Service stories

I usually get good service wherever I go. I think this is because I am male, hygienic, and polite. But, over the past few years, I have found good service to be increasingly rare: and I am still the same sex, still brush my teeth, and still have manners. Last week I carried my old Galant by a car wash in Freeport. There was one car in front me, and the pleasant middle-aged Indo man in charge told me I’d have a half-hour wait. I don’t usually wait half-hour for anything, but I was selling the Galant that evening and I wanted to pass it on clean.  It was actually less than 30 minutes before another guy came and told me to pull into the bay. I drove in and wound up the windows and started to walk off. Then I heard someone say something behind me. When I looked around, there was this red boy sprawled off on an iron chair, eating a sandwich. “Sorry, what?” I asked. He said something I still didn’t make out, so I walked across to him and repeated, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

He watched me with a grin and took a large bite out of his sandwich. “I say, inside-out?” “Oh. Yeah,” I said. He nodded, grinning even more broadly: and I got irritated. “You don’ have to have an attitude about it,” I said. “What? I ask you if you want it inside-out,” he said. “Yeah, and I didn hear you and I come up to you,” I said. He shook his head. I said, “You cyar have attitude in this kind of work, you know.” He half-steupsed, and I went to find the manager: not something I usually do, because on the rare occasions I get bad service, I don’t figure my irritability is worth getting some minimum-wage employee in trouble. At the same time, I don’t excuse bad service. I am especially hasty when it comes to food. There’s a place upstairs Voyager Mall where I used to regularly buy bhaji rice, stew pork and green salad. I usually got a good serving, but on three consecutive occasions, I’d found the pork somewhat inadequate. The third time, I mentioned this to the Indo woman who manages the place. “Whoever was serving was giving you too much,” she said, as if she was vexed with me. “Things gone up.”

I didn’t eat there for several months after that. I didn’t mind if they had raised their price by a dollar or two, and maybe I would have said so if she hadn’t spoken to me as though I had cheated her. Even now, I only go there occasionally, and that’s only because the girls are pretty efficient. But the other food place in the same mall only got two chances: once, when one girl had to tell another “Come and serve de customer” (I left before the latter got off the bucket she was sitting on) and the last time when I got one piece of chicken with my pelau. That time I did think of complaining to the manager, who was actually sitting on the stairs right next to his place. But, like I said, I don’t usually do that.  In the case of the red boy at the car wash, though, everyone else was pretty pleasant: and I felt I should warn them that he alone would drive customers away. I would do the same at Nice City Chinese Restaurant in Mount Lambert, or Trini Flavour on Independence Square, or Mario’s or Papa John’s, because I always have got good service at these places.

Anyway, I got back my car (the boy had left the dashboard damp and the dial screen unwiped, no doubt to show he was man) and dropped it off for the buyer. I don’t miss it, save for the fact that I can no longer kicks off on myself for driving a 20-year-old manual vehicle. I now drive a 2005 Nissan Almera (and my four-digit licence plate has no less than three 6s, which makes me think some devout Christian down at Licensing recognised my name when the documents came in). Actually, I had not planned to get a brand-new vehicle. In March this year, I ordered a foreign-used car from a small dealer. When it comes to bad service, this was surely the worst experience of my life. The dealer promised me the car would come in four weeks and took a 30 percent downpayment. Four weeks later, I didn’t hear from him and, when I called, he said he had made a mistake and the car would take another two weeks to arrive. And so began my stress. The car didn’t actually arrive in Trinidad until August: and, when it did, the dealer kept telling me that problems on the port prevented him clearing it. After three weeks of this, he finally admitted that he hadn’t enough money to clear the container, but expected to get it that week.

Well, that week became next week and next week the next week: and not once did he call me as deadlines passed. Eventually, I had to threaten him with legal action to get back my deposit: and even then he delayed returning my money as long as possible. My own suspicion now is that he was quite happy to let the deal fall through, so he could get a higher price for the car than he had agreed on: after, of course, using my money to pay down on it. And I found it interesting how the stereotypically sly reputation that American used-car salesmen have apparently translates perfectly to local dealers. After that experience, I decided to get a new car. I had already got excellent service from Scotiabank, with Roxanne and, later, Nadia, actually trying to find ways to grant me a loan (not a smooth process when you’re a freelance writer). And Roger at Neal & Massy was the very antithesis of the foreign-used dealer who had so stressed me: he processed my paperwork quickly, had my car ready on time, and followed up after my purchase to ensure I was satisfied. So you can still get pockets of good service in this place, though it’s a losing battle. And I don’t necessarily feel my little gestures have any effect: but I do think I need to make them.

Email: kbaldeosingh@hotmail.com
Website:www.caribscape.com/baldeosingh