It’s the last day of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, and I’m somewhat surly. It’s not because I didn’t get my fill of turkey or because I didn’t have a wonderful time on my annual visit to see close relatives in Denver, Colorado. No, it’s more local than that. In fact, it’s three miles down the road at the nearest gas station.
I pulled in this morning when the yellow light went on in my car, telling me it needed fuel or I would be walking. I eased up to the pump, turned the ignition off, and stepped out of my car. You know the routine. So let me fast forward to the finish. I was watching the meter register thirteen gallons when all of a sudden there was this splashing noise. Which meant the hose to the gas tank hadn’t shut off automatically and gasoline was spewing everywhere. This has never happened to me before.
I grabbed the hose and stopped the gasoline flow. But I was unhappy. I marched into the BP store and interrupted the cashier in conversation with another customer. “The pump didn’t shut off,” I said. “Now I’m not only paying for gas that poured onto your concrete, but I have gasoline eating my paint.”
“Hey,” the cashier responded, “I just got here. I can’t do nothin’.” (I didn’t bother to tell the cashier she’d used a double negative, which implies that she could indeed do something.) Instead, I said, “I realize I’m paying for gasoline that sprayed on your concrete. Under the circumstances, I accept that. BUT I think you should do something about this so someone else doesn’t have the same problem.”
“I can’t do nothin’,” the cashier reiterated. “I just got here.” “I understand you’re not in charge,” I responded, “but you could tell the manager or owner what happened.” “The manager ain’t here,” she responded. “She’s gone until Monday.”
“Then,” I said, accentuating what was to me the obvious, “you might want to watch that pump so that you could provide additional information to your boss. And, if others have the same problem, maybe you’d want to put a notice on the pump. That way, you’d avoid angry customers like me.”
She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Hey, lady, it’s not my concern.” I shook my head and left. But I was disappointed in the cashier’s demeanor. The least she could have done is say, “I’m sorry this happened. I’m not able to do anything about it except let my manager know. I assure you it will be on my daily report.”
Maybe I’m over-sensitive to customer service issues, because the company I work for, Fred Flare Inc., solves them immediately. If a customer has a complaint we refund his or her money, resend a defective product at our expense, and credit a charge card without hassle. I’ve come to expect no less from such mega-companies at BP or Target or Land’s End. So far, only BP has disappointed.
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