by Barb Cohea

I spent hours in my cell phone service store trying to get the customer service people to return a bunch of my money.  Whenever the billing department wants an office party they raid my account, double-charge me and then hope I won’t notice.

I had to go to the store because the toll-free number people couldn’t help me. You know how they ask you security questions over the phone to verify it’s you?  I’d answered the phone number, the address, my name, the zip code, my birth date, my husband’s birth date, our cat Ra’s first and second middle names, the date of my colonoscopy, and the super secret security password.  But then I answered one of the security questions “wrong,” and Charles refused to do anything more for me.

I was taken aback and shocked, when his cheery voice dropped and said, “That’s not correct.”  If we’d been on the street, he’d of cut me off dead; this after they’d made me schlep into town to get the super secret security password insisting it was all I would ever need to know.  Which I reminded Charles of when his tone turned glacial and he said, “I can no longer help you.”

I wanted to know which answer wasn’t correct.  Afterall, these are questions about my life we’re talking about.  I was wondering which part I’d gotten wrong.  Was it my birthday,  and I’m really younger that I thought?

Charles says, “What is your husband’s mother’s maiden name?”  I didn’t hesitate, “Oliva.” “How do you spell that?”  came next.  I’m pretty good at spelling so I whip it out and, “No, that is not correct,” is Charles’ reply.  I repeat, “my husband’s mother’s maiden name?” to make sure I get the $64,000 question right.  “Yes,” Charles’ voice exudes confidence.  “Oliva.” What else can I say? The woman’s name was Oliva.

Charles apologizes, is very sorry, but that’s not correct. This is where the arguing starts.  Words like ninny, idiot, and phrases like independent thought, and are you insane are hurled and I’m sure Charles wasn’t happy either.

I’m curious so I ask, reminding Charles since he isn’t going to help me anyway, he might as well tell me who my husband’s mother really was. Come to find out her name was Vetter.  Interesting, because that is also my mother’s maiden name.  More words are exchanged.  Most having to do with that being my mother’s maiden name and Charles not asking for that, but asking for my husband’s mother’s maiden name.

And Charles tells me he isn’t wrong. My husband’s mother’s maiden name is Vetter. Perhaps Charles had his common sense surgically removed as a prerequisite for the job?

I ask him what he has for my mother’s maiden name. Coincidentally, he has Vetter for her, too. I’m interrogating Charles on whether he thinks I married my brother or a first cousin, when I hear the catch in his voice.  He’s about to face the ugly truth; the company’s database could be wrong. I am closing in for the kill, for all those among us maimed by customer service centers.

He yells something about ethnic marriage practices; I return with “so you do believe her name was Oliva.” And the line is disconnected.

At the phone store, it took me an hour and a half, and two birth certificates to prove my husband isn’t also my ugly brother. I’m still waiting for the overbilling check.

Cohea, a freelance writer, lives in Beaufort and can be reached at a37_tao@hotmail.com.