The Lost Treasure of Customer Service

As a consumer who appreciates — but only occasionally experiences — excellent customer service, I can relate to archaeologist-adventurer Indiana Jones. In the quest for the rare jewel of outstanding service, the moments are few and far between that I actually get to curl my eager fingers around that elusive treasure. Sad, because customer service was once something companies expected their employees to provide, and something consumers expected to receive. These days it’s so uncommon that, when we do receive it, it’s as though we’ve stumbled in the sand and inadvertently unearthed the bust of Nefertiti.

I’m not talking about an elaborate red carpet treatment. Or fluff. Or bells and whistles. No one expects to be handed a free latte’ when they walk into Walmart, or even to have their groceries carried out for them (although there are still a few places that do this). And let’s be realistic. Not every department store is going to feel like Nordstrom. Nor will every online merchant attain Zappos status. But could we at least have, gee, I don’t know, a few employees who give a rip about whether or not we found what we came for? How about a clerk who rises above mere mumbling and engages in semi-intelligent conversation? Can we please get a salesperson who knows something more about his product than, “We’re out of those.” Is all this too much to ask? Apparently, most of the time, it is. Customer service providers who genuinely care about their customers are ostensibly as rare as Aztec gold.

Lest you think I exaggerate, allow me to share a recent shoe-shopping experience. My son was in dire need of new footwear. He required running shoes, a pair of cross trainers for court sports, and some brown slip-ons to wear with jeans or khakis. For some odd reason I still can’t explain, he wanted me to come along as a wardrobe consultant. You’ll understand my perplexity when I tell you that I long ago entered the “comfort over style” stage of life. My motto is, “If it feels good, looks like it might have been designed for a human, and doesn’t get you arrested, wear it.” Nevertheless, we set out to brave the local mall.

At our first stop, an upscale sporting goods store, we instantly spied a pair of New Balance cross trainers that looked pretty good. Nice and snug. Low arches. On sale. We snagged ’em. Running shoes were another story. My son’s feet aren’t the easiest to fit. He has virtually no arch, and one foot is considerably longer than the other. Since he was going to be pounding the concrete for thirty minutes or more five days a week, they had to cradle his feet just right. We had found his last pair of running shoes after a week-long excursion to every shoe store in the area. We didn’t see that particular model on display, so we asked a salesman for some input.

Without asking a single question about my son’s biomechanics (e.g., “Are you a mild or severe pronator?” “Do you usually run in a guidance shoe or full support shoe?”), he simply asserted, “You’ll need a support shoe; I’d go with one of these.” Wow, a confident recommendation without any probing or discussion about what we wanted or needed in a shoe. Listening between the lines, I heard something like this: “We’re crazy busy, guys. I really don’t have time to discover your needs or preferences. I don’t even really care what brands you’ve tried in the past. Just buy something — preferably one of our most expensive models — and be on your way.” We opted to hold off on running shoes until we could visit a local running store, where the salespeople typically know something about, you know, running and shoes. To that guy’s credit, though, he at least made eye contact and spoke to us, which is more than I can say for the next employee we encountered.

With cross trainers in hand, we approached the cash register (still in the sporting goods store). The line wasn’t short; we waited a good ten minutes to reach the cashier. My son, a friendly guy, greeted the cashier with a smile and a “Hello,” and handed over the box. No response. Crickets. The cashier scanned the box’s code, mumbled the total, bagged the merchandise, and handed the bag to my son. He never asked if we found everything we were looking for, how our day was going, etc. No “Have a nice day,” “Come back and see us,” nothing. I’ve received more human interaction from Siri.

At our next stop, a major department store, we wound our way through a labyrinth of loafers, until my son found a pair he wanted to try. There was not, however, a salesperson in sight. Granted, it was a Saturday, so the store was busy — but we were the only two people in the shoe area. Then we figured out the problem. The men’s suit department was adjacent to the shoe department. Apparently, a suit try-on session had attracted the attention of several employees, including the shoe salesmen.

We walked over to the crowd of onlookers, my son holding a display shoe in his hand. Finally, one of the employees turned and looked at us. That’s all, just looked at us. Apparently he was waiting for us to utter the secret password that would initiate customer service. “Do you have these in a size nine?” my son asked. The guy took the shoe from him, looked inside it, and responded, “This is a nine.” That’s it. That’s all we could get out of him. I’m not making this up. As we continued this little game of Make the customer guess what the salesperson is thinking, I asked, “So you want him to try on the display model?” “Yes,” was the single-syllable answer.

Stay with me; it gets better. As my son sat down to try on the display shoes, it was obvious that he was having trouble getting into one of them. The same guy, Mr. Chatty, noticed my son struggling and started towards him. At last, I thought, we’re going to get some attention. When he finally arrived (he was in no hurry), the salesperson thrust out a long shoehorn and said (again, I’m not making this up), “Here.” That’s it. Not “Let me give you a hand with that” or “How about a shoehorn; much easier that way.” Nope. Just “Here.” Well, we catch on pretty quick. We concluded that other questions we might pose, such as, “Do these come in black?” would drive this dude’s conversation meter into the red zone, causing his head to explode. All was not lost, though. This encounter gave me a great idea for a screenplay: Zombie Shoe Salesmen. They’re here to serve you — for dinner.

Off to store number three, another department store, where we did happen upon a salesperson with a pulse. “Do you have these in a nine?” asked my son. “Let me check for you,” replied the employee. Hope was kindled, and then extinguished. He returned to announce, “We don’t have that size; sorry,” then immediately turned to assist other shoppers. Once could almost hear the air rushing out of our balloon. Good feeling gone. We looked at a few more display models, but most of them were made in China and looked like they would hold up pretty well until you actually walked on them. Apathetic service. Anemic selection. Time to move on.

Our last stop for the day was yet another department store. It wasn’t Nordstrom, but it did exude a friendlier atmosphere than the previous stores. We knew we were in for a different experience when the salesperson smiled, said “Let me check on that for you,” and headed for the stock room. Back she came, balancing a teetering tower of boxes. “We don’t have your size in the shoe you wanted to see,” she said, “but I brought out a few similar styles in your size and price range that you might like.” After a day of dealing with employees who elevated apathy to high art, here was someone who really cared about meeting our needs — and who knew how to engage customers. After comparing several styles and fits, my son settled on a pair of classy brown slip-ons. We complimented the lady on her excellent service and went on our merry way, lamenting the scarcity of such positive experiences. That lady was a real treasure. But treasures are treasures, because they are so rare.

If our shoe-shopping odyssey is a microcosm of the shopping experience in general (and I think it is), why is good customer service the exception these days? I’ve come up with several reasons, most of them based on observation rather than hard data. I’ll save a thorough treatment of those for another post, but I have to think that near the top of the list would be reasons like our culture of self-absorption, a technology-induced devaluing of conversation, and the erosion of common courtesy.

Whatever the causes, the effects are palpable, and companies everywhere are missing countless opportunities to stand out from the crowd and train their employees to engage and delight customers. Aha! New screenplay idea: Indiana Jones and the Trainers of the Lost Art. Maybe? Possibly? Anyone?

Crickets.