A What in the Where?

You should know that whenever you talk to a person in technical support, we're really only listening to about every third sentence you say. It's not that I don't care what your problem is, it's that chances are good I've already heard whatever it is you're saying a million times before.

So why don't I just tell clients to be quiet when they go off on a tangent, ranting and raving in 10-minute orations? Two reasons. First of all, it's rude to interrupt someone, even if you're trying to save them from themselves. Second of all . . . it's impossible to do. When people start reading things from their computer, nothing you can say or do will dissuade them from reading every single thing in their sight before they pause for breath. When they run out of words on their screen, they will pick up the newspaper next to their desk and start reading that, then they'll turn on their television and read the closed captioning to you. For some reason, people go nuts when they start reading you things. I guess they're excited that you finally gave them an instruction that they can follow.

As a result, when I am on a call that features a person who really enjoys the sound of their own voice, I will continue doing whatever it is I was doing before they called and will just listen for keywords. For example, the client's side of the conversation may go something like this:

"My name is Ethel Kadiddlehopper and I'm having trouble downloading my grandbabies in my e-mail. I've been a loyal customer of your's for [insert ridiculous amount of time here, often longer than the company has been in existence]. Let me tell you what I've been doing. My daughter, Martha May, sent me some pictures of my little grandbabies, Scooter and Skeeter. They moved so far away when Martha May's husband got a job working at the chemical plant and the only reason I use the e-mail is so I could still see what they looked like. You know, for a woman my age it's very difficult to travel so far, especially since social security won't pay for my gasoline to drive so far, and my bones ache from the arthritis when I'm in the car for so long. So Martha May took those two little grandbabies of mine to the park and took some pictures of them on the swings with her new camera and then she e-mailed them to me, because she knows I like to look at pictures of the grandbabies since I'm 87 years old and can't get around as well as I used to . . ."

Do you know what part of all of that I actually heard? "Trouble" and "e-mail." For the rest of the time I was trying to beat my high score on minesweeper.

Every now and then, though, a word will jump out at and cause a tech to start carefully hanging onto every word you say. For me, the most recent example of this was the word "squealing."

The conversation was very similar to what I posted above, with an elderly woman going on and on about how old she is and how terrible Medicare is treating her. I was tuning most of it out until I heard that word. All of a sudden I backed up my train of thought.

"Wait, did you just say that when you turn on your computer it starts squeaking?"

"Yes, that's what I said. You see I wouldn't have noticed it because normally I have my televangelist playing on the television set but today-"

"Okay, what kind of squeaking is it exactly? Does it sound like metal rubbing together or something?" I won't lie, I was excited - I don't often get something new in tech support, so I latch on when I hear something unusual.

"Well, no, not like metal exactly. It reminds me of when my husband was fighting in the war and he would bring home-"

"Yeah yeah, whatever, listen: I want to look at that computer. Can you bring it in?"

"Well I'm 92 years old, it's awfully heavy for me to be carrying around, since I got the arthritis and-"

"Okay, nevermind, just tell me where you live and I'll be right out."

The woman tells me where her house is and I get in my car and start driving. She lives very close to the office, so I'm there within five minutes.

She lives in a typical "old person" house, with massive flower gardens running up and down her cracked cement walkway and several wind chimes hanging on the porch. Mrs. Kadiddlehopper (my official name for all women whose names I don't know) is waiting for me at the front door.

"I'm so glad you're here, ever since John passed away I haven't been able to do anything around the house and . . ."

The woman keeps talking but I tune her out because I can see her computer in the corner of her living room. I beeline straight for the machine and flip it on. Sure enough, there is a distinct squeaking sound coming from the box. I don't know how else to describe it.

Pulling the computer out from the wall, I take a screwdriver from my field kit and pop the case open. Tossing the case to one side, I bend down for a closer inspection of the computer's innards.

That's when the rat leapt at my face.

No kidding. There was a rat living in Mrs. Kadiddlehopper's computer. I jumped back more rapidly than I thought humanly possible. The rat jumped off my knee and ran out the still-open front door.

Without saying a word I put the case back on the tower and hooked it all back up.

"Well, Mrs. Kadiddlehopper," I say, "I think the squeaking should be alleviated now. I'd love to stay and chat but I need to run home and change my shorts."

For once, Mrs. Kadiddlehopper was speechless.