My phone doesn’t work.
There are few things in life that can rain on your parade quicker than your phone going tits up.
Sorry ladies, its a decent line.
I left work and began heading over to the phone store.
Heads will role.
I was half way over there when my phone rang.
It took a few seconds to realize that the damned phone not working was my fault.
The generic charger at work had the right connector, but the wrong voltage.
It charge it, kind of.
It heated it up so it didn’t work, kind of.
But that was not the biggest crime of the day.
That occurred when I got to the phone store.
Even though it was my fault and it was working now, it was slow and the battery looks for any excuse to drain.
The problem, the girl at the store informed me, was that my phone was a piece of shit.
Which is a lot like being stupid.
You are just screwed if thats your problem.
But whats the solution?
Turns out the answer to that is several hundred dollars.
Not today its not.
A less permanent solution is less costly.
However, switching my contacts to the new phone is a closely held secret that the denizens of the phone store do not know.
I am sent to a second store.
At this point I am stuck and they know it.
I more or less have to do what they say.
At the other store, its a different story.
The new store is run by two hard eyed cholas.
Make two fists and cross your wrists.
Now bang your wrists together a few times.
These girls are Mexican FOR LIFE.
If you grew up in a Mexican neighborhood, your side ache right now from laughing.
If not, you are vaguely sure this is racist as hell.
It is, by the way.
The uproar, when they see the phone I had, and the phone I just bought, is loud and angry.
Turns out that the Chola’s both have my old phone and love it.
In three seconds, all issues with my old phone are fixed.
I think it was while my phone was downloading a “Task Killer” Battery saver, that it was pointed out that the small chain of Authorized Dealerships have a strict “No Refunds ever” policy.
Even when fraud and slam salespeople are involved.
The owner is not available at first.
But, I stay polite, keep asking the same question over and over, and never really threaten to bring a lawyer into it.
But I can allude like a motherfucker.
In short order, the owner, who’s name is Ronnie, is on the phone.
For the most part, those of you reading this don’t know me, but I make my living on the phone.
Lets just say I do phone well.
Welcome to my world, Ronnie.
So I got my refund.
In the end, all of this boils down to me being a non-technical phone dork.
Fine, I’ll own that.
Three pieces of advice here.
First, find out what you are buying, do the research and the leg work.
Second, if you think its broke, get it to someone who knows to see if its broke.
Third, be polite to the Chola’s because they will go to war for you if you are nice.
Viva La Raza!