The Customer Is Usually a Jamoke

Forty years ago in a spasmodic overreaction to competition by foreign companies, American companies began to adopt a mantra both craven and factually incorrect: “The customer is always right.”

Kissing customers’ asses was good for business. It was bad for customers. And it’s getting worse.

As anyone who runs a business well—or sells shoes or hardware or deep sea fishing trips or used golf balls fished out of a pond—knows, what the customer wants is only occasionally what the customer needs.

Everywhere I turn, I feel I’m unhappily reaping what that this customer-is-always-right bullshit has sewn: professionals whose seasoned advice and strong guidance I need but who are always leaving it all up to me.

One of five wheel studs is stripped on the Subaru’s wheel. Is it safe to drive? The mechanic shrugs. Well, is it? “I mean, it’s supposed to have five,” he says, “but yeah, it’s probably safe.” Bitch, I drive a Subaru! I need more direction than that!

The IRS says I owe it money, my tax accountant says I don’t. Should I pay the money they say I owe while we appeal in expectation of a refund, or should I withhold the money I don’t actually owe? Tax accountant advises I should pay “if you are anxious.” Really? My inner life should drive my financial decisions according to my accountant? Bro, I’m a writer! I need more direction than that!

Barber asks me which number clipper I like. That’s like me asking a writing client how they feel about gerunds.

Dentist says I can either fill the cavity or let it go another six months if it’s not hurting me today. “You’re the boss!” Am I?

At any American restaurant, I could order a tall stack of napkins to eat and a glass of fat drippings to drink and the waitress would exclaim: “Perfect!”

And at the veterinarian—my God, the level of emotionally Heller-esque, passive-aggressive liar’s poker that goes on at a typical vet’s office!—the assistant reels off a list of things “we” might do to diagnose and treat Eddie’s schmutzy right eye. This test costs $200, this swab costs $400, this allergy panel costs $1,200, this steroid costs $175.

“Okay, what should I do?”

“Oh, that’s totally up to you!”

(Reminds me of the handyman who used to work for my Uncle David. After three straight days of odd jobs David would ask how much he owed. “Oh, whatever’s fair, Mr. Murray.”)

You know, the last time I remember being treated like I deserve by professionals who know their business was the time a couple years ago I called Chicago’s Bari Market and told them I wanted them to cater a bunch of sandwiches for a summer party. “Tuna salad!?” the guy said in a way that I knew fuck well he’d be joking with the other sandwich guys about this dumb jamoke who just called. “Yeah no, yer not gonna order tuna salad on a hot afternoon. How bout a couple more Italian subs instead?”

Perfect!