I Spit On Vonage...Tweh!

A pox on them! Last night, I was in the middle of a phone call...no, I was in the beginning of a phone call. My brother-in-law had just said "Hello" when my phone died. I was alarmed, but not distraught. I just went and got the other phone from my bedroom...and nothing. No dial tone. In confusion, I checked the lights on my modem. I'll explain for the uninitiated. I use Vonage service for my phone, which means that my phone line is directly connected to my internet. Ergo, if my internet is not working, my phone will not work. Internet was working, though, so I went to the Vonage Help Center. They gave me a list of steps for "troubleshooting the device", which I went through patiently. Nada. "No problem," I thought, "I'll just wait until 9 and I'll call them from my cell." Y'all know how it is; no-minutes wahala. It's at times like this I wish I could switch to T-Mobile. 1000 minutes for $40...I mean, is that a gift from God or what?

Anyway, thusly it became 9 o'clock on the night of September 20, whence I ventured upon the dialling of Vonage Technical Support. Like magic, I found myself talking to Deepa of Mumbai, India. IN Mumbai, India. I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I get very irritated when I am talking to a technical support person who, first of all, does not know jack-all about the equipment they are technically supporting, beyond following printed orders that their oga in New York faxed to them. This is often the case when I have to discuss technical matters with any Patel, Singh or Shah that these American companies thrust my way. As soon as Deepa answered the phone, I hissed. I hissed, but I laughed a little because I knew what was going to happen. She was going to make me repeat what I had already done, then send me to someone else to talk to. I figured since I already knew what she was going to do, I might as well graciously comply and obey. I just knew my patience would be rewarded with a speedy transfer back to America. I am an idiot.

For the next 45 minutes, Deepa and I played "Simon Says". By now, many of you know that I have quite the temper. The only way I can control it, for now, is to shut up. So I never said anything. Literally. My utterances were rarely more than a "Mm-hm?" Deepa, on the other hand, was full of orders: Ok, ma'am, can you now unplug the Vonage device from the wall? Now unplug your cable modem. Now plug them back. Now check to see if you have a dial tone. Now go online and type in this IP address. Now carefully follow my instructions, which I will give to you as though you are a retarded four-year-old, as we do these eight or nine things. Now let's do everything again from the beginning five more times." And I never said anything to her except "Mm-hm."

Actually, that's not completely accurate. I remember one time, she said, "Ma'am, can you please plug another phone into your Vonage device and check to see if that has a dial tone?" I was on edge; my voice was gravelly and shaking moderately as I struggled to control myself. I said, "And where am I supposed to get another phone?" Deepa asked, with great incredulity, "You mean you don't have another phone that you can use to check if you have a dial tone?" At that point, what I wanted to say was, "You are very stupid! Does your father have phone?? If you don't come to work, do you smell phone in your village that you are asking me why I don't have spare phone??" But I controlled myself...a little. I employed sarcasm. Instead, I said, "Sorry, I don't happen to keep a stack of phones in my closet for occasions such as this. But I will remember to do that in the future." Deepa ignored me and we carried on for another 25 minutes, she intermittently placing me on hold then coming back to give me more orders, me intermittently hissing and emitting low, "Ohhhhhs" every time she made me "unplug the Vonage device, then unplug the cable modem, then plug them back in and check to see whether you have a dial tone."

I fell of my chair in shock when she finally admitted defeat and transferred me back to America to "Level 2" technical support. There was something about hearing that American accent that soothed me, so I could speak again. Plus, my "technician" was a black lady who was just reading my mind, so you know what helped improve my mood considerably. The first thing she said was, "Oh, well, you guys did everything!" I said, "Well, if after 45 minutes we hadn't, I would be shocked beyond disbelief." She also asked me to disconnect my Vonage device and the modem, bla bla bla, however, she kept apologizing so profusely for making me do it yet again, that I was even happy to comply. She only did it once, but for some reason, this call took almost as long as the last one. 35 minutes later, she said she would transfer me to Level 3 in the chain of authority. Level 3! I was encouraged. Not solely because I thought this was the end of my nearly 2-hour long drama, but because I really couldn't afford to get upset anymore. It's been a tough week emotionally, and I think my heart is about to give out. However, the dude at Level 3 had other plans for me.

So I got connected to Bob, who spoke in the brisk, curt manner of the technically savvy super geek. For some reason, his attitude set me back on edge. He's at Level 3, for goodness' sake. Surely, he knows that only the worst of problems meet him at his doorstep. He has to know that the people who reach him have been frustrated beyond their wits by the numbskulls on Levels 1 and 2. Yet he had no mercy. He asked me to verify my name, account number and billing address (which everyone had done already, and which is a step I find so time-consuming and redundant, even though I know why they think it's necessary), then he asked the same question that I had been asked at every level: "What can I help you with?" I told him: "I don't have a dial tone." He began to ask me to go on the internet and type in this IP address that I had memorized back in Level 1, when I said, "Oh boy, which levels be dis na? No be Level 3 we de so? You no tink say I don do all this one before? Abi you wan make I tell you all your password before you go believe say I don de on top this matter for almost 2 hours? Abeg, abeg, fall in, make we end this kwanta one time!" That's when he said, "Oh ok, let me check your notes here and see what you've done." A whole Level 3 "technician" and he could not even read the notes before he started talking and giving me order. Even the babe at Level 2 knew to do that! I tensed my jaw. One clench, two clenches.

The guy was still going to make me restart all the modems o, but kai, I had had enough. I said, "No, I've been unplugging and plugging for 2 hours, I...am...done!" Then he said, "OK OK, I'll send you out a new device and you should get it in a couple of days. Your device is faulty." You're all saying "No shit!"; I said it too, under my breath. But I was more concerned about this "in two days" matter because I was going to be out of town from Friday until Monday, and I knew that they'd send it back to sender on Monday. I told him this and said, is there nothing else you can do? He said, "Well, we only have two-day delivery, that's all we offer." I was quiet for a while, because I was partly in shock and partly enraged. I had been on the phone since 9pm, it was now almost 11:30pm and this is what it had come down to?? The low, gravelly voice came back and said the following, very slowly: "I am telling you that I will not be in town when this device is going to be delivered to me. It will almost certainly be returned to you people and I will be without my phone. You people will still charge me as though I have a working phone. And I do not want to have to wait for another 3 or 4 weeks before I get a fucking device in the mail. I have been on the phone with you people for TWO HOURS and you are trying to tell me that there is nothing you can do to help me? Is that what you're telling me?"

He was thinking. I could hear the wheels turning in his nut-sized brain (and I'm not talking about coconut). He started to repeat himself about there being only two-day delivery, then he said, "OK, ma'am hold on, let me just see if I can do something." The air was tense with expectation. I thought, could this really be getting resolved?" On the phone, there was a click, then a ring, then...a voice.

"You have reached the Vonage Account Management department. Our hours are from 8am to __pm. Please call back during our regular business hours. Goodbye." Click. Busy tone.

As I recovered from the blood vessel that burst in my brain, I realized that I was still holding my phone to my ear and that my eyes were closed. I gripped the phone tighter, then held it as though I were going to make another phone call. I wanted to call my boy, but I really could not bring myself to open my eyes. It took nearly two minutes, but I briefly released my eyelids, just long enough to find his number and press "Send". The poor guy was asleep, and he answered, but when I couldn't even open my mouth to utter a response to his two Hello's, he hung up and, I'm assuming, went back to sleep. I, on the other hand, continued to sit in my desk chair, eyes closed, holding the phone. A few moments later, I shut down the computer, turned off all the lights in my apartment and crawled under my bedsheets, fully dressed. I lay on my back, eyes still closed, hand over my eyes, furiously shaking my right leg and trying to resist the urge to curse Vonage and everything they stood for. This is how I fell asleep.

I woke up this morning and resolved to try again, this time using my few remaining precious minutes. I called India. This time, I spoke to Sheba. She attempted to take me through the whole rigmarole again, and I said, no. Transfer me to Level 3. Now. She put me on hold for 3 minutes, then transferred me to Level 2. The man there said, "How may I help you?" I told him my story, then waited for his response. Rien. Zip, nada, zilch. "Hello?" I asked. Then again, "Hello!?" Click. Busy tone.

I became so angry, I become happy again. I laughed, then called India once more. Now Irwinder picked up. Went through the whole Exodus journey again; he transferred me to Level 2. Frank there, insisted on walking me through the whole troubleshooting journal for the umpteenth time. I insisted that I would fly to his house and strangle him in his sleep if he dared to try my patience this early morning. Long story short, I won. Sort of. They're sending my new device in the mail and, hopefully, I'll be here by the last delivery attempt. It's a bittersweet victory. I'm not getting a credit on my account, and I have to pay to return the one that's defective. But what can I do? I'm not Bill Gates, Oprah, or even Jessica Simpson; they don't have to make me happy in order to keep my money.

I'm not going to class today. There's a girl there, Frannie, who is an ITK extraordinaire and has self-appointed herself as our second professor because she spent the summer working for the NIH, which means that she knows more than all of us combined, including our 50-something-year-old esteemed professor. I don't know why she is taking the class with we brainless twits if she already knows everything there is to know and wants to teach instead. If I go to class today, I will tell her to shove it. So I'll just pack for my trip to Atlanta tomorrow to see my new niece. She better be cute.

Update: Ees a meeraycul! I just picked up the phone and it's mysteriously started working again! This, after my internet connection went a little crazy, and I just see now that my microwave has also reset itself. I dunno what's going on here but, thank Providence, I've got my phone back! Now if only Providence could get someone at Vonage to answer their phone so I can cancel that order...