By Pam Linn

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When reason fails, try an unscripted obscenity

Just when I think I’ve outgrown the volatile temper that plagued my youth, I realize how close to the edge I still live. How easy it is to blame the failings of others, from disinterested service workers to legislators driven by ideology to bunglers of all stripes.

As one who never has suffered fools at all, much less gladly, living in a sparsely populated state these past few years has mellowed me. My daughter says I’m a whole different person when I’m in Montana, and I would agree, at least until today.

Granted, the past five weeks have been difficult, readjusting to stressed-out, competitive drivers on PCH, the 405 and 101. After daily commuting from Malibu to Santa Monica, my sister’s very long and complicated surgery, nine days at Saint John’s and three weeks of home recuperation, my sunny disposition was graying like June Gloom.

So when my sister and her doctors thought she was ready to be on her own again, I headed for my Rocky Mountain hideaway with my nine-year-old granddaughter in tow; she to visit her cousin and attend a day camp at the local animal shelter and I to wind down.

Even before I unpacked or attacked the mountain of mail, I knew something was amiss. I picked up the phone to announce my safe arrival and heard nothing. What? Click, click … dead silence. No dial tone. Nada.

Expletive! Well, even the networks are being forgiven for “brief, unscripted profanity.” I paw through the pile of junk mail and find the telephone bill. If those bleeping idiots have disconnected my bleeping phone because the bleeping payment was late, I’ll … do what? What recourse is there? The statement is for $12 because the service was inactive for a month. Great. I saved $45. But the dates are wrong. June 19 to July 19. What? I requested June 9 to July 9. Someone has screwed up big time. Bloody hell!

I am breathing deeply, slowly. I will call the office first thing Monday morning. I can use my cell phone until then. Right? Well, not really. The battery is extremely low and I have left my charger in California. The only way to recharge is to plug it into my car. That can wait until Monday, too. E-mail, the last resort.

Monday dawns. I call Qwest’s 800 number on my phone bill from the weakened mobile. I’m locked in a loop of robotic blather about my call being really important but all customer service representatives are currently helping other customers. After punching several numbers on my keypad, I’m still in the loop: Please stay on the line; your call will be answered in the order received. Yeah, right. The cell begins making ominous noises. I hang up and go downstairs to the car, start the engine and plug in the cell. Beep, beep, beep. Blue bars are moving upwards on the screen. A hopeful sign.

I redial. After the same robo-repeat and interminable wait, Christine asks, “How may I help you?” OMG. I’m finally connected to a live body somewhere in North Dakota. I explain my dismay at returning to a dead line and receiving a bill for the wrong dates of inactivity. Christine doesn’t apologize. Instead, she asks me a dozen questions, which I answer patiently, breathing slowly, deeply between responses.

Then I ask when I might expect the service to be restored. “Sometime between 30 minutes and 5 p.m.” While I’m gasping, she begins to try to sell me a bundle of extra services. I explain that I’m on a dying cell phone and ask if she might skip the sales pitch. Undaunted, she continues. I don’t completely lose it until she mentions casually that there will be a “reactivation fee.” “Why didn’t the person who sold me on this goofy idea tell me the savings would be eclipsed by the reactivation fee?” Christine’s tone is getting surly. I’m hyperventilating. “Just get the flipping phone back on,” I manage through clenched jaws.

No promises, but Christine begins to retreat. I generally don’t resort to threats, but I mumble something about looking into other providers. Now I have her attention. “Well, we can waive the fee, just this once,” she says. “Trust me,” I say. “There’ll never be another time.”

I write down the order number she gives me just as the cell starts beeping and flashing the battery logo again.

“We want you to know that we appreciate your business.”

“Too bleeping late,” I say into a dying handset.

Back in my apartment, I pick up the phone. The dial tone hums in my ear. Imagine that. Somehow the reactivation was expedited. I turn on my MacBook and there among the e-mails is a letter from Qwest thanking me for my reactivation order. No mention of a fee.

Fast work, Christine.

I collapse into my stress-less chair and breathe slowly, deeply, my pulse rate and blood pressure sinking back to Montana numbers, brainwaves approaching Zen. This is the real me. Even so, the occasional unscripted obscenity can’t hurt.