Lost in the digital twilight zone

SOMETIMES WHEN I am on hold, listening to a continuous loop of jazz or samba melodies, I lapse into wondering just how much of my life has been spent “on hold,” waiting for someone—anyone—to answer. 

Fifteen minutes here, 18 minutes there, and pretty soon you’ve invested too much time to call it quits. Usually a polite, digital voice interrupts the wait with a reminder that my call is important to them, but that representatives are busy at the moment, and that when my call is finally answered it will be recorded for “quality assurance.” In the meantime, we return to generic jazz. 

I want to say, “I hope your recording of our conversation is of better quality than the one playing this music.” 

After a long wait on hold a few days ago, the digital voice at the bank finally admitted that no one was available to handle my call, and that it would be best if I called back at another time. 

Often, I am instructed to press a number that corresponds with my reason for calling. You know the drill: “Press 1 if you are a doctor or health care provider; Press 2 to make an appointment; Press 3 for a billing question,” etc. Trouble is, often the reason I’m calling is not on that list of options. So while I am lost in a fog of indecision, the digital voice returns to tell me that I have not replied satisfactorily. Our conversation goes downhill from there. 

Recently, I spent a good 20 seconds explaining my problem to a digital voice that I mistook for the real thing—which suggests that artificial intelligence is no match for genuine ignorance. 

If by chance I am connected to the next level, another automated voice wants to know my password, which is such a closely-guarded secret that even I no longer know it. Sometimes my call is answered by a real person in another country who gives me a number to call back in the United States. 

Rod Serling might call it The Twilight Zone. I call it “the transfer portal.” More than once, I have been transferred to another number, and another, and still others—until I wind up on hold (say it with me)—“At the same place I started!” 

Some days I’d welcome a wrong number if I could only speak to a real person. At least that can be entertaining. I got a wrong number when calling a friend in Alabama a while back and wound up having an enjoyable conversation with a total stranger. 

Several summers ago, my friend, the late Marshall Phillips, had ordered a part for his air conditioner from a company called Kool-Air, and had been calling their office nearly every day to see if the part had arrived. He thought he remembered the number, but misdialed. 

When a woman answered, “Hello,” Marshall asked, “Is this Kool-Air?” 

“No,” she said, “but it’s not bad for this time of year.”