UNTIL YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, I had planned to write a nice docile column about branding successes.
Maybe I’ll be docile next issue.
A few months ago, I received a mailing from my alma mater University of Massachusetts-Dartmouth asking for updated personal data for an alumni directory.
I loved college. I’m still very close and in touch with many of my collegiate cronies, and fondly remember our times in academia, chasing such lofty pursuits as spending an entire afternoon trying to remember the name of the blond guy on “Scooby Doo” (Freddy).
So I happily logged onto the directory’s Web page and updated my listing. The last directory I had received-about nine years ago-had been inexpensively produced (cardboard cover and newsprint pages), was distributed free of charge and was extremely handy. I looked forward to an updated edition.
Last week, I received a postcard asking me to call an 800 number sometime within the next two weeks to verify my information. I expected it to be a short call, with a representative asking me to clarify something that might have gotten scrambled in an e-mail. What I got was an extended sales pitch to purchase a copy of the directory.
OK, I’ll admit, I should have expected this. But nowhere on the card did it indicate that I would be asked to make a purchase during the call. If I had been more on the ball, the postcard would have cued me in-last time I checked UMass-Dartmouth was in North Dartmouth, MA, not Norfolk, VA.
Being somewhat more familiar with the fine art of the phone sale than the average caller, I don’t fault the phone representative. Although she did seem to be reading from a very lengthy script, she was polite and intelligent enough to deviate from the dialogue to respond to my asides.
Having said that, the call was an excruciating six minutes. The rep began the call by telling me that they just wanted to verify my information and that I would be offered an opportunity to reserve a directory for purchase.
Sure, no problem, I said. I was intrigued that the tome would be more detailed than the previous edition, including things like names of spouses and children, business addresses and phone numbers and e-mail addresses. So the concept of paying something for a copy didn’t jar me too much. I know it costs money to build such a database. A small fee wouldn’t hurt.
Then the sales pitch began. A paraphrased example: Ms. Negus, I have your e-mail address listed as [email protected]. The UMass- Dartmouth directory will include a comprehensive history and photographs throughout the years that are sure to be of interest…
And so it went. Verify a phone number. Plug a feature. Verify a job title. Plug a feature. And on, and on, and on-until finally she asked if I’d like to reserve a hardbound “library edition” for $59.99 or a softcover copy for $56.99.
Jinkees, Scooby! I’ve got to think about this. I mean, sure there are lots of folks I’d like to track down. But $60? “We’ve gotten a very good response,” the rep urged. Uh, so? I’m a consumer here. Is that how you purchase over the phone? Oh golly, you say everyone else is booking a reservation to jump off a cliff? Sign me up!
I asked if I had to reserve a copy right now, or if I’d receive a solicitation in the mail. Nope, I had to do it by phone. The rep would be delighted to send me a form so I could pay in installments. But ultimately, I’d still be laying out $60, I responded. Finally, she said they’d be taking data by phone until the end of August, so I could call back.
OK, her business is concluded. My turn. I started by saying that I thought she was very competent and friendly, and I realized she was just doing her job. But, had I known the postcard was a sales solicitation, I never would have called. She responded, very professionally (and possibly scriptedly) that the main purpose was to verify data, and noted she did say up front in the call I would be offered a chance to buy.
I said true, but that didn’t really justify the lengthy sales spiels. In a bit of candor (I’m sure unscripted), she said, “Well, we do have to make it sound exciting to interest people,” and offered to transfer me to a customer service supervisor.
But I wasn’t interested. The firm contracted to produce the directory, Bernard C. Harris Publishing, like the rep, was only doing the job the alumni association had hired it for.
The next morning I dashed off an e-mail right to the source, asking for a comment. Less than two hours later, alumni director Paul Vigeant responded.
The telemarketing follow-up was done on the recommendation of the directory publisher, he wrote, noting the university has about 26,000 alumni and to date had only received about five complaints. Vigeant liked my idea about noting on the postcard a “sales opportunity” would be presented, and agreed that most people usually prefer a right-to-the point approach for this sort of thing.
So, do I feel deceived? Yeah, a bit.
As a graduate who paid for my tuition with my hard-earned money (well, OK, it was my parents’ hard-earned money), I consider myself the university’s customer-one who deserves to be treated in a straightforward manner.
(Heck, if they had eschewed the constant patter and gotten right to the point, I probably would have just said what the hey and given them my credit card number.)
Before I received Vigeant’s e-mail, I was ready to go on a rant about perhaps not contributing to the next alumni fund drive, since the university now seemed to be in the directory-rather than education-business.
But his quick response and candor went a long way toward smoothing my ruffled feathers and making me feel all warm and fuzzy about UMass again. And that’s a lesson in customer service worth going back to university to remember.
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