Secret Seats

Alright?

Have you ever or do you now work in a customer facing job? Even if you haven't, you should be aware of this, but for the customer service veterans out there, would you care to tell me the biggest lie out there today? Just shout it right at your screen. Go ahead, I'll wait.

"The customer is always right."

Are they fuck! We all know this is bullshit, yet we have to adhere to its ridiculous principles. In recent job interviews I've stated my view as "The customer is always wrong, but we have to treat them as though they're not." That is the essence of any job. You're paid to provide expertise to aid an avalanche of arseholes who will insist (free of charge) that they know better in spite of any reasonable grasp of facts.

Just today, a woman came to speak to me a few minutes after having collected her tickets for a show. She'd purchased what we call "Secret Seats", which are two or three times less in price than the rest of the seats on sale, on the understanding that you won't know until the day where you will be sitting. That's the hook. You could be sitting in the stalls, the grand circle, or the upper circle. All we guarantee is that you'll have a full, unobstructed view and that, if you've bought more than one seat together, then we will put you sitting beside each other. Sweet deal, and the major hint is in the title. Not good enough today. Not for her.

"This isn't a premium seat."
"No, you're right. You purchased a Secret Seat."
"I read that it guaranteed me a premium seat in the stalls or grand circle."

She clung to the "fact" that she'd read this on our website. She didn't. Still, I can't outright tell a customer to fuck off with bullshit claims, so all I could do was assure her that IF she read that anywhere on our website, it was entirely mistaken. Why would we guarantee a premium seat, but not charge premium seat prices? What kind of business sense is there to that? I found the terms and conditions as stated on our website, and turned my screen around to face her. All the while, I remained cordial and professional as I listened to her repeat the "facts" she held true. Nowhere on there did it mention anything that resembled her claims. She insisted she would never have bought them, had it said she would be anywhere other than centre stalls/grand circle. The information she was quoting "from our website" was contradicted entirely by the information I was quoting....actually from our website.

So that's that then, surely? Argument settled? Customer realises they're completely mistaken and wanders back to their full view seat, pride wounded but a little wiser?

You've never worked with the public before have you?

"I'm not happy about this!" she bellowed, as she stomped away with a look of purest hate. She was ire defined. And why? All because I couldn't honour an offer that existed only in the deepest fictions of her mind.

Lady, I'm not paid enough to deal with your functional stupidity. I'm paid just enough to pay my rent and eat enough to stay alive. That's it. I'm not in this job for glamour, or riches. I'm in this job for two reasons, and they are as fucking follows:

1) To live.
2) Rightly, or wrongly, I still enjoy dealing with a percentage of you clinically fucktarded, bargain bin quality cardboard cut-outs of the criminally insane.

Frequent readers may be aware that the theatre I'm working at presently isn't always the busiest. Yet, right now, we're busy as fuck. We've got a more or less sold out show on for the next few weeks, and we're kind of flat out right now. It's glorious! Show me an insanely busy box office, and I will show you a god damn happy box office. Aside from the fact that being this occupied means that the day no longer drags, it reminds me of the fact that a majority of the people out there are not complete cock hostels.

When you're quiet, the only people you might deal with are those that are afflicted with that special kind of entitled stupidity. Morons can be dealt with. Morons with a God complex, less so. If you start a conversation with a person in customer service by saying "I know this is stupid but...." our job is to tell you you're not stupid, and hold your hand as we walk you through whatever truly stupid thing you've done. That's alright. People are stupid. All of us. That's why you're talking to the people who know what to do in this area in which you are not well versed. It's the fuckers who talk down to you while asking for your help that are a plague. Being busy dilutes their number rather than drowning them out entirely, but we'll take it.

You're a season ticket holder, a friend of the venue, a patron, a platinum member, or some such shite as that, and you want to exchange your ticket? No fucking problem mate. Sit back and let us do our thing. We'll get you the best that can be gotten, cos it's what we're paid to do. So what part of this transaction needs you to treat us like we're beneath you exactly? You need us, motherfucker! You bought a ticket for a performance you can no longer attend, and we're trading this to a different date free of charge. It's an almost sold out show, so we can only offer you seats that are a couple of rows back from where you would have been sitting on the original date. Seats that would be in the same price band. Seats that are still dead centre and among the best in the house. Sweet deal, right?

So, why in the almighty fuck do you see fit to throw a hissy fit in the foyer at how "disgusting" it is that we can't get the exact same seats you had in your original booking, four months after it was made? Disgusting? Really? This is disgusting to you!? Leaving aside all the actual, real world events that deserve your disgust, your revulsion, and your genuine concern, and focusing on the small scale situation at hand- you're horrified that we're not willing to grab some other punter by the shoulders and chuck them to the floor so you can sit in the seats they've paid good money for?

And we have to be nice to these people. They know it too. They have the kind of security that only comes from knowing that we can't casually stroll over to them, slap them across the chops, and shake them until Sam Beckett Quantum Leap's into them at the exact moment they became such an insufferable twat lozenge.

Last year, someone threatened to make an official complaint about me in another job. This customer came to collect tickets for a show, but didn't know any of the specific details of the booking that we required. Her friend had made the booking on her behalf, and she had no idea of anything other than the fact it was for this day's sold out matinee performance. I spent twenty minutes speaking to her, constantly batting away the credit card she kept pushing at me while sneering obnoxiously at me to someone she really needed to speak to on the phone at that precise time. When I eventually convinced her to call her friend to find out the facts of the booking, she would talk to them in front of me about how incompetent I was being for not being able to search using her card details. I'd explained to her multiple times by this point that the box office system in place wouldn't allow me to do this. The friend had deleted their email confirmation, and couldn't remember the name or postcode they'd booked under. My customer insisted there could only be one name and postcode combo they were under. They were not. Then it could only be this one. Or this one. Each one a certainty that rung hollow. I was polite throughout, and stated frequently that I would absolutely find her booking, and that she would be in her seat well before the show started. The only time I briefly lost my cool with her was when she interrupted my explanation for the fifth time with her assertion that I could find her booking with her name alone. Our database covered not just Edinburgh, not just Scotland, but the whole of many linked venues throughout the UK. Hers was not an uncommon name. I was momentarily terse with her when I relented and stated that the search had returned 913 results. Eventually, we found a back door way of locating her tickets. The name and postcodes she was offering me had each been wrong. One was close enough that it had probably been mistyped by the friend when booking online.

Was she happy? Did she thank me for my efforts, or apologise for her errors?

She told me she was going to make an official complaint about me. I had made her look like an idiot in front of the 15 year old daughter who was trying to drag her away from me by the arm at this point. I took off my name badge to move it closer to her, as I quoted the number she could call to lodge any official complaint she wanted. I had witnesses to back me. She had righteous idiocy backing her. No complaint went through, but I know I would have been backed 100% had it done so. Still, I needed to step outside to clear my head for a few after that one. It gets to you.

The next day, I was on duty alongside the deputy box office manager. A kind faced lady came in on behalf of a charity to ask if there were any complimentary tickets that we could arrange to provide them for a raffle prize at their next fundraiser. Between the two of us, we explained that it was unlikely at this point. The show was far enough into its run that we were mostly sold out, and all charity requests that we could accommodate had long since been dealt with. Nonetheless, the deputy box office manager, the indomitable J Bomb as she should be known, provided details and names of who this lady could attempt to contact about it. She even gave her own details to the customer should they be slow in responding. The woman thanked us for our help, and left. It was a rare and nice contrast to have someone seemingly satisfied with our work.

She lodged an official complaint later that hour.

The kindly woman made a complaint that we were rude, unhelpful and scoffed at her request for tickets. She was working for a bloody charity! Her complaint was more or less laughed out of the office. Apparently they get this sometimes, where a customer hopes making a complaint will see the company give them tickets as an apology gesture. Luckily, the people she complained to happened to be in the foyer on an unrelated matter at the time we were dealing with her. They'd heard the whole thing and knew exactly what she was up to when they got her call.

Let that sink in though. We tried to help this woman, and she responded by making an official complaint. She was perfectly happy to jeopardise the jobs of two people who had attempted to help her, in pursuit of a raffle prize. Bitch, were you working for this charity on commission to buy back your soul from the devil!?

Here's the thing, we want to help you. A happy customer who has been satisfied with the job we've done is exactly what we're aiming for. Dealing with nice people makes the job, man. We don't care if you don't know what you're doing, or if you're a bit difficult, so long as you appreciate that we're trying to fucking help you. A couple of weeks ago, I witnessed a customer coming to the box office after a show specifically to apologise for being a bit short with someone earlier that day. We hadn't remembered them being particularly impolite, much less in comparison with some of the people we deal with on a daily basis. That apology can fuel your good days for a week or more. Same day, an actor was dickishly rude to my colleague (shout out to Cinderella for her suffering) as she went out of her way to help him with a request that had absolutely nothing to do with us. Thing is, even he asked someone to phone across later to apologise for taking his bad mood out on her. It didn't erase the poor behaviour from beforehand, but it was a nice gesture and a step in the right direction. It's the little things.

I'm not saying you have to have worked in a customer service role to comprehend any of this, but it really does give you some perspective on how people are treated whilst getting paid little more than pocket lint for the pleasure. Before I did this stuff, I heard about how a girl I know who worked in a bar would deal with rude customers who would shake money in her face to get her attention. She would calmly take their money, tear it up in front of them and hand it back. Her manager would apologise and tape the money back together. I remember thinking that was a kind of shitty thing for her to do, no matter how rude the dudes or lady dudes at the bar were being. Opinions change.

I hold my tongue 60% of the time I'm faced with a bad customer. Often I'll share times from that 40% where I don't, for the entertainment of others.

Every day I meet someone whose money I wish I could tear up and hand back to them. Stop being a dick to people who are paid to help you do the things you can't do.