Guess that Asian

This letter was sent to FreshDirect on August 27, 2003

To whom it may concern:

I have used FreshDirect a number of times now, and yesterday was the first time I felt the need to voice concern over the service I received regarding Order #57786119.

I had a delivery scheduled for yesterday evening between 6 - 8 pm. Due to delays on the subway, I arrived home at 6:15 pm, only to discover that FreshDirect had already attempted to deliver. As the delivery man said he would return again, I knew he would come again at the end of his delivery run. However, when it was already 8:45 pm, I was growing concerned and wanted to know if I should have called to notify FreshDirect that I was now home. As a result, I called Customer Service to know if there was anything I could do. The lady I spoke with was very helpful (very nice, I might add), and while I was on the phone with her, the delivery man arrived at my door. I let her know that the delivery was here, and that everything was fine, then hung up. Once I was off the phone, the delivery man began to complain.

First, he proceeded to tell me how he came at 6:30 pm. I know for a fact that he was not at my apartment at 6:30 pm, because I was home. I distinctly remember seeing the end of "Dharma & Greg" on television, which is on from 6 - 6:30 pm. I apologized for not being home at 6 pm, but let him know that I was definitely home at 6:30 pm. Then he told me that just before he arrived again, my doorman called upstairs to my apartment and found the phone line busy - this was because I was on the phone with Customer Service. However, my doorman was smart enough to realize that since the phone line was busy, someone was home, so he allowed the delivery man to come up to my apartment.

As he dropped off my order, the delivery man began insisting that I call Customer Service again to let them know that he made the delivery. I explained to him that when I opened the door, I was talking to Customer Service and already told them that he had arrived and there were no problems. Again, he asked me to call Customer Service, so that they would not call him back and wonder why he didn't make his delivery. Again, I told him that I already did that. Again, he asked me to do it anyways. Then he asked me if I was Chinese, to which I said, "No". Then he asked me if I was Korean, and again, I said, "NO". At this point, I just wanted him out of my apartment. I don't enjoy playing "Guess that Asian" and do not understand people's fascination of knowing what type of Asian I am. Trust me, I do not look like an exotic Asian; however, people, especially middle-aged men, love to try playing "Guess that Asian" with me. I felt the impulse to tell Mr. Delivery Man that I was black.

Here's a poem I wrote that was inspired by Mr. Delivery Man:

Chinese? Japanese?
No, stop asking me please.
Just drop off my food And get out, just leave.

Please note that this is not a haiku.

I finally succeeded in closing the door on Mr. Delivery Man, but not before he told me to call Customer Service again (which I didn't. I had no desire to be on hold).

So the point of the letter is this: please tell your delivery men not to play "Guess that Ethnic Origin" with any of your customers. Not everyone finds the game fun, and some may find it offensive. As a number of people in my building order food from your company, I will be sure to post this letter up so that all can see - and that unless they want to undergo an inquisition by a racist delivery man, they would be better off visiting the local Gristedes.

P.S. I once received an order of moldy asparagus, but let it go. Out of fear, I have not ordered asparagus from your service again. I didn't report it then, but I probably should have, considering that it was $1.99/lb.

First In, Last Out

When I lived in Southern California, any of my friends who drove with me knew about my road rage. I would zoom in and out of lanes with ease, going ballistic when baseball-hat-wearing, Fred Durst look-a-likes would cut me off in their black F-150’s. However, after getting in a car accident in 2001, my road rage died down substantially. In fact, my road rage died down so much that I thought I was almost cured of these spikes in my blood pressure. Now, living in New York City, with no car and no reason to rage on the road, my road rage has taken on a new form – elevator rage.

Part 1: The Elevator On 34th Street

My first tinge of elevator rage surfaced when I was living in a high-rise luxury building in Murray Hill. As high (35 stories) and luxurious (rent was ridiculous) as my building was, only three elevators serviced my half of the building. It might have been adequate - if all three elevators ever worked at the same time. Add to this that whenever anyone pushed a button to call the elevator, both elevators would rush to that floor. So when someone on the 32nd floor pushed “Down” two seconds before people in the lobby frantically pushed “Up”, both elevators would head up to the 32nd floor. Then on the way back to the lobby-level, the elevators managed to have a race to see which elevator could take the most time coming back down.
Living on the 24th floor, I was usually one of the first people in a “Down” elevator. One day when I was leaving for work, I finally got into an elevator relatively quickly, and prayed that I would have a quick ride down. However, I managed to stop more than 10 times on the way down to the lobby. Walking down 24 flights of stairs with a walker would have been faster than taking the elevator.
Holding my dry cleaning in one hand and my computer in the other, I was discouraged and slightly annoyed when I stopped on the 22nd floor. My annoyance grew as I stopped again on the 21st floor. This continued the whole ride down. However, what really started to bother me was that other people in the elevator were not making room for new people getting in to the elevator. Apparently, I was the only person who noticed this problem and was backing myself into the far corner. My face was becoming hot as we stopped several more times and people kept backing up into me, pushing me farther into the corner. Can’t these people turn around and look to see if someone is standing behind them? I mean, I may be petite, but I am not invisible. For some reason, people never manage to see me. In the elevator, walking on the street, I am forever encountering this problem.

The doors finally opened on the lobby-level and even though I was the first person to get in the elevator, I was the last person to get out. How can this be? First in, last out? It just doesn’t seem fair. I have places to go, people to see, dry cleaning to drop off. Not only am I the last one out, but other people who got into the elevator after me also have dry cleaning. As they got out before me, they managed to get to the dry cleaners before me, and here I was standing at the end of the dry cleaning line. Mind you, I had one piece of clothing. Other people were dropping off whole loads of laundry. I stood there stupefied.

First in, last out. I am slowly starting to think I am being punished for something from a past life.

Part 2: The Elevator on Wall Street

In my current office building, the elevators are separated for different ranges of floors. As my office is located on the 6th floor, the elevators I use service floors 1-7. There are five elevators that go to floors 1-7, so one would think that when called, an elevator would arrive rather quickly. Well, think again.

Peeve #1

Of course, elevators are much more complicated than that. As far as I can tell, these elevators are programmed so that only one elevator can be on the ground floor at a time. Once that elevator leaves the ground floor, then another elevator will immediately open, so that only one elevator on the ground floor is in operation at a time.

So imagine that Elevator #1 is already open on the ground floor. Elevator #2 opens to let people off on the ground floor, and since this elevator is closer to me, I decide to get into this one instead. However, because it was not designated as the next “Up” elevator, it will not move until Elevator #1 goes up first. Hence, I am stuck on the ground level unless I get out and get into Elevator #1, or I wait for other people to get into Elevator #1.

Peeve #2

Now, each of these elevators is equipped with a sensor. I have figured out that the elevator will go up if three or more people enter the car, or after 15 seconds have elapsed. Fifteen seconds seems like a very short period of time, but when standing in an elevator car waiting for the doors to close, it is an eternity. Oh, Mr. Elevator, you think you are so clever. But I have a brain and have figured out a way to trick you.

After getting in the car and pressing “6”, I stick my arm back out twice more, then hit “7” to make the elevator think there are at least three people in the car – and 90% of the time this technique works. The 10% of the time it doesn’t work is usually a result of human behavior.

Peeve #3

Everyone who works on floors 1-7 knows how slow these elevators are and how slow time goes when waiting for the elevator to close its doors. However, someone always manages to come running up to the elevator just as I get the doors to close and stick their arm in the door with just three inches left to close and ruin all my hard work.

Why do humans feel the need to throw their limbs in between closing doors? Do they not realize that people inside the elevator have been waiting to move? Not only that, but didn’t anyone else read the article on the doctor who was beheaded in the hospital elevator?

I try to ignore these types of people – I will read all the numbers on the elevator panel or stare at my shoes to pretend I don’t see them running at my elevator car. And then if they are quick enough to get in the elevator, we have to wait another 15 seconds until the elevator doors will close because now Mr. Elevator is confused! He thought there were already three people in the car, was about to close his doors, and has been startled into having his doors jarred open! So now the whole process begins anew. I can’t stand there and stick my arm out a bunch of times to re-trick Mr. Elevator with another person standing next to me – I would appear a lunatic. So I have to stand there and wait. And since I am on the 6th floor, I am usually the last person to get off the elevator. Again.

Everyone, all together now! "First in, last out!"