Re-Tire the Lube Express
Yesterday I pulled my PT Cruiser to the Tire Lube Express doors at a WalMart that I don't normally shop at. I won't say which store, but I will say that it is the western most WalMart in central Indiana. Do the math.
I parked in the parking lot and headed to the door marked "Customer Entrance". On my way I passed a red Malibu in line for an oil change. All four doors were open, and a trash bag sat by one door. I'm not talking a Hefty Tall Kitchen Trash Bag here. This was a commercial 55 gallon drum trash bag. This bag was 3/4 full and growing. The woman inside the car was throwing the accumulated refuse of history into this bag. In addition to the McDonald's bags and Starbucks cups there were newspapers, milk jugs (don't want to know) and envelopes. I honestly believe that she had never thrown anything away since the car rolled off the assembly line. I guess she felt that it was important that she gave the right impression to the oil change technicians.
Continuing on into the building I headed up to the service desk where I was informed that I needed to back out into the shop and talk to "them" out there. Once in the shop I was told to pull my car into the line and they would take my information at that point. OK, makes sense, why not.
I pulled into the line (right behind the trash laden Malibu) and watched the refuse parade. At some point the woman had started a new trash bag (also of the 55 gallon variety). I honestly don't know where she sat to drive. Maybe the car was like the DeLorean at the end of Back to the Future and converted trash into fuel.
So eventually the service writer came and took my order. It only took 10 minutes to type my name, address and phone into his palm pilot. I really should have taken that as a hint, but I needed a flat fixed and an oil change so the car could go on an extended trip the next day. After entering my oil change request the young man handed me a claim ticket. Of course I had to tell him again that I needed a flat fixed and two tires balanced, but he eventually got it right.
It's now 3:15. I know that I need to stall for an hour or so. In WalMart. In west-central Indiana. On the wrong side of town (yes, there's a new Super Center on the nice end of town, but I'm not there). On a Saturday. Do you have any idea who shops at WalMart on the wrong side of town on a Saturday afternoon? I do. I saw every one of them.
I wander. I meander. I dodge pallet jacks and electric scooter chairs. I watch obese teenage girls looking at sleazy lingerie. I run and throw up. I wander some more. I get hit by three different shopping carts while looking at main aisle displays. I meander again. I realize that this WalMart not only does not have a McDonalds or Subway, it doesn't even have a snack bar. I can't clog my arteries with nachos and cinnamon rolls. I wander meanderingly. I scan my claim ticket at one of the little price check machines to see if the car is ready. It says "waiting". It doesn't say waiting for what, it just says waiting.
I've been in WalMart (in west central Indiana) now for and hour and a half. I headed back over to TLE to check on my status. I look out the viewing window just in time to see my Cruiser pulled out of the shop, into the parking lot. The tech brings in my keys, just to be told that the tire work still needs to be done. I meander again.
Normally at WalMart I stay away from the gun department. I'm always afraid that a disgruntled customer will start shooting. This time I wandered (while meandering) past sporting goods at the wrong time. A dad and his early teen aged son are looking at the rifles. Even though I knew better, I listened to the conversation. I now know what type of rifle is best to use on squirrels and opossum. Without ruining the meat. I ran and threw up again.
After throwing up I realized that I might as well eat. The way this visit was going I would need my strength. There's a Subway in the next plaza.
Dinner was the high point of my day.
I returned to the Mart and scanned my claim tag again. The car apparently was still waiting. Did I mention that my Cruiser apparently has much more patience than I do? I walked (tired of meandering) back and parked myself at the observation window. I watched the greasey little tire installer fix my flat tire and place the wheel back on the car. He took the other wheel off and balanced as I requested. Unfortunately he didn't balance the tire that he had fixed.
I slipped (they have that annoying locking door, probably to protect the installers from disgruntled customers from the gun department) back out into the shop. By that time the PT was down out of the air. I (politely) called across the shop to inform the young man that I expected him to put the car back up in the air and balance the tire as I had requested. I re-entered the store and asked to speak to a manager.
Several minutes later the manager came in from the shop, looked at me and said "I heard".
My wife tells me that I'm not very tollerant and that I blow up too easily. I didn't blow up. I only spent approximately 2 minutes explaining to the manager that I was very upset. I had spent three hours in his store for no logical reason, and I had paid for a service that his technician apparently didn't want to perform. I never raised my voice. I never threatened. I used polite terms and simply expressed my displeasure.
Bonus points to the manager. He agreed that the situation was unforgivable. He promised to speak to the installer with a member of upper management. He even waived the fees to balance the tires. Apparently this manager has been with WalMart for eight years. I'm sure that he's looking for other employment.
While I was paying my bill a nicely dressed lady (who doesn't own a red Malibu) told me that she had also been waiting for an extended period of time. She complimented my cool demeanor (so there) and even praised my precise enunciation and use of the English language. I think that she might have been an English teacher. Needless to say, that was a little odd.
Once I had my keys (all grease covered) and headed to my car I was approached again by the TLE manager. He apologized again, and wished me a nice day. That was a nice touch. It's probably the only reason I didn't head to the sporting goods department once I saw the greasy fingerprints all over my steering wheel.
I parked in the parking lot and headed to the door marked "Customer Entrance". On my way I passed a red Malibu in line for an oil change. All four doors were open, and a trash bag sat by one door. I'm not talking a Hefty Tall Kitchen Trash Bag here. This was a commercial 55 gallon drum trash bag. This bag was 3/4 full and growing. The woman inside the car was throwing the accumulated refuse of history into this bag. In addition to the McDonald's bags and Starbucks cups there were newspapers, milk jugs (don't want to know) and envelopes. I honestly believe that she had never thrown anything away since the car rolled off the assembly line. I guess she felt that it was important that she gave the right impression to the oil change technicians.
Continuing on into the building I headed up to the service desk where I was informed that I needed to back out into the shop and talk to "them" out there. Once in the shop I was told to pull my car into the line and they would take my information at that point. OK, makes sense, why not.
I pulled into the line (right behind the trash laden Malibu) and watched the refuse parade. At some point the woman had started a new trash bag (also of the 55 gallon variety). I honestly don't know where she sat to drive. Maybe the car was like the DeLorean at the end of Back to the Future and converted trash into fuel.
So eventually the service writer came and took my order. It only took 10 minutes to type my name, address and phone into his palm pilot. I really should have taken that as a hint, but I needed a flat fixed and an oil change so the car could go on an extended trip the next day. After entering my oil change request the young man handed me a claim ticket. Of course I had to tell him again that I needed a flat fixed and two tires balanced, but he eventually got it right.
It's now 3:15. I know that I need to stall for an hour or so. In WalMart. In west-central Indiana. On the wrong side of town (yes, there's a new Super Center on the nice end of town, but I'm not there). On a Saturday. Do you have any idea who shops at WalMart on the wrong side of town on a Saturday afternoon? I do. I saw every one of them.
I wander. I meander. I dodge pallet jacks and electric scooter chairs. I watch obese teenage girls looking at sleazy lingerie. I run and throw up. I wander some more. I get hit by three different shopping carts while looking at main aisle displays. I meander again. I realize that this WalMart not only does not have a McDonalds or Subway, it doesn't even have a snack bar. I can't clog my arteries with nachos and cinnamon rolls. I wander meanderingly. I scan my claim ticket at one of the little price check machines to see if the car is ready. It says "waiting". It doesn't say waiting for what, it just says waiting.
I've been in WalMart (in west central Indiana) now for and hour and a half. I headed back over to TLE to check on my status. I look out the viewing window just in time to see my Cruiser pulled out of the shop, into the parking lot. The tech brings in my keys, just to be told that the tire work still needs to be done. I meander again.
Normally at WalMart I stay away from the gun department. I'm always afraid that a disgruntled customer will start shooting. This time I wandered (while meandering) past sporting goods at the wrong time. A dad and his early teen aged son are looking at the rifles. Even though I knew better, I listened to the conversation. I now know what type of rifle is best to use on squirrels and opossum. Without ruining the meat. I ran and threw up again.
After throwing up I realized that I might as well eat. The way this visit was going I would need my strength. There's a Subway in the next plaza.
Dinner was the high point of my day.
I returned to the Mart and scanned my claim tag again. The car apparently was still waiting. Did I mention that my Cruiser apparently has much more patience than I do? I walked (tired of meandering) back and parked myself at the observation window. I watched the greasey little tire installer fix my flat tire and place the wheel back on the car. He took the other wheel off and balanced as I requested. Unfortunately he didn't balance the tire that he had fixed.
I slipped (they have that annoying locking door, probably to protect the installers from disgruntled customers from the gun department) back out into the shop. By that time the PT was down out of the air. I (politely) called across the shop to inform the young man that I expected him to put the car back up in the air and balance the tire as I had requested. I re-entered the store and asked to speak to a manager.
Several minutes later the manager came in from the shop, looked at me and said "I heard".
My wife tells me that I'm not very tollerant and that I blow up too easily. I didn't blow up. I only spent approximately 2 minutes explaining to the manager that I was very upset. I had spent three hours in his store for no logical reason, and I had paid for a service that his technician apparently didn't want to perform. I never raised my voice. I never threatened. I used polite terms and simply expressed my displeasure.
Bonus points to the manager. He agreed that the situation was unforgivable. He promised to speak to the installer with a member of upper management. He even waived the fees to balance the tires. Apparently this manager has been with WalMart for eight years. I'm sure that he's looking for other employment.
While I was paying my bill a nicely dressed lady (who doesn't own a red Malibu) told me that she had also been waiting for an extended period of time. She complimented my cool demeanor (so there) and even praised my precise enunciation and use of the English language. I think that she might have been an English teacher. Needless to say, that was a little odd.
Once I had my keys (all grease covered) and headed to my car I was approached again by the TLE manager. He apologized again, and wished me a nice day. That was a nice touch. It's probably the only reason I didn't head to the sporting goods department once I saw the greasy fingerprints all over my steering wheel.
posted by Keith @ 6:00 AM
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