Working in Customer Service

Nobody loves you when you work in customer service.  Nobody.  Not the customer, not the employee the customer is complaining about, not management, nobody loves you.

Even the woman who was my boss when I started out at the Service Desk a year ago cannot even get my name right.  She calls me Mary or Bev or anything but Beth.  She has a different job at the store these days, but she still cannot remember my name.  It’s insulting. I actually told her that today when I ran into her in the break room and ignored her when she called me Mary and then Bev, and then Bev again.

For God’s Sake, we have our names on our aprons.

And then, today, the day after St. Patrick’s Day, every hung over grumpy person with any reason at all to be mad at us came to the service desk.  And I swear, some literally waited for me to finish with a customer so they could take their complaints to me.

 

At least none of the grumpy customers got my name wrong.

One thought on “Working in Customer Service

  1. I work in an Emergency Department, and I wear a name tag with ONLY my first name on it. (Only first names in the ED, due to security and privacy concerns, because we do deal with some unsavory individuals, and we’re not allowed to shoot them… supposedly. I will not die to satisfy some politically correct agenda.) I, along with another male nurse, have worked continuously in this ED for over 25 years, and I am consistently called by his name by a small group of patients. We are different heights, have different accents, have different colored hair, and I wear glasses while he doesn’t. Also, he always wears scrubs, and I always wear a white lab coat and uniform. It doesn’t matter, we are both called ‘Joel.’ I’ve stopped correcting people, and only a few have noticed that I don’t respond to it. If you are sick or impaired, I still will assist you. But every month I get reported by ‘non-sick’ patients and their ‘concerned’ family members that I don’t respond to their requests for, “… you know, a free meal, pepsi, or a work excuse,” for the fifth cousin, twice removed, who brought their family member to the ED for a work note and a hundred Percocet for their chronic back pain. My boss doesn’t mind, as she points out, “Joel wasn’t their, so who are you referring to?” She still gives me a hard time, but it is always a, “Non-documented verbal counselling,” and a free meal.

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