The sounds coming through my head-set were all but unintelligible. Years of practice, in conversation with heavily-accented clients, pressed the ear-piece closer, and my eyes squinted as I struggled to compose some kind of language from the noise.
The voice was deeply androgynous, and as it droned I heard age. A pattern soon formed, offering up an accent I can’t say I’ve ever heard before. It was southern, and something more. It was southern in a certain way, an earthy way, a way that said “I’ve seen some things…”.
I cautioned myself against the use of gender-specific personal pronouns as I questioned the client, finally deciding I was speaking to a man. He had purchased our product from one of our retailers, only to find that he didn’t need it. It didn’t cost much, but as I know from personal experience, “much” is a relative term. When I was creating dinners for four from a single chicken breast, twenty dollars was a lot of chicken.
He struggled for words, just as I struggled to understand them. He struggled to hear, as I repeated myself, more slowly, in competition with a voice in his background. The picture of an aged, somewhat deaf, African-American man of little means, and less hope, filled my head as he spoke. I asked if he minded holding while I looked up the number for the store.
A young, feminine voice answered by giving the name of the establishment in a bright sing-song voice. Her warmth grew when I identified myself.
“We have a mutual customer.”
“Uh-huh…” Her guarded tone told me she knew of whom I spoke. She didn’t let me get very far.
“Hold on a minute.” Her voice was forced through lips too tight to sing.
I sat through several equally-paced mechanical beeps before a male voice identified himself, complete with title.
Again, my story was interrupted.
“We don’t usually do this.” His words were clipped, and I imagined a look of strained consternation on his impeccably shaved face.
I empathized with his reasoning before explaining his lack of risk.
His voice became sardonic, as he detailed the trials of meeting our customer’s expectations, and the likelihood that doing so would set a precedence of meeting expectations, and “before you know it…”
I marveled as I listened, wondering if the ridiculous words he spoke ever actually breached his own consciousness.
He finished with, “Had this been our mistake, we would surely do whatever we could. The customer made a mistake, and when one makes a mistake, there is a price to pay.”
The spark his earlier words had lit threatened to burst into flames as I worked to squelch an indignant response, deciding instead to appeal to his humanity.
“I feel like he may be working through some challenges.” It is very difficult to be politically correct when steaming with indignation.
Anger worked its way underneath his patronizing tone as he spit, “If you are telling me to do this…”
The benevolent features of my supervisor superimposed themselves over the angrily tight visage I was speaking with, and I acquiesced, thanking my busy client for his time, and taking a deep breath before picking up the receiver again.
“I’m sorry…”, I began.
My ear adjusted more easily this time, as the drawl formed words on contact, and I remembered to speak loudly, precisely, and carefully.
It wouldn’t be timely. He wouldn’t have his twenty dollars in time for his next trip to the grocery store, but I could meet his need. I offered to send him a form that would expedite his return.
“Can I have your name?” I readied my pen.
“Jeanine.”, came the garbled voice.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
Stacye, I relate to this. I’ve been in your shoes and you’ve drawn the feelings beautifully. And thank for the refund.