Kzamm Demolition Network

How to laugh at moribund leviathans

Posted on November 29, 2006 @ 07:12 PM

One of those only-in-Hungary stories again. I am so sorry.

I call T-Com Hungary this afternoon to have them move my landline to my new address. My plan is to deactivate it the moment it gets transferred and switch to landline-free DSL. I haven’t used a landline for voice communication since 1998 or so. It’s all planned rather neatly. The light at the end of the tunnel is about as the bright as the surface of the Sun from seven inches away.

It’s useful to keep in mind that T-Com Hungary is an entity that appears to be a company but, in fact, is not a company. It’s the carcass of the former state telecom monopoly, resting its decomposing body on the majority Hungarian landlines. As a result, behavior you’d expect from a company does not apply to T-Com Hungary. They have no customers. Only captives, who, by necessity or ignorace, pay their exorbitant fees every month. I pay them $15 for a landline that is absolutely useless.

I punch the customer surface hotline into the IP phone on my desk at the office only to see it disconnect immediately. So I dial from my cell phone which has the reception quality of a block of cheese.

The voicemail system is incomprehensible. It takes three wrong guesses to find the menu that deals with line transfers. Out of a total of six. I drill down three levels, specify that I’d like to get my line transferred, punch in the number of the line and get put on hold. A female voice tells me that all their operators are busy. She also points out that my call is very important to them and would I please hold.

Notice that she does not offer to call me back. That would be too close for comfort to behavior one would expect from a company. With customers to make happy.

No need to panic. All I need to do is focus on the ridiculous bright light at the end of the tunnel. That mesmerizing exit from the soul-corrupting world of decaying Central European state telecom monopolies. That sudden leap to freedom, a ripe, freshly cut pineapple shoved at Tantalos with a glass of cold water to boot.

Ten minutes pass. Suddenly, I’m connected to an operator. Naturally, he hasn’t a clue neither about the purpose of my call, nor my number. I repeat these to him. All is as expected.

He asks for my customer number. I haven’t a clue. I smile and explain that I can give him my name, my address and my landline number, which should be more than enough to ID me. I also recall that when I’d gotten the line, they took all sorts of data. National ID number. Mother’s maiden name. Official address. I’m quite certain the circumference of my penis is also displayed on the operator’s computer, illustrated by a rough cylindrical schematic.

He says he can’t help me without my customer number. Which makes sense. Helping their customers is what companies do, not decaying state telecom monopolies, who have no customers.

I explain to him once again that he can ID me in a number of interesting ways. He doesn’t seem to care. All very orderly. After a minute or two of this, my cell phone mercifully disconnects.

I resist the urge to throw my phone at a wall. It’s surprisingly easy. After all, I’m about to break free. The sorry fuck who answered my call will watch his very mind corroded away by 1950’s logic. He will never have a job that makes him happy. His employer will soon join the telegraph operators and the steam car makers of this world.

Such a naked, exposed peek into the heart of a state monopoly would be enough to fuck up almost any day of my life. But not this one. Today, I fell in love with a car. Not with a 40-year-old museum piece or an exercise in Italian-Argentine fetish art. I fell in love with the car of the future. It’s called the Tesla Roadster.

Categories: Budapest, Car Nerd, Educated consumer