Classical Gas

"...To avoid termination of service, call immediately to give us your meter reading or arrange for us to gain access to your home," said the lady on the answering machine.

It was my friendly neighborhood gas company, calling to chat and catch up (read: threatening me again). Part of an ongoing saga, where my meter is inside my home, and the gas company simply can't understand why I'm never home to let them in to read it...

Because I am off working so I can pay my jinormous gas bill.

Well, naturally, by the time I got their thoughtful message on Friday evening, the gas company was closed. So I picked up the phone on Saturday and gave them a call.

The automated voice at Gas Company Central said, "Are you calling to report a fire, explosion or smell of gas?"

It was a nice reminder that other people had things worse off than me. I mean, I might be waging the war against an outdated bureaucratic utility system, but at least nothing had gone up in thirty-foot flames.

I waited for Robo-Operator to say what number to press for more options, but I was met with frosty silence.

Then she came back on. "I didn't catch that. Let's try typing in your answer."

"Type in? Type in what? What's going on? Is this a quiz? Does she mean use my touchtone phone to type in something? If so, what are my options and..."

Robo-Operator: "You didn't respond."

Me: "I know, I know, but when did this become voice-activated? Couldn't you mention it's voice-activated?! Otherwise, I'm just some schlub talking to herself."

"I'll put you in touch with a Customer Service Representative," assured Robo-Operator.

Cool," I thought. "That's more like it."

So the line went silent. Silent. So, so silent. No Muzak, no self-aggrandizing marketing message... I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, grooving to absolutely nothing. "Have they cut me off? Am I in a queue? Should I hang up?"

Finally, another automated voice said, "All of our Customer Service Representatives are busy. Please hold for the next available Customer Service Representative."

So I waited. More silence. Waited. Waited. Waited...

Kittens grew into cats and raised more cats that wore little outfits for pictures on blogs and then got too old for photo ops and had to retire and...

Finally: "Emergency services," said a man's urgent voice. "Are you calling to report an explosion?"

"Oh, God, no!-- I'm so sorry!" I had visions of houses with thirty foot flames pouring out of them because I was selfishly blocking the way by trying to keep my heat from being turned off.

"The Customer Service offices aren't open on Saturday," the man told me. "Call back Monday."

Sigh.

But not to be deterred because, y'know, it was -2 degrees out and the thought of having an Alaskan cruise brought indoors, straight to me courtesy of the gas company, was currently unappealing... I figured I'd try to at least give them my meter reading. So I called the number again and spoke loudly and clearly to the Robo-Operator...

Who warms up quite quickly when you actually get to know her.

I asked for the meter reading option, which she assured me could be done 24-hours a day, 7 days a week.

They then asked for my 39 digit account number. I read that off to them. They asked for me to confirm my 39 digit account number. I confirmed it...

They asked for my meter reading. I gave them my meter reading...

They asked me to confirm the numbers of my meter reading. I confirmed the numbers of my meter reading and...

"We cannot accept your meter reading at this time. Please talk to a Customer Service Rep about your account or visit us on the web at www.annoyingnaturalgasconglomerate.com"

I slammed down the phone.

Now, at this point, I think I went just insane enough that optimism shone through. I was determined to find a loophole here. So I thought, "Okay, if you people won't take my reading via phone, I will go to www.annoyingnaturalgasconglomerate.com and give my reading there. That'll work right?"

I imagine you know what happened.

"Invalid meter reading," it said, after I spent twenty minutes entering passwords and account numbers and waiting for things to load.

Gas Company-- 1. User-friendly customer service-- zippo.

Now I will have to take half a day of work off this week to let the gasman into my house. Because they only make appointments in four-hour windows, Monday through Friday, from 8am to 4pm.

Yes, one half-a-day of my whopping ten days vacation a year, sacrificed to the Utility Gods.

The whole thing sorta gives me indigestion.

Hm. Maybe that's where they're getting the natural gas...

They must be making billions.

Update: I called just now and they are closed for Martin Luther King day.

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Humor-blogs
Bloggerella

The Gasman Cometh

The Gasman is stalking me again. He’s not feeling the love…

“10 DAY TURN OFF NOTICE—METER MUST BE READ”

We go through this every few months, he and I. I explain that in an ideal world, it would be great to see him…. We could read meters… chat…. put the gas company "hold" Muzak on speakerphone and totally rock-out…

But see, my day job keeps us apart. I have it so I can pay for things like… oh… my gas bill.

Given I get only ten days of vacation in an entire year— most of which goes toward selfish things like Christmas-- the probability of me actually being home for a regular tete-a-tete with the noble Man o’ Gas is somewhat equivalent to Paris Hilton winning the Nobel Peace Prize in Physics.

But the Gasman, oh nooooo, there’s no telling him that. So he sends me letters. And leaves notes. And calls. And once put a big yellow flier on my front door to show the whole neighborhood his great love of me.

Of course, if I went to the Gasman’s house at mid-day, he wouldn’t be there, either. He’s out sitting on my porch hoping... waiting... thinking, “Maybe this time will be different—maybe she’ll be home this one time.”

But it’s not to be.

I’ve tried to explain my neglect of him is nothing personal. I also neglect the mailman, the FedEx guy, the paper carrier and the garbage man. I am an equal opportunity neglecter. Thing is, the Gasman is the only one who wants to hang out inside my house.

So I give him my meter readings online. But every now and then he tells me it's just not enough. Others have hurt him before and now he finds it hard to trust. He must see my meter for himself. So I tell him I’d be happy to meet him at a time that’s convenient for the two of us.

Then he plays hard to get.

He tells me he’s only willing to meet me within a four-hour window. And leaves me taking off half-a-day of work to wait for him, longing for the sound of his work-boots on the steps.

He’s such a tease.

The Gas Company’s solution to our relationship is I either pay a jaw-dropping $3,000 to move the meter outside-- not fiscally feasible-- or I lend them a key to my home.

But we all know how THAT goes. I’ll be coming home and finding the place trashed because the Gasman initially invited over just three close friends… but then some friends-of-a-friend showed up to check out the meter…. and before he knew it, they were having a full-on rave…

I’ll be finding sticky-notes stuck to the fridge telling me I’m out of Cheez-Its and beer. Everything’ll smell like booze, urine and propane. And there’s bound to be a couple of meter readers upstairs in a compromising position, though they'll claim they were "just testing for leaks."

No, thank you.

I wonder sometimes where this exactly this whole thing went wrong. After all, am I not the customer here? Aren't my payments always on time?

But I grab the phone and dial, the automated voice routing me around the world in 90 seconds and back, each country wanting my account number for their own special siloed systems.

Then the Muzak kicks in, blaring so I have to hold the receiver several inches from my ear.

Ah, yes, Mr. Gasman, they're playing our theme.

I shake my head. Pity. It could have been such a beautiful friendship.

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