what would you like?"
"I want to get a pepperoni pizza."
"Um...okay. Your coupon is for a specialty pizza, though."
"Yeah, but all I want is pepperoni."
"Okay. Well, it's cheaper without the coupon."
"No, no, I want to use the coupon."
"...?"
"So just give me pepperoni."
"Um...okay. We have a specialty pizza that's nothing but pepperoni; it's just covered with the stuff. 100 slices of pepperoni."*
"No, that's too much. Just regular pepperoni."
"...All right. That'll be fourteen dollars."
"Thanks."
"....?!"

*Yes, 100 slices. Yes, they count them. Yes, the cooks hate making them.

Who picks up the ball and throws it to What, What throws it to I Don't Know, I Don't Know throws it back to Tomorrow, triple play!

The phone rings.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"

"Yes, what are your wings called?"

*sigh* "Wings."

"Yes, what are they called?"

"Wings."

"Yes, the wings."

"...Wings."

"Yeah. I know you have them, what do you call them?"

"Wings."

"Right. Those. What are they called?"

*facepalm*

At least he has a plan

One Saturday night, another of our drivers left on a delivery. A few minutes after he departed, the phone rang; the caller ID displayed the number for that order, of course.

Mini Boss answered the phone. I saw his face grow puzzled, then amused. Without saying a word, he waved me over. "They've called us by accident," he said. "Must've hit a button on their phone without realizing it."

Sure enough, the two of us listened for quite some time to the background noise of their apartment. We listened to them -- and there were quite a few people, must have been a party -- talk about sports, talk about drinking, talk about completely random topics. We listened to them yell at their kids. We heard our driver show up, we heard him leave, and we heard them complaining about their pizza once he was gone. (Hey -- they got exactly what they ordered. It's not our fault they didn't order what they wanted.)

We listened for, oh, at least twenty minutes. (It was slow.) And toward the end, we heard of the men present dole out this master plan:

"Here's what I want to do: I want to stop gambling. Eat some pizza. Fuck my wife. And go to sleep."

We hung up before we could find out if he followed through.

Let me answer that question with another question: shut up!

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"

"Yeah, I need a pizza delivered."

"Okay, what would you like?"

[Offended] "I...beg your pardon?"

"What would you like? To order?"

*click*

"...?"

The ruler's back [Erm, I guess, I mean, do you, I think, well, um...]

Over the years, I have become steadily less and less patient with people on the phone. At first, I acted as helpful as I could. But now? I'm done with that. If people are too stupid to communicate something as simple as a pizza order, that's their problem.

For instance -- I'm not going to finish sentences for them anymore.

"Do you have buffalo wings?"
"Yes, we do."
"Okay. Um, what -- how do they -- I mean, do you have -- I guess, is there, like -- I mean, I guess -- are the orders -- um -- ?" Silence.

Now. Clearly -- to me, anyway, you might be lost -- this person wants to know something very simple: How many buffalo wings come in an order? Perfectly reasonable. I have that information, and would be happy to share.

But come on, now. You're a big boy. Spit it out.

"I'm sorry?"
"Well -- you know -- um -- is it -- like, how -- erm...."

Sorry, buddy. You're not four years old anymore.

Words fail

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, I have this coupon here that says you have boneless wings now?"
"Yes, we do."
"What's the difference between the boneless wings and your regular wings?"

*facepalm*

Multiple personalities are fun

We have a lot of customers for whom Spanish is a first language. Unfortunately, none of our employees can speak Spanish, so these phone calls are often deeply frustrating.

Once, though, a call got a little weird.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
[badly mangled, heavily accented, barely understandable English] "Do you have anyone who speak Spanish?"
"No, I'm sorry, we don't."
[flawless, clean, accentless English] "Okay, let me get two large pepperoni pizzas."

The hell?

Just say no

Hey, kids: don't do drugs.

Most of the people in our delivery zone, of course, don't heed this advice. Especially on the weekends, we get many, many calls from high people. Some of them can handle it. Some of them....

A Sunday afternoon. A guy we'll refer to as Cheech calls us and orders a pizza, and he's so completely baked one almost gets a contact high just talking to him on the phone. We're a little slammed, so Mini Boss tells the guy it'll take fifty minutes or so to deliver his order. Cheech has no problem with this.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rings. It's Cheech.

"Yo, man," he mumbled, "where my pizza at? It's been, like, two hours."

I calmly explained that it had, in fact, been only twenty minutes. "You sure?" he said. I said I was, and he scoffed. "Whatever, man. Get to work!" And he hung up.

If you've been reading this blog, you know how well Mini Boss responds to directives. He hadn't made the guy's order yet, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

Twenty minutes later, Cheech calls us again. "It's been, uh, like, an hour and a half," he said. "Where my pizza at?" Nice to see that he could time travel.

Again, if you've been reading this blog, you know how the story ends. Mini Boss + stupid customer phone call = belligerent rant and another name on the Do Not Deliver list.

Our lesson: buy a watch. And don't do drugs.

The most annoying customer in the world

(This is my fiftieth post here. Which means I've kept it up about twenty posts longer than I thought I would. Huzzah to me.)

I don't know how it happens, but it happens nevertheless. It happens every time.

The most annoying customer in the world calls every couple of weeks or so. It's not so often that we've memorized his information on the caller ID, but often enough so that we recognize him as soon as he gives his first name.

And somehow, I always end up answering the phone when he calls. Always.

His name is Omar, and he's about fourteen years old. Omar is always the one to call, rather than his parents, because they don't speak English. Which is fine -- except Omar is a goddamn moron.

Omar cannot remember his own address. Omar never knows what anyone wants. Omar doesn't understand the difference between thick and thin crust. Omar has called roughly forty times in the last two years, and he is still baffled by the process every time. And Omar has a bad habit of mumbling and speaking in unintelligible half-sentences, too, guaranteeing that every call will end with you popping a few Aleve and waiting for the swelling to go down.

He called tonight. I try my best to remain patient...but sometimes, I lose it. Like today.

When he gave his name, I inwardly groaned, but kept my air of Customer Service Expert. This lasted exactly one question.

"What's your phone number?"
"832-555-152380."
"..."

Here we go again. Again.

"Um, could you repeat that?"
"832-555-152380."
"Are you sure that's right?"
"Yes."
"Because that can't be right. That's too many digits."
"Um...It...um...I was....It...um...It's my mom's phone."
"Uh...huh...."
"That's her number."
"Um, no, it's not. That number has too many digits."
"But...I....But....But....But...."

Silence.

Sigh.

"So...I need your phone number. The correct phone number."
"Um...um....I....just a second."

I hear him speaking Spanish to someone -- sounds like his mom. And he comes back with the correct number.

"832-555-2380."
"Okay. What's your address?"
"832...555...2380."

Kill me now.

"No, what is your address?"
"My -- what? Oh. Oh. Um. Uh...um. Uh...."

And after several moments of that, I finally get an address. I take his order. It's mercifully uncomplicated, but I still have to wade through oceans of um's and uh's to get there. My patience wears thin. But then, it's over, and I'm done with this idiot.

Or so I thought.

After I give him his total and delivery time, I thank him and start to hang up, but he says, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Uh, sure," I say.

"You're new, aren't you?"

Long silence. Cold silence.

"Um, what?"
"Are you new?"
"Am I...am I new? Is that what you're asking me?"
"Yeah."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Um...uh...um...."

Grr.

"No, I'm not new. I'm the one who answers your call every time you order, Omar."
"Um...uh...oh. Oh."
"Was there anything else?"
"Uh...no."
"Okay then."

And I hung up.

I hate that damn kid.

Bank shot

I don't know what happened to it, but there used to be a bank somewhere in our area that had a very similar phone number to ours. As you might expect, we received quite a few misdialed calls. Most of these were quick: "Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I dialed the wrong number." End of story.

Sometimes, though...

As I've discussed, people just don't listen to you when you answer the phone. So we'd go through a few more difficult calls.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"I need to speak to someone about ordering more checks."
*groan*

One day, Mini Boss had enough. When a woman called asking the status of a deposit she'd made, he played along. He managed to get her account number, her social security number, and her driver's license number. Then he told her that her account had been closed, she owed the bank over a hundred dollars in fees, and that the only person she could talk to about it was on vacation for the next several days.

I imagine the conversation she finally had with the bank was an interesting one.

Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result

Allegedly, that's the AA definition of insanity. Case in point:

A woman called today. She placed an order, gave her address, phone number, all that stuff. But when given her total, she freaked out. "What?" she said. "Why is it that much?"

We patiently explained to her the cost of each individual item. Miffed, she said, "I'm gonna hafta call you back."

Five minutes later, she did so. She proceeded to run through the same process again -- order, address, phone number. Again, we gave the total... and, again, she freaked out. "What?" she said. "Why is it that much?"

I thought about suggesting she tattoo the prices on her thigh, but I don't think that advice would be taken in the spirit in which it was given.

I suppose we could be charging Annoying Douchenozzle tax

I can't be happy, really. The only customers who annoy me more than the ones who don't know anything are the ones that know too much. The real smarmy guys, who act like King Shit 'cause they've ordered from us before.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like a large pepperoni pizza, for pickup. Thin crust. My name is John, my phone number is 555-5678, it'll be $8.61 and I'll be there in ten minutes."

Prick.

So when Big Boss raised prices last week, it threw a nice boulder in their path.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like a large pepperoni pizza, for pickup. Thin crust. My name is John, my phone number is 555-5678, it'll be $8.61 and I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Your total is $9.65, and it'll be ten or fifteen minutes."
"...Isn't the total $8.61?"
"No, sir. It's $9.65."
"...Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"...Did the price go up?"

Well, let's see. Is the amount you owe higher than it used to be? Then what do you think?

Prick.

How little you mortals understand time -- must you be so linear, Jean-Luc?

[Sorry for the -- way -- late post. Blogger issues. Two posts today instead; first one now, second one tonight. Deal?]

So: time passes. It moves. Forward, generally. We can agree on that? Good. And we can acknowledge that things change over time -- that the objects around us don't always stay constant as time plods along? Yeah? All right then.

At about 9:30 Saturday night (and you know what that means), we received an angry telephone call from a customer. "I ordered a pizza from you," she said, "and it's cold."

Not outside the realm of possibility. So Big Boss asked for her address, and set about finding the ticket for her order. The way things are set up at Pizza Place, each of the drivers (there are three of us) keeps their tickets in a separate box until they're counted at the end of the shift. Big Boss asked me if I'd taken it, and I hadn't -- nor had Driver #2. Driver #3 wasn't in the building at the time, so Big Boss searched in that box and found it in no time. He looked at the ticket to see the time the order was placed.

See, it's unlikely that the lady had actually received a cold pizza -- as I mentioned in an earlier post, we generally get our orders delivered promptly. Some more exposition for you: the woman lives in an apartment complex less than a block from us. It takes less than forty-five seconds to drive there. (I know: not only do did I deliver pizza there, I lived there for a year.) But a cold pizza can happen, so Big Boss compared the current time to the time the order had been placed. If it was longer than, say, an hour, it was a definite possibility. The current time, as I said, was 9:30. Big Boss read the time the order was taken:

6:26.

Big Boss slowly returned to the phone. "Ma'am, you ordered your pizza at six-thirty."

"Yeah, I did. And it's cold!"

"Uh...yeah, I'm sure it is. That was three hours ago."

More amusing banter followed. Big Boss explained that pizza "doesn't stay warm for twenty-four hours." The woman eventually said that she meant the pizza was cold when she received it.

"Why didn't you call then?" Big Boss said. "Why did you wait three hours?"

"I couldn't find your phone number."

"For three hours?"

"Yeah."

"It's printed on the coupon on the top of the box."

"...Oh."

"And you called it when you placed the order."

"...Well...look, the pizza was cold. Can you bring me another one?"

Big Boss, of course, said no. And the woman, of course, got angry. "Why the hell not? The pizza was cold! I can show it to you!"

"Yes, it's cold now. As I said. But you got it three hours ago. What am I supposed to do about it now?"

The woman then began chirping for a free pizza, which Big Boss denied. "What the hell kind of business are you running?" she yelled.

"The kind where I stay in business," he said. "If I gave free pizzas away to everyone who asked for one, I'd be living under a bridge."

This missive was met with a stream of profanity that would have made David Mamet cringe, ending with the declaration that she would take her business elsewhere. "Fine," Big Boss said. "Take it to the fucking grocery store and buy your fucking pizza there and it won't get fucking cold when you make it in your own fucking oven." *slam*

I asked if he wanted to add her to the Do Not Deliver list. I was already poised to scrawl her apartment number right next to the Katrina victims -- same apartment complex.

"Fuck that," he said. "We're not going to those apartments anymore. We've had too many problems. And Pizza Conglomerate just had a driver get beaten up over there. Fuck it."

And thus, we stopped delivering to an apartment complex with over two hundred apartments.

Thanks for spoiling it for everybody else.

I hate pop quizzes, too

The phone rings.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"

"Yes, I have a coupon for a medium pizza with up to three toppings for $8.99. I'd like to get that."

"Okay."

"And that's all."

"What toppings did you want?"

"...Huh?"

"What toppings did you want? On the pizza?"

"Uh...uh...uh...uh...hmm. Uh..uh..."

No intelligible speech for a seconds. Some off-phone discussion. Then, I hear the phone handed to someone else, who tells me:

"We're gonna have to call you back." *click*

Guess it wasn't really fair to blindside them with a question like that.

They never did call back.

Clearly, it's my fault you're an idiot

We don't get prank calls as often as you'd think. I guess kids have ways of tormenting people these days other than getting pizzas sent to their house. (Like killing them over MySpace.) But it does happen, and so we have a few safeguards.

Okay, one safeguard: caller ID. When someone calls us, we make sure to ask for their phone number, and we make sure it matches the number that shows up on the caller ID.

Sometimes, customers will give us a different phone number -- say, their home phone when they're calling from a cell. I have to ask them to give us the number they're calling from, which they do, and life continues.

Then, we have tonight's contestants on Who Needs to Have a CAT Scan?

"Um, I don't know my phone number."

Do us all a favor. If you're over the age of eight and don't know your own phone number, jump into a vat of acid.

The very special ones, though, are the assholes who get angry at me because they don't know their own number.

"Well, this is the only phone number I have. I don't know the other one. What's the damn problem?"

You, lady. You're the problem.

Looks like we have more brain cancer contestants

It was quite slow tonight, so Big Boss decided to close up early. While we were doing so, the phone rang a few times. I had the same conversation each time.

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, I'm sorry, we're closed."
"Yeah, I need to place an order for delivery."
*sigh* "We're closed."
"Oh."

What did I just fucking say?

Congratulations, you have brain cancer

[Turns out the Mon-Wed-Fri schedule doesn't really work for me. So now it's Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday.]

Ever seen Memento? The main character has this...condition. Since his accident he can't remember anything. It's not amnesia -- he knows who he is, knows all about himself. But he can't make new memories. After a few minutes, everything just...fades.

Our customers have been hit with this same condition. Maybe it's something in the water.

"Do you have hot wings?"
"Yes, we do."
"I'll take an order of wings. Non-spicy, please."
"I'm sorry, we only have spicy."
"You only have spicy?"
"Yes, sir. We only have the one kind."
"Hmm. Do you have mild wings, then?"

What did I just fucking say?

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Do you have that [latest advertised special for Pizza Conglomerate]."
"No, ma'am, that's Pizza Conglomerate."
"Oh -- where is this?"

What did I just fucking say?

Mini Boss and I devised a way to deal with these people. The following script:

"Sir/Ma'am, I answered the question you just asked me seven seconds ago. If you can repeat it back to me, you win a free pizza. If you can't remember what happen less than ten seconds in your past, I'm sorry, but you have a very serious neurological condition and should see a specialist immediately."

If only we could get away with it.

"Do you have any specials?"
"We have two large pizzas for $19.99."
"Hmm. Do you have anything for two large pizzas?"

Gaa!

Somebody's desperate to show off their broadband connection

"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"

"Do you do online orders?"

"No, I'm sorry, we don't."

"Oh. Okay. Well, never mind, then."

"Uh -- you can place an order over the phone."

"No, that's all right. Thanks anyway." *click*

Again, sir: there are two options, and that isn't one of them

We don't take checks anymore -- we just received way too many bad ones. So now we only accept cash and credit cards. Fortunately, that cuts down on the possibility of fraud. Unfortunately, it means I have to have this conversation every day:

"Will you be paying with cash or credit?"
"A check."

Grr!

Even better (and by "better" I mean "more annoying") is when I tell them we don't take checks, and they ask to speak to the manager. Why? How exactly do you think that conversation is going to go?

"We don't accept checks."
"But I want to use a check."
"Oh, well, then okay. We'll take a check."

Is that what you think the manager is going to say? Man, whose idea do you think it was to stop taking checks in the first place? The manager.

I ran into similar problems back at that rental car job. To get a car from us, you needed to have -- among other things -- a valid driver's license. When someone would hand me an expired license, I'd hand it back and explain the rules. (The rules, of course, were displayed on a large sign not two feet from the customer's face. But people never, ever read signs.) Indignant, they would demand to talk to a manager. Who would, of course, say to them exactly what I said. And they'd go spread their indignation somewhere else.

What bastards we are -- following the rules. Pshaw!