I don’t like telephone conversations any more than you do, especially when businesses give you the rigmarole. In this age of electronics, who needs Alexander Graham Bell anyway?
That’s why I had to laugh the other day when I tried calling a plumber for some fast work to my sink. The response I got at the other end threw me for a loop.
A voice came on that said, “Hello. This is a live person talking. Our answering machine is away on repair. How may I be of service to you?”
They got my business without any debate.
When it comes time to haggle with credit card companies or call places like the IRS or any communications outfit, I’d rather have a root canal. Or else, hand the receiver over to my wife and let her freak out.
What’s more, when the phone rings at night while I’m into a good book or movie, I hope it isn’t for me. Half the phone calls would never be answered if we knew in advance who was calling.
My service blurts out an answer. The voice box tells me such and such a cell number is calling without divulging a name. It could be Obama for all I know.
So what has all this got to do with my heritage? Read on, my loyal friend.
The other day, I was forced to call my telephone service to report a beeping sound. My armpits were getting a little moist and a bead of sweat formed on my brow. Right away, I got a canned message.
“If this is English, press one. Spanish, press two. Armenian press three.” Only kidding about the Armenian but if other ethnicities are patronized, why not us?
I had to verify the last four digits of my phone number for security purposes, validate my account, and was quickly given the company’s guarantee policy.
Next came a menu of services and more finger exercises, followed by a feedback dissertation.
Of course, all lines were busy and would I please wait. “Your patience is very important to us,” I was reminded.
Five minutes later, I get a customer account executive for assistance. “Is this a live voice or a recording?” I inquired, more as a joke. After a slight pause, a woman answered.
“This is an actual person talking,” the voice indicated, much to my relief. “How may I be of service to you?”
I told her about the annoying beep sound that infiltrated my telephone like a gremlin in the night.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this right away. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
I was feeling better already.
“Vartabedian, eh? You’re Armenian. Eench bess ess?”
“You Armenian, too?”
“Hagopian’s the name. One of the more common ones.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Andover. Right next to you in Haverhill, I see by your account.”
“Listen, if you’re not doing anything this week, our church is having its annual bazaar. Why not drop by?”
“Oh, I just love that Armenian food,” the account executive indicated. “I’ve got several friends who might be interested. We’ll come
as a group. Thanks for the advance notice.”
This was getting better than I ever anticipated. Not only was I getting a telephone snafu corrected but drumming up business for my church.
Turns out the woman attended a neighboring Armenian church, knew my name from the newspaper, and was somewhat active in the Armenian community. Her job often introduced her to other Armenians around the area excited to be dealing with someone compatible.
“The people who call me have a legitimate concern,” she told me. “I tend to be a solution to their problems. I don’t usually give my name over the telephone, except to other Armenians who might inquire.”
Had this been an answering machine, I would have bought one for each of my three children as a way of keeping them connected with other Armenians.
On the other hand, the only time there’s every any peace in my home from telemarketers and crank calls is when the phone is out of order. Seems far easier to email someone than dial away and reach another’s answering machine.
As to the beeping sound, it disappeared pronto. Thanks Hagopian, wherever you are. Never did catch your first name.
Tom Vartabedian
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