Customer servant

Last summer I was offered a job as a “customer relations specialist” with an ecommerce startup in Boston. I was thrilled. Me, a specialist? In ecommerce? Where do I sign?

As training got underway, though, I soon realized I was not becoming an ecommerce specialist. I was becoming a phone bitch. My job was to answer phone calls from angry asshole customers that our shitty company had somehow screwed over. The first week was brutal.

“Where the fuck is my nightstand?”

“I’m so sorry for the delay, sir, it looks as if your order is still being processed–”

“–Still being processed? I ordered this piece of shit last week.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, sir, although this item does have an advertised lead time of 3-4 business days.”

“Lead time? Fuck that. Where’s my nightstand? I want you to go into the back room right now, get me a nightstand, put it in a box, and send it to my fucking house. Can you do that for me, or are you too fucking stupid?”

“I wish I could, sir, but the nightstand is actually coming from our warehouse in North Carolina.”

“Oh, I see. You’re drop-shipping this shit. You’re just the fucking middle man. Put your manager on.”

And that pretty much set the tone for the rest of my tenure at Shithole, Inc. Answering phones, getting screamed at, apologizing for things I didn’t do, getting no credit for things I did well. But hey, at least there was a killer snack room!


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