Dialing for toast: tech-support chronicles

October 2005

By Tom Snyder

“Hello,” I said. I was calling to speak with Technical Support. While on hold, I wrote notes to myself so I could speak clearly and accurately about my malfunctioning device. When the fellow picked up, I explained that my Huffy Marine Device was not working correctly, that I was a loyal fan of the device, that it was suddenly behaving erratically, and that, as we spoke, I was at sea on my way from Portland, Maine, on a wonderful run to…

He lost interest in my story immediately, and the fault was mine – my opening was weak. He wanted to know what was wrong with the unit so I explained that it was only working intermittently. I went on to say that right before lunch it was working famously, but then when I was below doing the dishes… Again, the narrative failed to hold his interest, and he told me to shut down the battery system. This felt good. We were on the debugging trail.

I shut off the main battery switch and reported this fact with maybe a little too much of a military flourish. I was irrationally proud of the fact that I knew how to turn off the electrical system on my own boat, and at this point, I vowed to dial my enthusiasm down a notch. The point was not to wow him with my competence.

He asked me if the unit employed a shunt. Now, “shunt” is one of those words that I have always known would one day haunt me. I know what it means, but I don’t know precisely how it… No: The truth is that I know the word, but I don’t know what it is. I asked how I would know if there were a shunt involved, and he told me confidently that it would be pretty obvious if a shunt were in the picture.

I came clean and said that I had no idea. I positively heard him sigh, and I vowed that I would make up for this gaffe with crisp moves from here on out. He took another tack and asked which model I owned. Easy. It says Huffy right on the faceplate. He said he wanted the model not the manufacturer. Apologetically, I reported that nowhere, absolutely nowhere, on the unit did it say anything about a model. There was another sigh and a suggestion that I refer to my owner’s manual for the model number. With further remorse, I could only report that the manual said it was for the Huffy 1200, 1400, 1600 and 1800. I was not holding up my end – that was very clear.

Again the guy shifted his angle of attack and asked for the serial number. Of course! The serial number would tell us what we needed to know. Everyone knows how hard it is to find a serial number, but I was going to do it and fast. Not that fast. When told that there was no serial number to be found, he conceded that one can’t see it if the unit is installed. He asked if the unit was installed. I lost my subservient posture and snapped something about why wouldn’t it be installed. He explained that you never know. Then he paused and apparently referred to a script.

He asked if the boat had a 12- or 24-volt system. My lackluster answer revealed that I was pretty sure we were now entering the wild-goose chase portion of the process. I told him through closed teeth that it was 12 volts, and he said OK, in that case it had to be a model 1400, and, also, that it definitely did have a shunt.

I was dying to ask if the 12-volt question might have wanted to come earlier in the conversation. But I held my tongue, because we were back on the hunt. He told me to hold down the “Clear” button for 30 seconds. I didn’t want to sound like a smart aleck trying to catch him in an inconsistency, but nonetheless I asked if I should turn the main battery switch back on. He was gracious about it, though he did suggest that it was assumed that I would have done it on my own. This, I reminded myself, was not a pissing contest. I held the button down for the appointed time and a screen of data appeared. Bingo! Now we were in the bowels of the beast where elaborate and secret codes would tell all. He asked, and I told him the value of the variable “S”.

I heard him typing. He asked for the value of “J”. This was cool. More typing and he said, “OK. Your Huffy 1400 is toast.”

That was all he said. It was, perhaps by tradition, my job to fill in the silence. I asked him to verify “toast,” and he did. That was all she wrote, and he was ready to hang up. I so wanted him to say a few words of condolence, but toast was going to be it. I asked if this meant I had to buy a new Huffy, knowing full well that this was another in a series of dumb questions. He allowed that unless I wanted to just live with the broken one, I would need to get a new one.

I thanked him, because that is how we are taught to behave, and asked to be connected to the sales department. He said he couldn’t do that – I would have to redial. Ok. Ok, pal. So just to teach that guy a lesson, I’m not going order a new Huffy for a few weeks. Let him stew about it for a while. I guess I won that round.

Tom Snyder sails Blue Moon out of Peaks Island, Maine.