The Four-Hour Window

I can’t make this stuff up. I’m just not that creative.

My husband has an elliptical machine. He uses it everyday. Six weeks ago, it broke. Well, the console broke. The elliptical itself still works, but you can’t program it. Without hills, speeds and times, it’s kind of the equivalent of walking in place or pacing around the house. Burns calories, but you look like an idiot.

So I called the store that manufactured it (I’m being nice and not naming them) and they told me we had a protection plan, which meant we got free repairs. Awesome! Or so I thought. What that protection plan really means is that I’m at their mercy. Without the prospect of payment, they have no incentive to do anything. Except I didn’t learn that until later.

The lady asked me what the problem was, I described it to her and she said, “Oh, you need a new console.” She ordered it and set a date for the repairman to come fix it, within a four-hour window. The day before he was scheduled to arrive, I received an automated call from them that the part wasn’t in stock and I’d have to wait for it to arrive and then reschedule the appointment.

A few days later, a coffin was delivered to my house. Seriously, the box was big enough to fit a body inside of it. The console is the size of a book. So I dragged the box into the house, opened it and found the post that the console sits on. This was not what I ordered.

I called the manufacturer and spoke to the same woman as before. I told her I had received the wrong part and I wanted to reorder the correct part before scheduling an appointment. She told me she couldn’t reorder the part, the technician had to do it and therefore, he had to come out to my house anyway. She ordered the part originally based on my description of the problem; she couldn’t just do the same thing again? Apparently not.

She gave me a day and a four-hour window.

The repairman arrived, looked at the box, looked at the part and agreed that it was the wrong one. Because apparently I need someone to confirm what I already knew. He reordered the part I needed and told me that it was simple enough to install so that we could do it ourselves. I gave a dubious okay and he left, taking the wrong part with him and asking me to fill out a survey. Hah!

A bit annoyed, I took to Twitter. With an @ and a #, I expressed my dissatisfaction with the service I’d received. Within minutes, I received a tweet and later that day, I received a phone call from a different lady. She listened to what happened and scheduled a repair appointment with a four-hour window so that my protection plan wouldn’t be voided if I messed up in attaching the new part. Because while my husband is pretty handy, and I can follow directions, you just never know.

A few days later another coffin arrived. Once again, the wrong part had arrived. The SAME wrong part. Had I been thinking ahead, I would have kept the box and used it to bury a body or two. I mean really, at this point, it was almost like a sign that someone wanted me to bury someone. They certainly didn’t want me using the elliptical!

So I called the new lady and yelled. I’m usually pretty non-confrontational, but I hate stupidity, and this one put me over the edge. She was not helpful. She told me the technician would have to come out—during a four-hour window, and reorder the part. I asked to speak to her supervisor. She said she didn’t have one. Flabbergasted, I asked how that was possible. She said, “Some of us are just lucky that way.”

There are no words to describe how angry I was. I would have cursed, but none of the existing curse words are strong enough. So I got on the Internet, looked up the company headquarters, found a phone number and asked for customer service.

I am now capable of anything. In the world. Because despite how angry I was, I did not yell at the woman on the phone.

I explained the problem, tattled on the rude woman I’d spoken to previously, and asked for help. She apologized and spent 30 minutes on the phone with me, researching the part, double checking with a technician and ordering it for me, along with confirming my appointment within a four-hour window.

The box arrived. It was not a coffin, but it was big. I opened it and found a smaller box inside. I opened the second box and found a console.

If and when this company files for Chapter 11, it will be because they spend way too much money on boxes.

The technician arrived. He went downstairs, I went upstairs. I waited.

“Mrs. Wilck?”

“Yes?”

“The part’s broken.”

I can’t print the rest of the conversation.

He reordered the part and scheduled another appointment with a four-hour window. He asked me NOT to fill out a survey.

In the meantime, I tattled some more to the rude lady, who called the check up on me. And laughed. I tweeted some more too.

The new part arrived in a smaller box. I didn’t even bother opening it.

The technician came back again. You’d think by now I’d know his name. I do remember how he smelled though.

He went downstairs, I went upstairs. I waited. There was silence. Too much silence. No one makes that little noise when they use tools. He walked outside without speaking to me. He sat in his van for 20 minutes. He came back inside. This time, I heard him talking on the phone. Also, not a good sign. A few words filtered upstairs, the most important one being, “broken.”

I called the rude lady again. I told her wanted a new machine. She said okay.

The new machine is scheduled to arrive on Wednesday. I suspect it will be a lawn mower. Perhaps even a broken one at that.