Customer Disservice: Sears Stinks

Like a lot of urban dwellers and city renters, I never had to do much work around the yard.  When we moved here to rural Connecticut this past fall, I knew it wouldn't be long before I would become the owner of gasoline powered yard equipment.  Having next to no experience with lawn mowers, tractors, chain saws, or snow blowers, I was both excited and leery about the process of acquiring them.

There's a local power equipment supply store a few miles up the road and I stopped in one crisp autumn day to talk to the owner about snow blowers.  They carry the Husqvarna brand, a Swedish company, I'm told. There were several sizes of shiny orange plated blowers, with intimidating augers and powerful looking motors. I asked how much they cost.  Naive as I was, I thought $400 to $600 dollars would be the neighborhood.  When I heard $1200, I tried not to blanche, but excused myself shortly thereafter.  Though I knew snow would come and that shoveling our driveways (yes, two) would be back breaking work, I tabled the purchased.  Frankly, I needed time to come to terms with spending that much money on something other than air travel or a vacation (frugality being the better part of valor in my book).

Fall became winter and winter brought snow.  A lot of snow.  At first we shoveled, but when the snow kept coming and our backs revolted we enlisted a friendly plowman to help.  But $38 a snowfall with nothing to show for it at the end of the winter didn't seem like money well invested.  I committed myself to buying a snowblower.  I solicited input from friends and family.  I read copious reviews, paid for a consumerreports.com membership, and narrowed the wide field of choices.  I was told not to skimp and buy one with a motor too small for those heavy, wet snows.  Make sure to get a two stage model, said Consumer Reports.  After carefully weighing our needs and our budget, I finally settled upon a Craftsman model from Sears.  Sears!  I am not sure why, but electing to buy from Sears made filled with with some pride.  Sears was an American success story.  Having begun in the late 1800s,  its roots in serving rural farmers with their catalog, it later grew into one of our country's greatest department stores.  There was a certain gratification I felt in continuing an American tradition.

One morning after running some errands I ventured into my local Sears and wandered over to the snow blowers.  There was a sale and several models displayed on the show floor but, alas, not the one that I'd pre-identified.  I lingered in the outdoor equipment area for more than 20 minutes.  Not a single salesperson manned the area.  Not a soul asked me if I needed help.  I left with my money in my pocket (or at least my debit card in my wallet, unswiped).

A few days later, December 22nd to be exact, I found some time to make my purchase online.  In spite of myself, I'd actually worked up some excitement about spending several hundred dollars on a power tool.  I wasn't buying a slick home theater system or a sexy iMac - it was a motorized outdoor tool for clearing the driveway.  I located the model number I wanted, filled in the information on sears.com, scheduled my delivery date (Monday, January 4th), and received my confirmation email.  I don't have a pick-up truck, and though I could have borrowed one, it just seemed easier to pay the fee for delivery service.  The total, all in, was $811 (that reflected the $150 discounted price).  And though we had to shovel two more times after placing the order and before the schedule delivery date I took it in stride, knowing that soon I'd have a powerful snow removal tool at the ready in our garage.

On Saturday the 2nd of January, I got an automated call from Sears confirming that I'd be receiving the snow blower the coming Monday and that I'd get another call Sunday to confirm the delivery time window.  Sure enough on Sunday, I received a call telling me that I could expect my snow blower between 11:30am and 1:30pm on Monday.  I had a couple of other appointments that day, but made sure I could be home during that time frame.  But on Monday morning, I got a call from the Sears delivery department telling me that there'd been some problem and the unit wasn't going to be on the truck as expected.  I was told I could expect the delivery on Wednesday instead.  As you might surmise, I was disappointed.  Questions like, "Why would they have told me Sunday that my snow blower was coming between 1130 and 1:30 if there was no snow blower on the truck for me?" arose.  But I am not entirely unreasonable.  I chalked it up to some kind of snafu - after all 'these things happen.'

On Tuesday, I got a call from the Sears delivery department telling me that the snow blower actually wasn't going to be delivered on Wednesday, but rather on Thursday.  There was some confusing explanation offered, a back order, a miscommunication.  I was beginning to get slightly irked at the apparent lack of Sears ability to understand and communicate their own supply chain.  Hadn't I ordered the machine several weeks ago?  Hadn't they allocated a in-stock unit to me?  Hadn't they ascertained where that unit was and when it could be transported from wherever to Pomfret, Connecticut?  Apparently not.  Having been on the other side of the conversation with disenchanted customers, I did my best to not take out my frustrations on the messenger.  Certainly the person calling me wasn't responsible for getting the blower on the truck.  That said, their job is to listen and pass along a customer's concerns.  I hoped they would.

About an hour later, I got another call from Sears. What now?!  They were calling to regret to inform me that the snow blower that I'd carefully researched and committed our scarce funds to was actually not on back order; in fact, that snow blower was no longer available at all!  They recommended that I select another model all together.  In short, they 1) happily took my money 2) promised me a delivery date 3) confirmed that delivery date 4) postponed that delivery date 5) twice! 6) then told me that they weren't going to deliver any snow blower at all.  I was upset, but surely Sears - trusted and honorable Sears - would rise to the occasion and make me glad that despite their error, I'd be glad I'd chosen them over their many competitors.

I spoke on the phone with a customer sales represented, a friendly woman with a folksy accent, who tried to help me find a comparable model.  I politely inquired if, given the many oversights and mistakes Sears had made during the course of this transaction - the first substantial one of this kind I'd made from Sears - they were prepared to sell me a comparable model for the same price.  "No.  I am not authorized to do that," was the reply.  I reminded them that I had a choice where to spend my dollars and that this experience would do much to influence any future purchases.   I'll spare you the back and forth and my efforts to escalate my case to a supervisor.  They didn't so much as offer me a penny off of the other model.  I wasn't asking for them to give away the ranch.  The listed price of the other model - that was nearly identical to the one I'd selected - was all of $100 more.

I am not unreasonable.  I would have gladly met them part way.  All I was really looking for was something more than a "We're sorry for the inconvenience." and "We do appreciate my business."  Sears flat out refused to make any effort to right their wrong and appease their customer.  Here's the kicker.  When I told them that I'd like to cancel my order and take my business elsewhere they told me that I could expect to be credited my purchase amount in 7 to 10 business days!  Let me get this straight?  When I make the purchase, the money is debited that same day from my bank account, but when I want my money back, they tell me it will take nearly two weeks? To save themselves a measly $100, Sears - a company with a market capitalization of 11.46 billion dollars - lost potentially thousands of dollars from me - to say nothing, I hope, of the hundreds of people I might influence to not shop at Sears.  I don't know anything about any of the men in Sears Holdings Senior Management Team, but I am guessing if any one of them knew what transpired here, they wouldn't be so proud to be the legacy of Richard Warren Sears and Alvah Curtis Roebuck.

My Bad Back

I had a music teacher in middle school - a kindly woman named Mrs. Taylor - who always told me to sit up straight.  "Stop slouching, David!"  She said that if I didn't, I would have a sore back when I got older.  If my back was in good shape today, I might have forgotten Mrs. Taylor long ago, especially given my lack of musical talent.

The first time I can ever really recall being conscious of my back as a body part was when I hurt it in a fall at the age of 14.   This was no ordinary tumble.  I can't recall why we decided to do it, but like much that a teenager does the reason was two-fold:  we had nothing better to do (motive) and we had the latitude to do it (opportunity).

I was a sophomore in high school and paling around with two older kids, a junior and senior couple, and the junior's freshman sister.  One night when I told my mom we were going to see Body Double at the now defunct College Theater, we instead decided to climb onto the roof of our high school, Edwin O. Smith School.  The night was cloudy and dark; there was little to illuminate our trespass.  If memory serves, it was Preston who knew the way.  We went around the side of the building where an emergency exit formed a good U shaped space between the main building and the math wing.  By using the corner of the building and the window mullions we were able to scale the 14 feet to the vast black tarred roof.  There was nothing to do up there, no mischief in which to engage, but the illicit nature of the act alone was exhilarating.  The four of us ventured out in separate directions to explore, each of us given to our own migratory predilections.

I walked atop the inky expanse and looked out from my lofty vantage at the front of the school, the movie theater across the street, and the UConn campus in the distance.  Temporarily entranced by the blackness of the roof and sky and the stillness of the night, I failed to perceive that the roof upon which I strode was nearing its end.  I walked on; my left foot landed firmly on the roof, but my right foot failed to find any surface whatsoever.  I literally walked right off the roof.  It happened so fast - and so long ago - that I can't say exactly what I felt when my consciousness absorbed the fact that I was falling off the roof of my school.  I know this:  as my right foot strode off the roof, my body twisted as I fell.  I dropped the dozen or so feet quickly like a stone and landed squarely on my back upon the firm autumn grass - my head mere inches from the asphalt foundation that ran along the base perimeter of the building.  I couldn't breathe, but I didn't know why.  Was I dying?  I must have made some sound of distress as I fell because it wasn't long before Preston made his way down the same way we'd climbed up, ran alongside the opposite side of the math wing and up the other side to where I lay supine and motionless.

Preston and I ascertained that I'd simply knocked the wind out of me (all of it!), but other than a sore foot, I seemed okay - no blood and no broken bones as far as we could tell.  Ashley and Nanny came upon us soon after.  Preston and I were so grateful and astounded that I seemed to be relatively uninjured that by the time the girls arrived, he and I were nearly laughing with relief.  The girls took this as a sign that we'd staged the whole event and Nanny pushed me to the ground in anger for having scared her so.  We soon convinced her that, no, it was as it appeared, I simply walked off the roof.

My back was sore for several weeks, but after that, the pain subsided.  My mother was none the wiser and I had a good story to share.  I'm not Irish, but I sure was lucky.  I thought that would be the last I heard of my back; I didn't give much thought to it for the next three years.  By then I was a freshman oarsman on the UMass Crew Club's Novice Team.  I was a burgeoning 18 year-old athlete, but not having played competitive sports before, my body had as yet little preparation for the stress I'd be applying to my slight frame and weak spine.  Core strength was not yet in vogue; sit-ups - poorly performed sit-ups - and back extensions were the entire scope of my abdominal and spinal training.  The toll of an infirm upper body trying to keep pace with my comparatively stronger legs eventually caught up to my lower back.  That winter I felt an especially acute ache and strain that wasn't dissipating.  I eventually sought treatment at UMass Health Services and was referred to physical therapy where I received ultrasound treatment, electric stimulation therapy, and massage (treatments I'd receive scores of times in the years ahead).  When my back felt somewhat better the treatments ended. I was given stretches and strengthening exercises to do and was prescribed a specific position in which to sleep (basically fetal on my side with a pillow between my knees).

As my crew career proceeded I had occasional bouts of pain in my lower back - some more severe than others.  There were several times I was forced to sit out practice for days or weeks - especially over the winters when our workouts focused more on weight training.  But season by season, I prevailed.  I learned to cope with a base level of pain - it became normal for me.  It just was.  After college - especially during the numerous spans of time when I was less active, my back would flair up and occasionally leave me laid up.  Sitting in almost any chair for more than twenty minutes proved a challenge.  I took Tylenol and ibuprofen, lots and lots of ibuprofen; I learned more exercises and stretches.  Inevitably though when my back felt better I'd forego my 'supermans' and leg lifts.  And just as inevitably I'd re-injure my back.   Over the years, I've seen chiropractors, massage therapists, and acupuncturists.  I've done yoga, pilates, and swum countless laps in the pool.  Like a comet with an unpredictable, but certain orbit, severe back pain comes and goes.  All the while though there is a residual pain that's nearly constant.

In late October, early November of 2000 I went on a long journey.  I was living in Amsterdam and flew to Malta for a week long meeting - which was also a week full of late nights and little sleep.  From there I flew- coach - from Malta to London and from London to San Francisco for the wedding of a high school friend.  After the weeks of late nights, little sleep, and long, uncomfortable travel, I sought refuge at my father's duplex unit in Marin County.  I arrived just a day or two before the historic 2000 Presidential Election between Gore and Dubya.  I stayed awake as late as I could that night, drifting to sleep to Tim Russert's famous, "Florida, Florida, Florida" refrain.  When I awoke the next day, still unsure as to who our President-elect was, I tried to rise from my makeshift couch cushion bed.  Immediately I froze in the sharpest, most debilitating back pain I'd ever experienced.  The pain was paralyzing.  I couldn't shift into any position without searing agony.  I spent the rest of my paternal visit supine.  I mustered all my strength and courage, to say nothing of the hundreds of milligrams of ibuprofen coursing through my body, to board a flight home.  The pain acted like a clarion call: Take care of your back!  And I did.  For a time.

The thing about a tricky back is that when it's fine it has a way of lulling you into complacency.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it.  I knew this:  when I was exercising regularly, my back felt better and hurt less.  Marrying a physical therapist helped, too.  (Though when I took her advice some years back and saw a back expert, had x-rays and an MRI taken, I was deeply saddened to hear the pronouncement that I had the back of a man twenty years my senior.)  The long and the short of it is that I have arthritis far more advanced than a man my age ought to - degenerative joint disease (DJD), also known as Osteoarthritis in my spine - commonly known as a bad back.  I was struck just now reading this from the DJD Wikipedia link: "it commonly arises from trauma."  Perhaps I wasn't as lucky as I thought with that school roof fall after all?

Lately and up until recently my back had been feeling great.  I've been running a lot, even finished a marathon this past fall.  Pain that used to be referred from my back down the front of my legs was a sensation from long ago.  But as sure as Halley's Comet returns, just days before this past Christmas, I was bending over and turning slightly when I felt The Twinge.  I didn't realize at that moment how badly I'd tweaked it, only that I had. For two days I managed with stiffness and general discomfort, but by Christmas Eve, I was an invalid, confined to my bed, barely able to move, let alone attend family festivities.  On Christmas morning, I drove myself to the doctor while my family waited to open presents.  Max got a toy truck; Linda got theater tickets; I got a shot of Toradol, two doses of Amrix, and a prescription for Vicodin.

I am feeling better, finally able to sit at the computer for more than a few minutes.  In a few more days I'll start running again.  I am sure that I'll do some core strengthening work.  In a month I'll scarcely remember how bad it was (my brain is funny like that).  I'll have that low level pain that's always there, my life long and less than amiable companion.  Long car rides will always be tough and as I age, it's not likely to improve.  I don't share this to engender sympathy.  If you don't have a bad back you either will or will have some other cross to bear.  I share it because whether it's a back, a disease, trauma - emotional or otherwise, we all have something to endure.  And if you don't, sure as shit you will.  How you choose to process your pain is what distinguishes suffering from perseverance.

My bad back is my ever present shadow.  We met that fateful autumn night some 26 years ago when I walked off that roof and we've been quite close ever since. Though not always visible to the casual observer, my bad back is as much a part of my identity as my gangly height and my goofy sense of humor.  Sentimentality aside, I'd gladly pay you Tuesday for a healthy back today.