One sad side-effect of getting older and, in particular, getting older as a white man, is that you slowly but inexorably turn into the caricature of a grumpy old man that you always laughed about in your youth. I’m regularly informed by my sons that I am, indeed, “that guy.” I still live in hope that my descent into the status of “old, white man” is temporary but I suspect it’s a permanent state of affairs.
Anyway, on to the old man reckons. The other day the big twin axle trailer we use at work needed a Warrant of Fitness. This necessitated a visit to our local mechanic, the same mechanic that has maintained the various Cactus vehicles for over 25 years. Murray and Helen are always friendly and can always fit in a last-minute service or some unscheduled repair. They’re the epitome of what old-school mechanics were – small businesses, run by the people who own them and with an understanding that customers stay customers for decades if you look after them.
I was thinking about those guys the other day when I needed a service on a new (ish) electric vehicle. Vehicle in question had been purchased from a car dealer and it came with a service plan, and so, for the first time, I was using the services of someone other than our old faithful mechanic. It was an experience that was equal parts frustrating and enlightening. The vehicle has developed a bit of a strange noise from the rear suspension so, as it was due for a regular service the other day, I wanted to get them to look at it.
And here is where the difference between the old style of mechanic and the new, more corporate style, comes in. You see with the new guys you don’t ever actually get to see, let alone talk to, a mechanic. The workshops (if they in fact have them) are hidden behind what could actually pass for a inner-city cafe – replete with coffee machines and good-looking sales staff with flash suits and aftershave to match. It’s somehow like the actual task you’re looking for – the mechanical work on a vehicle – is an afterthought and it’s the coffee, the sales patter and the allure of the aftershave that customers are actually there for. And don’t even think about just dropping your car in, these places run a booking system that needs to be negotiated a week or more in advance.
Unperturbed, I dropped my car off and picked it up the same day. As readers have likely surmised, the car maintained its annoying clunk. Obviously, I called the service desk and mentioned this and suggested that perhaps they might like to take another look at it. Pleasingly, someone called back and arranged a day for me to drop the car in for an extended sojourn, and a loaner vehicle for the duration. This vehicle, being a primary mode of transport, I requested that they contact me to arrange. And as readers will no doubt have already predicted, I heard… nothing.
Not only did I hear nothing, but I received a couple of days later one of those automated text messages that make you think, for a fleeting second, that they’re from a real person. It was full of bonhomie and personalisation and expressed sincere good wishes that I was satisfied with the service I’d received. I, of course, replied that I wasn’t particularly satisfied and that I was still waiting for some contact to sort out the original problem I’d brought the car in for.
Since that time… crickets. Not a whisper on text, email, phone or even carrier pigeon.
Now the breakdown in service is one thing, but the thing that really gets my goat is all the investment in the flash coffee machine, all the couture on display by the sales staff, and all those automated systems that probably cost quite a lot, did nothing to actually ensure that I got what I was there for: my vehicular issue resolved quickly and painlessly.
I get that we’re wired to do things online – hell, I prefer to do most of my transacting online as well, it generally being easier, quicker and more efficient than talking to a human being. But my real beef is that by affixing a very thin veneer of pseudo-service to what they do, this particular organisation has actually ensured that things have been taken down a few notches.
Murray isn’t big on the whole internet thing, and the one time I braved my way out back to his tea room there wasn’t a fancy coffee machine anywhere to be seen. But I know that, if I drop a vehicle in there with a problem needing fixing, pretty much every time he’ll make sure it gets fitted in. That makes up for the absence of a coffee machine, the lack of automated notification wizardry, and expensive aftershaves.
