Turning the Other Cheek
When you start your day by having a giant needle stabbed into your butt, it’s reasonable to think – or at least hope – things might improve from there.
OK, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, and in the name of journalistic integrity, which I value above all else (except a good story), I must confess the needle wasn’t exactly giant. Instead, it was a run-of-the-mill three inches. This jab of lidocaine was to see if the persistent pain my tendinitis and tendinopathy have been causing since last fall could be mitigated.
“What?” I wailed. “I’ve been telling everyone I was getting a knitting needle stuck in my arse today.” My most excellent sports medicine doc (who is used to me by now) replied, “You can tell your friends whatever you want. Now please roll over.”
After the slightest prick, I called out, “Have fun mopping up the blood.” My drama ignored, I was given a tiny Band-Aid — in case (I guess) I chose to spend the rest of the day surfing public toilet seats — and told I’d know within a half hour if there would be any relief.
The injection did nothing. I could barely get out of the car when I got home. Still, I moved on to the next task of the day. I’d recently learned during my 30,000-mile service on my car that I needed to replace the tires. “What?” I wailed. It was explained that new cars (or at least mine) come equipped with tires that are only intended to last between 18,000 and 35,000 miles. At 30, I’d already pushed the limit.
I did “extensive” research, which in my case meant calling two dealers. The second guy was helpful, knowledgeable, and had a better price than the first. That was good enough for me, and I booked this day’s appointment.
When I arrived and was shown the total before I handed over my keys, however, it did not match what I had been quoted. I told the service rep he must be mistaken. He said he was sorry, but, no, he was not mistaken. I stood my ground. I asked to speak to the manager, who it turns out was the person I’d spoken to on the phone. He calmly but firmly said the price on the screen was correct. He’d been doing this a long time and knew the price of his tires. I’d once been “handled” by another car dealership that sold my then-husband and me a lemon. I know the language of customer-service spin – especially when dealing with problem situations. I’m sorry you feel upset that your oil tank ran dry on the Garden City Parkway before the warning light came on. Would you like a free ice scraper?
So I braced myself.
Instead, this particular rep was patient and professional. He said he was sorry for the (not my) misunderstanding and that he could do a little better on the tires, maybe $30 off. He said my other option would be to shop around some more. Honestly, he couldn’t have been nicer. (Maybe he has a crazy aunt.) But I needed the tires, so I accepted his offer, paced the Sagadahoc Bridge and stewed.
When I got home, I went straight to my desk. I was so sure. I’d done my research. I’d taken notes. I knew the price I’d been told. I would prove my point. And then I got that Oh shit feeling in my gut.
I hate being wrong. And more than that, I hate admitting I’m wrong. I wanted to blame someone. I wanted to blame it on my shot that didn’t work. I wanted to blame it on the former dealer who had handled me. I wanted to blame it on auto manufacturers who sell brand-new cars with crappy tires so you have to replace them. But mostly, I wanted to hide under a rock.
And I considered that as an option. After all, I thought, you never have to see them again. You can take your car elsewhere, like Michigan. It’s not like you killed anyone. But no. It was time for a goodly gulp of mea culpa.
It took me three tries to finally get through to the service department that afternoon. When I did, I fessed up. And then I apologized. And then I insisted I refund the $30. I was assured that I shouldn’t worry about it, that we all make mistakes, and that my repeat business would be enough.
Now, far be it from me to hold up my tattered moral fiber as any kind of example, but imagine a world in which idiots admit when they are wrong (and not with any of this “mistakes were made” b.s.) and apologize, instead of doubling down on their idiocy. And imagine if idiotic (but not hateful or harmful) behavior were treated as graciously as mine had been? There’s a word for that, right? Oh yes, civility.
And while I couldn’t get rid of the pain in my ass, at least I made sure the dealership got rid of theirs.
Elizabeth Peavey falls on her sword here monthly.
