May 16, 2007 – Dayton Customer Service tops itself once again.

We found out yesterday that to sell the www.sarcasticwear.com t-shirts and the www.psychoticgames.com video games at the convention, we have to have a transient vendor's license. I went to the state website and search for it and it sent me to a page the conveniently had the form to print out and a phone number, also for my convenience. So I called the number, explained my situation and asked if this was something I could do online. The lady told me that I could indeed get the license thru their website, but not if I needed it before Friday. So she told me to bring cash or check into the office and they would conveniently have the transient vendor license in my hand when I walked out. I admit I had no disillusions about this being a fast process or a pleasant experience because I'm worked with Dayton city people before.

On my lunch break today I go to the address I was given, drive around for 10 minutes to find a parking space, park 4 blocks away and walk to the building in the light rain. Of course, all of this was expected and not a problem.

I get to the building and they're having some sort of "fun day" for the employees…obviously NOT for the customers. The entire building (and what seemed like the content of about 4 others) are all playing corn hole in the lobby and no one will get out of the customers' way. One lady tries to push her way by and no one moves, then someone throws one of the corn bags too hard and almost hits her in the leg. No one apologizes. They just look at her like SHE was in the way. Awesome.

So I maneuver through the maze of 3 of the 4 corn hole games and finally find the "cheese" at the booth I need. The lady looks at my form, slides it back and said, "We do vendor's licenses here."

"Right," says I, "that's what I'm here for."

"No, you need a transient vendor's license."

"Right."

"That's not this building."

This is the part in most of my customer service experiences where I take that long exaggerated deep breath to keep from freaking out going off on whoever is supposed to customer servicing me. "What building is it, then?"

"40 4th street. Fifth floor," looks around me to watch corn hole.

"Okay, how do I get there from here?"

"Sharp exhale. "Go down to Main street, turn left and then back up 4th. It's on the next corner."

Main Street is a one way street turning right only. So I go to the next street, turn left, then go up two corners and park. I walk up another block and find 40 4th street, go in and go to the 5th floor. Nothing here even resembles it. Awesome. Back down in the lobby I ask the guy at the info desk if the taxation office is in this building. "No," he tells me, "it's next door."

"Thanks," I say. "And thanks for not playing cornhole."

"What?"

Next door is 14 4th street. I obviously misheard what she said, so maybe she's just a moderately ridiculous person instead of a totally ridiculous person. I go in and immediately go to the info desk. There are two security guards sitting there, allowing customers the blessed courtesy of interrupting their conversation when their conversation gets to a low point. I wait my turn. Then, "Is this where the taxation office is?"

"No," says Fatty McGaurdshack, shoving something on the end of a fork into his mouth. "But I'll tell you this…you're real close." Then he starts talking to his buddy again.

"Uh…what's that mean?"

"It's across the street." Talks to his buddy some more.

"There are three buildings across the street."

Sharp exhale. Looks at me nodding indignantly. "Yeah…it's the one over there." Points.

I run a binary randomizer real quick to decide whether to jam the fork in his eye or ask WHICH over there he's talking about. "WHICH over there?"

Really deep breath and really sharp exhale, then he snaps, "CENTRE CITY!"

"You're welcome!" and then I'm out the door.

None of these buildings are marked with what's inside them except this one. It's some cut and curl beauty shop or some such nonsense. 40 Main Street. Awe…wait for it…SOME! I get up to the 5th floor and walk into the Department of Taxation. They guy behind the desk takes off his iPod ear buds and says, "Hi." I explain to him that I've been sent to 4 different buildings, received horrible customer service from all involved, I'm 10 minutes late getting back from lunch already and that if he could help me out in even the smallest possible way it might very well keep me from slamming my Explorer into their lobby. I explain all this using different words than these that sounded slightly less threatening.

He says he certainly can help me, but it would take at least 10 minutes. "Right on! Let's do this thing," I say.

Then the fella starts typing and says, "Why didn't you just do this online?"

"Because it's for the convention this weekend and we just found out about it and the lady that answered my call said it would have to be mailed so if I need it before Friday I'd need to come into the office." I'm holding a twenty dollar bill and a five dollar bill now.

"Um…they give you your tax number right one the screen when you do it. That's all you need." Then he points to my hand. "If you don't have a check it's going to take a little longer because we don't handle cash and we have to do a form," he holds up a fancy envelope, "and seal it in one of these."

"Awesome!"

I'll tell you this. Someone had better come around to our booth and ask to see this thing, because if I just went thru all that and they don't, I'm going to all 3 of the other buildings they sent me to and punching every person who was a jerk to me right in their fat freaking FACE!!!!! (a dude can dream, can't he?)