A few years ago, I was starting my career in contract-based on-site IT, and in the city of Beverly Hills, this usually meant very easy tickets. Things like “the TV won’t connect to the internet”, or “help me set up a new printer on my home network”.  The Managed Service Provider (the external company that remotely manages a client’s IT infrastructure) I worked with was very chill and usually didn’t send me on any jobs that I couldn’t handle.

Until one day, I got asked to go to a very expensive home and replace the Ring smart doorbell with a Google Nest. 

I thought to myself, easy-peasy, I’ll just have to possibly drill two holes; shouldn’t be an issue. Turns out, the scope of work to be done was much more.

Upon arriving, I was met by the most stereotypical airheaded housewife in a mansion that could house half the homeless in Los Angeles, who gave me the box for the new doorbell, showed me the old, and then left me in peace. I finished the install, demoed the new product working, and was getting ready to head out when she stopped me, grabbed my arm, and said:

Client: “But what about the other cameras I need installed in the new baby’s room?!”

It wasn’t in the ticket, but I figured what the h***, I brought a drill and it’s more Google cameras. I’ll just explain and get the ticket changed! More billable hours anyways.

We walk through the entire compound, through the rooms with the indoor waterfall, up the spiral staircase that was wider than my living room, and into the unborn child’s 25 x 30 feet bedroom, and she explains which cameras go in which corners.

Me: “No problem, the wires can be hidden with cable shields down the wall, and I’ll be done in thirty.”

She got really pouty.

Client: “Why can’t you just hide the wires behind the wall and then have it come out through the outlet?”

I had to very slowly explain that I was IT and not a general contractor or electrician, and punching holes in drywall is way out of my wheelhouse.

Cue the most embarrassingly awkward “get out of my house if you can’t do the work!” rant I’ve ever received.

Anyways, I hopped in my car and called the contact at the Managed Service Provider to explain what just happened, and he goes:

Managed Service Provider: “So, did the doorbell work?”

Me: “Yep.”

Managed Service Provider: “Sounds good.”

He paid me double my rate for all hours. Another happy landing.

I’m working on a client request to upload some contacts into his account (CRM tech support – customer relationship management, basically a system for managing all of your company’s interactions with current and potential customers). Pretty standard. 

For some quick context, we can upload as many contacts as you want, but it obviously takes longer depending on how many are in your file. Also, to upload contact files from a spreadsheet, we have to assign the spreadsheet columns to fields in the system using our little upload program. Which means that clients are supposed to put their contacts’ info in relevant columns; one column each for the name, phone number, email address, etc. 

This client in particular was feeling a little frisky that day.

He had over twenty thousand contact records. Thanks, I hate it. The file was a mess, with names in the “Phone Number” column, random strings of text in the “Email” column, bits of address info just scattered throughout the entire thing.

It was as if Jackson Pollock had a fight with Microsoft Excel and won. No way the upload tool was going to accept it.

Half of these contacts didn’t have names or contact info, just descriptions. Contacts do have to have at least a first or last name in order to be uploaded.

The ticket was titled “URGENT”, which automatically puts you in my personal Sinner’s Queue as last priority.

I send a detailed email letting him know everything wrong with the file and what he needs to fix before it can be uploaded. I close and exit out of the ticket and move on to other work.

Before I’m able to actually move on to anything else, I see a ticket reopened notification in my inbox. Guess who.

Client: “Yes, please upload the contacts as specified; it is very urgent. Thank you.”

I squint at the timestamp on the ticket. Thirty-two seconds between me closing the case and him responding. My dude either has some wild thumb speed, or he responded with his mind. I wait about thirty minutes before replying back with the obligatory “per my last email” and copy/paste my response.

Thirty minutes in the Sinner’s Queue didn’t cool him off, as he responded around twenty-five seconds later.

Client: “Contacts are exactly how I want them now, please upload, it is very important.”

I go to lunch for an hour. I return and reply back, letting him know that I physically can’t upload his contacts until he makes the changes I asked for.

Forty-four seconds later:

Client: “I looked over the file before I sent it; everything looks good. I want this uploaded immediately.”

It’s at this point that he goes into Level 2 of the Sinner’s Queue while I get to other tickets/calls. Level 2 means you might get a reply from me by the end of the day; if not, I’ll get to you tomorrow sometime. Please find something to do other than refresh your inbox every half second.

At some point, Speedy sent in three or four new tickets to the queue, all just twenty to thirty seconds to a minute apart, angsting about his contacts not being uploaded.

A coworker of mine finds them and sees that I was already working with him. We chat a bit, and she figures she’ll respond in the hopes of hearing the same thing from two different people might knock some sense into him. She also included a screenshot of my email, highlighting the bits detailing the changes we need and the reasons for them.

Shockingly, Speedy doesn’t respond for THREE WHOLE MOTHER-F****** MINUTES.

Client: “I did not see that part. I am sorry. I will look at this and get back to you.”

The first line of my email said something along the lines of “Hi, [Customer], I was trying to upload your file, but there are a few changes we’ll need you to make first.” I can only guess that he read this line and just stopped processing inputs altogether.

My dad and some of his friends ran a company back in the 1980s and 90s. They invented, designed, and built telephones back in the good old landline days, and were quite successful, landing contracts with the military as well as with businesses and clients in many countries.

Branching out a bit, they also made centrals, enabling businesses to receive calls and then transfer them to specific office lines (we even had one of those at home; I grew up in a house with a phone in every room), as well as several other small electronic devices – the functions of which I couldn’t even begin to tell you. 

At one point, they had invented a device that a foreign company wanted to mass produce. Dad’s company drew up a contract that involved a license agreement, essentially allowing them to manufacture and sell their inventions and pay Dad’s company a certain percentage in royalties.

The company didn’t sign the license agreement immediately. Instead, they asked for a “test version” of the device. Dad smelled a rat and built a special version that would work flawlessly, but only in a limited capacity. I don’t know the details, but it was something like having a demo of a video game that works well but only has one map. Or like having a phone that could only dial five numbers. It would show anyone interested in its functions what the device could do, but without knowing the full details of the design, it wouldn’t be eligible for mass production.

A few days later, the foreign company started sending e-mails with updated requests. My dad and his colleagues talked about them in the office, and the messaging back and forth continued over several days, and went something like this:

Foreign Company: “Before we sign the license agreement, can you send us a test version of the device?”

Dad & Co.: “Yes, we have sent you a test version of the device.”

Foreign Company: “Can you send us another test version? This one is limited.”

Dad & Co.: “The test version we sent is fully capable of demonstrating all the functions of the device.”

Foreign Company: “Hello again, the test version seems to run out of [technical term] after thirty iterations. Can you send us a fully working device?”

Dad & Co.: “Once the license agreement is signed, we will send the full technical specifications and everything you need for large-scale production.”

Foreign Company: “Hello again, can you send us one of the prototypes you created, for our own testing?”

This went back and forth, and they were talking about it in my dad’s office.

Dad: “It could be that they’re planning to make pirated copies of the finished device and sell it themselves if we give them the fully operational design.”

Colleague: “Probably.”

Dad: “So we don’t send them that.”

Colleague: “No. They don’t need it anyway, if their goal is just to find out more about how it works and how they can build it. They know what the device can do, they’ve been interested in it for a long time, and they should know that the next step is to sign the license agreement. Without that agreement, they can’t legally sell this thing in the European or the American market anyway.”

Eventually, Dad grew tired of the dialogue. He said that if they kept asking the same question in slightly different forms, he was going to give them the same answer.

Foreign Company: “Could you send us a test version with an expanded range of [technical term]?

Dad & Co.: “When you sign the license agreement.”

Foreign Company: “Hello again, could you send us a copy of the technical specifications?”

Dad & Co.: “When you sign the license agreement.”

The agreement was eventually signed. Dad’s company sent over the specs right away, and mass production started up. I heard it went quite well for all involved.

Client: “Can you make this part of the design more white?”

Me: “It’s already white.”

Client: “But more white?”

Me: “It can’t be any whiter. The hex code is #ffffff, which is pure white. It’s maximum white.”

Client: “I need it to be whiter.”

Me: “If I make it any whiter, it’ll need to start wearing SPF50.”

Client: “…You’ve made your point.”

My coworkers overheard the conversation and laughed. Later they kept sending me messages on the work chat software to help me out the next time a client asks for such a thing:

Coworker #1: “If I make it any whiter it’ll start putting raisins in everything.”

Coworker #2: “If I make it any whiter it’ll start a podcast about artisanal craft beer.”

Coworker #3: “If I make it any whiter, it’ll start claiming it’s 1/64^th Cherokee.”

And so on…

I work for a housebuilding company producing and assembling windows, doors, and similar parts for houses. Usually, we are contracted by property developers who order our parts plus assembly on the houses. Every communication must go through the property developer; if a client has a complaint about our parts, they must contact the property developers first and only them.

Due to warranty regulations (and because the property developers want it so), we’re not allowed to process any complaints by clients as long as the house isn’t finished and five years afterwards. So, if clients complain directly to us, we explain to them that we can’t process their complaints (simply telling them that we don’t have direct contracts with them, only with property developers) and refer them to their property developers.

Most understand it, but some don’t. And there’s one very special client:

To keep the story short, I’m paraphrasing the messages (it was communicated via email) in the style of conversation. It happened when his house was finished last year.

Client: “Your windows are crap! Those aren’t the ones we paid for! We paid for glasses of SSK V [safety glass class]; I think you assembled windows of SSK IV! I want them replaced right now!”

Me: “I’m sorry that you aren’t happy with our windows, but due to the warranty policy, as your house is still inside of five-year-timeframe, please contact your property developer. Your property developer will then get to us with your complaint.”

Client: “No! These are your windows, replace them! I paid you to assemble the SSK V windows! Not the fake s*** you actually assembled!”

Me: “If these windows of the wrong SSK were assembled by mistake, we’ll gladly replace them for free. But first, you need to contact your property developer, as we don’t have any contracts with you and therefore aren’t obliged to do anything for you.”

Client: “Your customer service is terrible! I will complain about everything to my property developer, that’s for sure!”

Uhm… yeah? That’s what the clients should do in the first place?

Some days later, one of our property developers contacts us. He’s one of the most experienced and certified experts for house building in general. He’s strict but fair to any party. He’s one who prefers results over schmancy-fancy building processes.

Property Developer: “Hello, I have a client here who says the windows he has assembled for his house are fake and don’t have the SSK class he paid for. I checked these windows by myself, and they indeed have the correct seal of quality saying SSK V. I pointed this out to him, but he still doesn’t believe it and keeps demanding that we replace the windows with “the real ones”. Do you have some sort of official documentation for the SSK V windows? By the way, he complained about horrible customer service and says that you insulted him and laughed at him. When I asked him about those emails, he said he deleted them by accident and can’t show them to me. I have a feeling here, and I have known your company for years, but I have to ask.”

Me: “Sure. Here’s the attachment of official documentation and our e-mail communication with this client.”

Sometimes property developers CC us into the emails with clients, so we stay in the loop and react fast if necessary. Same here. [Property Developer] is now talking to his client:

Property Developer: “Hello, I’ve communicated with the housebuilding company about your windows. Though I want to say first, we worked with this company for many years, and this company has an excellent rate of trustworthiness. I have never seen them intentionally assembling parts of lesser quality. They were happy to send me the official documentation of your windows. Oh, and they sent me the communication between you and them. I want to remind you that I did instruct you right from the beginning of building the house that you have to contact me first and only me.”

Client: “They are lying! Those e-mails and this documentation are fabricated! I complained to them because it’s my right to do so! Now, replace those fake s*** with the windows I paid for!”

Property Developer: “I’m sorry you’re unhappy with the windows, but I can tell you they are the right ones. And yes, you might have the right to complain. But the housebuilding company has absolutely zero obligation to even answer to your complaint because it doesn’t simply have a contract with you. We’re responsible to you, not them. And no, we won’t let them replace the windows unless there is proof. If you want, you can have your windows evaluated by a third-party expert. If our windows indeed aren’t those you paid for, we will pay for the evaluation, and the housebuilding company will replace them for free. But I have to warn you, the evaluation is very expensive, and you have to pay for it if the windows are correctly assembled.”

Client: “Oh, you can count on it to pay for everything! I will get those fake windows evaluated, and you better pay for everything!”

Some weeks later, the third-party expert has evaluated the windows. You can guess the result. And you can guess who has to pay for the evaluation (over €3,000). I can’t exactly say I was unhappy to hear about it…