I have customers come in to the parts counter who are not the decision makers. Sometimes, indeed, they are not very good communicators -- their Spanglish doesn't even seem to include very good Spanish. Finally I ask, "¿Hay alguien ahí que habla Inglés más?" (Is there anybody there who speaks more English?)
They fish for their phone. The phone emerges from a grimy pocket, is manipulated by fingers uncontaminated by soap. "Here, talk to my boss." They thrust a
But for the past six weeks, I have had a new policy: I don't talk on your phone. If your boss wants to talk to me, he can call my land line. Here's my card. We're done here. You can communicate and make decisions yourself, or you can have el jefe call me on MY phone.
Because, face it: the pockets those phones have been lounging in are too close to some icky sweaty parts. That's majorly creepy right there. In addition, you've had it up against your face -- YOUR FACE! Eeeeew. Lastly, there's those hands that are handing that phone toward me, with their fingernails that remind me of the black moldy grout in the corners of poorly maintained gymnasium shower rooms? No, I don't want to talk on your phone.
Is this unreasonable? No, it is not unreasonable. It is the rational policy of sound public health.
Now go home and dunk that thing in Clorox.
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