REPRESENTATIVE!

All I want is a press-one-number experience—just one. Maybe two. But definitely no more than three.

In the days before every stinking phone call was answered by a robot, I was very much a phone person. I didn’t mind dialing a number, whether it be a friend, family member, or a customer service rep, and yammering for ages. I was happy to provide a friendly voice and irrelevant stories. Today? Ugh. 

Of course, I do still love yammering for ages with friends and family. Beyond that? The idea of dialing a number evokes immediate exhaustion as I prepare for the inevitable. Doctors’ offices, the cable company, the pharmacy, banks, insurance companies, restaurants … it’s an endless list of places that encourage us to reach out but then block the entry with an automated list of options so long that, by the time it ends, we’ve forgotten who we called or why. 

I’ve been in a battle with our pharmacy for two weeks now as I struggled to have a long-taken prescription re-pre-approved. I love our pharmacy. We switched pharmacies last year in a hail-mary moment to feel like a person rather than an inconvenience. It’s not that we weren’t sympathetic to the struggle of managing impatient customers, we were just tired of watching the battles and so we took our long list of prescriptions across the street and found heaven. 

Until now.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been making daily phone calls to our pharmacy to trade updates on that re-preapproval. Each time I dial the number, I am faced with not one, but two rounds of automated options. God forbid I hit the wrong button in round one as the deli counter will certainly have no way of sending me to the pharmacy. I’m not even sure if the deli counter knows there is a pharmacy on the other side of the store. Reach the wrong department? Just hang up. There is also no magic button to send misplaced callers back to that first automated menu. 

Should I make it through both rounds and reach the actual pharmacy, anxiety builds. What if they’re swamped and rush me through this? What if I forget to ask or tell them something and have to start over? What if the call bounces to the customer service desk and I’m asked to try again later? What if I just give up and decide to rub crushed Eucalyptus on my temples in lieu of whatever my doctor prescribed me? Did I even need blood pressure medication before the invention of the automated menu?

Of course, this struggle extends far beyond the pharmacy. 

As I continue the monumental task of closing down my mother-in-law’s estate, I am in automated hell provided by her cable, internet, electric, gas, water, sewer, garbage, life insurance, health insurance, home insurance, and car insurance companies. Don’t get me started on the DMV. Oh, and yes, all those doctor’s offices. My rule is to spend no more than ninety minutes per day climbing this mountain lest I lose my shizzle. It doesn’t always work. I have been at this for two months and have yet to encounter a single company that is home to a real person picking up a real phone and saying, “Hello.” 

HELLO. 

I don’t think I minded phone hell when there were only one or two or even three options. 

Press 1 to schedule an appointment.

Press 2 to leave a message for the front desk.

Press 3 to hold for a real live person.

The outgoing message at my doctor’s office starts with “Thank you for calling Jimminy Cricket Family Physicians. Please listen to this entire message as many of our menu options have changed.” I have been listening to this exact same message for the past five years. There haven’t been any changes since that initial plea to pay attention five years ago and I often wonder why they haven’t rerecorded the beginning of their message. My recommendation is something like this:

“Thank you for calling Jimminy Cricket Family Physicians. Please select from the following menu options but know that 75% of the time those menu options do not actually work no matter how many times you slam your finger into the relevant number on your keypad. Instead, hang up and call back until you find success.” 

Further into the matrix are complicated instructions for prescription renewals:

“Press 4 to request a prescription renewal. Please note that any requests made after 3:00 pm will not be submitted until the following business day. Please leave your full name, birthdate, phone number, the color of your underwear, the name of your favorite song, shampoo type, least favorite Beatle, the model year of your car, and high school mascot.”

I often leap for a pen to write down all the things I will need to provide and, while doing so, miss the milli-second of a window during which pressing 4 will work. If I do make it to the magic voicemail box, my messages are often rushed in a panic to supply all of the necessary information without taking a breath lest the system thinks I’m finished and begins a new hell:  “To send your message, press 1; to re-record it, press 2.” 

What if I don’t want to do either? What if I just want to finish what I’d started? Hello?

Again, this is not to say that we don’t love our physicians. We are happy to trade the phone maze for the excellent service once past the lobby doors. Mostly.

Of course, this hell is not limited to healthcare. Call a bank, call a hotel, call the county office, call the grocery store…we have turned entirely to a world that is gated behind an automated bouncer with no people skills. I have a new habit of pressing zero until I’m able to start saying “representative” over and over. I just got off the phone with a vendor that has updated their automated message to include the following: “Hmmm. It looks like you want to speak with a representative. Can you tell me more about what you need so that I can help you?” This caused me to repeat “REPRESENTATIVE” over and over, each time a bit louder until I was sure even the neighbors heard me. 

Is there no way to turn “REPRESENTATIVE” into an international safe word for “Release this person from the chains of automated message hell!”?

That moment when callers finally do reach a REPRESENTATIVE is exactly why people hate working in customer service centers. That moment when a live human finally picks up the phone is also the moment when callers have reached the absolute end of their patience and have lost any sign of sunshine in their voice. I wonder how different it might be if calls were picked up on the first ring. Would those answering experience a much better version of humanity? 

A few days ago, I spent ten minutes trying to deposit a check via my bank’s mobile app. I have done this hundreds of times beginning with the day this magical feature arrived on my tiny phone screen. I could do it in my sleep. This time? I have yet to get the check over the financial finish line as a few new steps were added to the process. In the old days (last week), all that was needed was something resembling a signature on the back of the check. Now, the check image requires both a signature and a note that reads “Mobile Deposit for Bruno’s Bank Only.” 

Okay, fine, I didn’t know.

The first deposit attempt failed with a red flag indicating that the amount written on the check did not match the amount typed into the Deposit Amount box. It did match, exactly, but okay. I started over, input the same details, and made it past the red flag. Then I got another red flag indicating that I’d not written “Mobile Deposit for Bruno’s Bank Only” underneath my signature. 

This request isn’t new but I have skipped it for years and years and the bank was always happy to take my money regardless. Evidently, that party is over. Okay, fine, I scribbled “Mobile Deposit for Bruno’s Bank Only” beneath my signature.

Then the third deposit attempt failed for the same reason.

Then the fourth.

I closed out the app completely and started over.

Fail, again.

I’m now imagining heading into the bank to deposit this check in person and being told that I cannot because the back of the check very clearly says “Mobile Deposit for Bruno’s Bank Only.” 

REPRESENTATIVE!