The Stupidity Fee

In my business, we can charge loadtime on a run which takes over 10 minutes to pick up and drop off. Usually we don't do it until the run goes significantly over the ten, although we're more likely to do so as the frustrations mount up. Sometimes it's just a stupidity fee.

Take yesterday. I was picking up something for one of those companies which makes us sign a confidentiality agreement especially for them, meaning I can't give you names, theirs or their customers. I'll assign letters. I walked into the front office of Company M, minded by locks and a security guard behind a window. I asked for anything they had going to Company S. Usually that's all it takes. The package will be right there, clearly labeled.

It's always fun when they look at you like they never saw a courier before and couldn't imagine what one would be doing in their office. We refer to is as the "as if we're from Mars" look. The guard gave me directions to go way behind the building to a phone between docks 12 and 13 and call to get in. OK, whatever. He should know, right?

Dock 12 was at the far end of this side of the building, and dock 13 around five corners to the other side. Yes, I said five. It's not an exact rectangle. Meanwhile I drove slowly, looking for both dock 13 and anything resembling a phone. When I found 13, there were stairs next to it, and sure enough, a call box at the top. You push and hold a button while you speak, release to listen while you wait, hoping somebody heard you because you did it right and somebody was actually around to hear and respond. Finally somebody answered. They came to the door let me in, and before I went two steps, handed me a hairnet and insisted I put it on.

O goodie.

I explained my errand, looking for a package going to company S. They looked confused. I say, "they," because a series of consultations ensued, nobody seemingly having ever heard of Company S or knowing why somebody might send something there or what it might be. After the original person disappeared for a bit, she returned with the instructions that I needed to go to the front office and ask for Enrique.

O goodie.

Back around I drive, reenter the office, walk up to the same guard, and explain what they told me. He seems astonished by this piece of news, but calls Enrique. "Uh, what's your name, Miss?" Miss? Huh? Is he blind? I've got to be twice his age. I give my name, which he passes along. Now this is particularly stupid, because as a courier we're just bodies in uniforms with vehicles. Names are never necessary unless we have to clear security, and that clearly wasn't going to happen here. Enrique wouldn't know me from a hole in the ground.

As the guard hung up, I asked him, "You did remember to tell him I was looking for a package for Company S, right?"

Suddenly a lightbulb went on. "Oh, Company S. I thought that sounded familiar," he tells me as he hands me a small box with Company S written on it in large letters. The box had been sitting there the whole time, of course. They always are.

I refrained from suggesting to him that it was a pity that it hadn't sounded familiar the first time I asked for the package.

"I'll tell Enrique I took care of it for him," he said as I left. Yeah, and while you're talking to Enrique, tell him you were the one who messed it all up in the first place, why don't ya? Sure, that'll happen. Shaking my head, I just called in and asked for loadtime charges for the 17 minutes it had taken to do two minutes' worth of work. Pure stupidity fee.

I kept the hairnet.