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Best/Worst Practices Showdown: American Backbone Trumps Russian Deceit
“Thirty-five dollars.” 
Me: “What?!”
My question was on two levels — first, his accent was so thick you could layer it on with a trowel. That, and the fact that the price was wrong.
His “Thirty-five dollars” sounded more like “dirty bibe dollarsusk.” Mentally I’m trying to nail down the accent’s geography. Russian? Chechen? Georgian?
Since I didn’t get his name, we’ll just generically refer to him as Boris. I’m thinking Boris of moose and squirrel fame.
Boris the Bamboozler: “Vhat isk problemisk?”
Ah. There, I have it. Chechen, though close to the Georgian border. For the strangest reasons, a number of college girlfriends were Slavic, which gave me an ear for the regions’ dialects.
And no “problemisk” at all, bunkie, I say to myself. Other than the fact that I’m just standing here with a 50 pound elderly microwave that I’m going to pay you to get rid of for me.
And make no mistake, he is trying to bamboozle me.
It’s not like we got off to a great start, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that he is trying to cheat me. And that has never been
a good plan to win friends and influence people with Mama Terry’s boy.
I know what he’s trying to do and I know that I have the facts on my side. So picture Bugs Bunny, grinning to the audience as he balances a huge wooden mallet behind the back, just waiting to bring it down on Yosemite Sam’s head.
But how in the world did I get in this predicament?
The Redhead and I got a new microwave and because I lost rock-paper-scissors with her (she cheats, btw), I had the unenviable task of finding a recycling center and taking it there.
Unfortunately, it was 15 miles away and in a part of Seattle haunted by seedy strip malls on the decline.
And this “large electronics recycler” recommended by the state, was in the seediest part of the seediest strip mall in the area.
So I heft up the unwieldy microwave, website printout in hand and make my way into the store.
Only it wasn’t really a store or a shop. It was a rented space filled with discarded large appliances — an elephants graveyard for unwanted appliances.
Standing in the middle and yakking in Russian was my new “dear and good friend,” Boris.
Without breaking a syllable to the person on the other end of the line, he stabs his finger in the direction of where he wants me to plant the microwave.
Nice manners, I think.
Phone still to his ear, he looks dismissively at me and mutters, “Dirty bibe dollarsusk.”
And again jabs his hairy sausage fingers where he wants me to place the money. Oh I see now, he’s not going to take it from me, he wants me to put the money next to the microwave and leave. Nice again.
But I’m not going to play his game. I’ve got one of my own.
I stand there expectantly. Waiting.
Finally he stops talking to the phone and looks at me like I’m a retard. Again he jabs his finger next to the microwave and repeats, “Dirty bibe dollarsusk.”
To myself, I think [Bug's voice] “He don’t know me very well, do he?” Let the games begin.
Me [with as much wide-eyed innocence I can muster]: “You talkin’ to me or the phone?” [with a touch of De Niro in Taxi Driver]
His eyes bug out at me and he amazingly stops his steady stream of monologue to the person on the other end.
Me: “Well if you’re too busy talking on the phone, I can leave . . .”
I turn slightly, pointedly leaving the microwave behind. With all the rude . . . insulting . . . insolent behavior I’ve tolerated thus far, I wouldn’t feel a twinge of regret at leaving it without paying.
He clicks off the phone without even a goodbye.
“Dirty bibe dollarsusk!” Not shouting, but loudly insisting. Too loudly.
‘Don’t make me angry,’ I think as I turn. ‘You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’
I flash the paperwork, the printout of the state’s recycling page, along with his “recycling center’s” hours, rates and location, plus the same info from his “electronic’s center” website.
Me: “It says here $20. The state of Washington and your own store’s homepage says $20.”
His mouth opens and closes a few times, but nothing comes out.
Me: “Two different data sources corroborate the same price-point, $20. You tell me it’s $35. Someone is . . . [lying] incorrect. Could you possibly tell me whom?”
Boris: “Well we have fees . . . expenses. It costs us to –”
I hold up my hand, interrupting.
Me: “Stop. Look, it’s a very simple yes or no question. Either the state of Washington is wrong and their site is outdated, in which case I’ll happily pay the $35 because that’s no fault of your own. Or, someone else is lying . . . incorrect. Are you saying they are wrong?”
His eyes darted left and right so fast that it’s like watching a metronome set on high. Reminds me of the Windows hourglass icon for ‘Waiting . . .’ as it accesses the hard drive.
I point to the printout of his store’s website, “Oh look. Your site also says it’s $20.”
He’s caught red-handed and he knows it. But I’m not done yet. I pull out my “gun” — the ever-trusty cellphone.
Me: “Look, it’s a quick call to the state’s Office Of Recycling. The number’s right here. If there’s an error on their part, I’m sure they’ll be glad to set the record straight. Shall we call? I’ll put it on speakerphone so you won’t miss a word.”
Again, with the eyes back and forth. Don’t ever take up poker, bubski.
Boris: “Twenty dollars.”
Me: “That’s what I thought you said. That fakakta language barrier. Whattya gonna do, eh?”
I hand the money to him and wait for him to take it. I am not going to let him treat me like a commodity by placing it next to the microwave. I can tolerate a lot of things, but disrespect ain’t one of them.
And without a word he heads to the backroom. But . . . I’m not quite done yet.
Me: “What, no receipt?”
He stops. Now he gets to do the slow, smoldering turn. I’m really trying hard not to crack a smile.
Me: “Well, you’re conducting state business, which I’m sure is in full compliance with the recycling rules and regs — and you’re not recording the transactions? You’re not giving both parties a record of that transaction?’
He doesn’t say anything.
Me: “Seems a bit . . . I dunno . . . a bit shady. I’m just sayin.” [the Jersey is back, courtesy of Tony Soprano this time.]
As I walk out to the car, I can feel his eyes burning into my back, and a sideways glance as I unlock the door confirms it.
Time for more fun.
I channel Columbo — doing the ‘Can’t-believe-I-was-so-stupid” fake smack to the head, I make a big show of rummaging through my coat, obviously looking for something important.
Yep, he’s still watching.
I take the phone, walk over to the front of his store — position myself back and forth in the parking lot a few times as he watches me snap off a couple of pictures. As luck would have it, one with him in it - glaring with furious puzzlement from behind the faux security of his glass door.
Kismet, bub.
Given the Next Steps I formulated when I was walking to the car, the pics may come in handy. Stay tuned to see just how handy. At this point, are you wondering, like I was, just how many people he had pulled this scam on without them saying a word?
[ . . .]
What? Are you still here? You didn’t think this was over yet, did you?
Not by a long shot. But it’s enough for today. Next up I’ll tell you how I fought back, and won. Not only that, I’ll also tell you how I discovered he had pulled his scam on hundreds of people.
Technorati tags: copywriter, info-marketing strategist, provocateur, ROI Copywriting, Walter Terry
By Walter |
Topics: Lessons Learned, Marketing Mishaps, Pet Peeves |
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