Charter Part Too Much: In Which I Release the Kracken

Before they were Charter techs. . . 

I eagerly looked forward to a visit today from yet another Charter tech, who I immediately associated with Harry Potter dementors, due to his incredible aptitude to suck out, ever so excruciatingly slowly, any hope I had of getting internet from Charter sometime this century. 

He arrived in a cloud of cheap cologne/ despair. The visit went something like this: 

I take five minutes to explain all that I’d dealt with all week, including that I am beyond irate and that once I used to be a nice person but that person died last Wednesday, during a five-hour wait for a tech that apparently never existed. 

He looks at his clipboard and his eyeballs move a little, so I know he’s conscious. 

“Says here there’s something wrong with the modem.”

“The router. The router. I just got finished telling you. It’s the router.” I cough. And cough again. The stench is killing my soul and nasal passages. 

“Oh, yeah.”

I lead him down to the dungeon of terrors AKA where the cats sometimes sleep and the router purrs and winks. I wonder if we’re all pawns, insignificant players in some big cosmic joke being perpetrated  upon us by the head honcho of the great cable company in the sky.  Perhaps this is all some sort of a test.

The Master D pulls out his cell phone. He pushes some buttons. “Says here I can get online. It’s not your router.” I cough again. Three cats cough in reply. 

I explain again about being on the phone with Charter for not one hour, not two, but two hours and TWENTY MINUTES yesterday, whereupon the kind and patient soul on the other end of the line, determined the router was being an asshole, or as she put it, defective. 

Hence, today’s appointment. To replace the defective router. I say this slowly so he can take the time to absorb each word. 

He says she’s wrong.

I think about all the time I wasted on the phone yesterday with that soulless, heartless succubus. I am in danger of swooning due to the tidal wave of broken teenage dreams flowing from Doofus’s pungent, open pores. I step back and suggest we go to the kitchen and double-check on my computer, which is near a fan and several open windows. 

He follows me upstairs. I am impressed by his ability to walk upright, but rather than compliment him, I cough. 

At my computer, he pushes a couple of buttons and says, “Yeah, it’s your computer.”

I beg to differ. 

“I’m telling you it’s your computer.”

I say I want my old machinery back. Everything worked just fine on Tuesday, before the moron at Charter fucked up my account. I don’t use words like moron or fucked up with the big D. Not yet. 

He says he doesn’t have my old machinery and I can’t have it back anyhow because he doesn’t know what I had. 

I politely point out that most companies keep records on stuff like that. They’re called inventory records. We can make another appointment and he can bring it all back. He looks at me like I have five heads, so I add, “I mean really. My internet was fine until that idiot at Charter changed my billing. It is NOT my computer. I am sure of it.” 

In truth I wasn’t totally sure, but I’d been on the phone the day before with a nice lady for one hundred forty minutes who put me and my computer through all kinds of calisthenics and only then determined that I in fact needed a new router. She seemed competent. Surely, I hadn’t wasted an entire Saturday morning for naught? Plus, this guy had been in my house all of six minutes, if that.

I cough. I give him my best are you sure you want to go there buddy boy look.

He blinks. He goes there. “It’s your computer.”

I realize at that point, that this has all most definitely been a test sent down from ye technology gods to see if I can go a whole ten minutes with a Charter person and refrain from swearing. I fail.   Awesomely, I might add.

“You’re full of shit,” I say. 

Mr. Smells Like Decomposing Teen Spirit puts his phone to his ear. He walks from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room and then out the front door. He gets into his van. He starts it up. He drives away. I am momentarily concerned that our state laws are so lax. This guy makes ME look like a tech genius. With an IQ like that, he has no business driving.  

Then, as fresh air replaces the taint of dying hopes, I think more clearly: Crap. What if it IS my computer?

I close the windows. I shut off the stove, the fan, load the computer into my bag, and hop into the car. I drive the two miles to Best Buy. I wait in line for a Tech Geek. He is sweet. He smiles a real smile. He is surrounded by goodness and light. He doesn't stink to high heaven. 

I explain my tale of woe. I come clean about the full of shit part.

He says exactly what I need to hear: “Do you have any idea how many Charter customers we get who have the exact same issue?” He’s not talking about my anger. He’s talking about Charter blaming it all on me, and by me I mean all of us Charter customers who end up at Best Buy because idiots like smelly tech guy blame their incompetence on the customer.

“I dunno,” I say. “He could be right on this one.  I’m not exactly Bill Gates when it comes to computers” or something equally erudite that doesn’t involve the use of swear words.  

“See. It’s not your computer,” he says.

Yup. In the amount of time it takes for me to say I’m not good with computers, the Best Buy Geek Squad guy gets my computer connected to the store internet.

“Nothing wrong here,” he says. “Your computer’s in great shape.”

“So you’re saying that I can access my computer from any internet? Yours? Starbucks? Anywhere?”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your computer. Nothing whatsoever. You have excellent connectivity.”

I ask him if I can give him some money or maybe my credit card.  Like a true superhero, he declines any temporal reward.

As I exit, I tell the store manager to give that guy a raise. “He’s the only tech person who’s actually been able to help me all week,” I say.

“You must be a Charter customer,” the manager says. He nods, knowingly.

In the parking lot I am on the phone with the dumbest Charter customer service rep ever. We talk for a half hour, mostly about how he can’t schedule another tech appointment for me because his records show I still have an “open work order” which apparently means that Drakkar Dipwad never finished his paperwork after he left my house.

“For all I know, the tech might be coming back to your house with more equipment.”

I assure the guy, who speaks slower than my grandmother did when she was at her worst and having trouble forming even the most basic of thoughts and sadly I kid you not here by the way, I assure the guy that Mr. Death by Stink will not be returning to my house. We go through a routine that would put Laurel and Hardy’s Who’s on First act to shame only it’s truly not funny.

I ask to speak to his supervisor and he puts me on hold. I get in my car and drive home. I am in my house on my computer STILL on hold – yup, a half hour, when my brain finally kicks out of default-to-victim mode and I hang up and call again.

The next guy is polite and patient. Five minutes later I have yet another tech appointment. This time I make sure it’s with the regional supervisor. I’ll settle for no one else.

Absofuckinglutely. No. One. Else.  

Though I do get pleasure out of writing these updates – it’s a great way to burn off steam -- all I really want is what any customer wants: respect. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally be treated with some semblance of professionalism. Stay tuned.

Total hours dealing with Charter, including waiting on hold, waiting for Wednesday's no-show guy, and trip to and from Best Buy: 13+, over the course of five days. Talk about sinful.