Relentless Pursuit

Dear Lexus,

As you are a luxury brand, I appreciate your commitment to luxurious service.  It is nice that you show us the espresso bar when we purchase our car, that your restrooms have television monitors mounted inside reminding us of your commitment to quality, and that you offer “free” maintenance checks at 5,000 and 10,000 miles.  But we are not fools; nor are we children easily led down the road to Hamelin by piped-in Muzak.

My salesman did his job—nothing more and nothing less.  I commend your training programs for instilling in him a deep need to remind me at many points during the sales cycle how important it is to his paycheck that I give him an unequivocal high rating during the survey that was sure to come as soon as I completed my purchase.  He acted as if he were truly interested in our happiness.  He really had me convinced that he would send me a hot-pink rubber cover for my key fob.  And he continued this charade every one of the four times he apologized for not sending our registration because he never received the four FAXes we transmitted directly to the machine on his desk.

Making an appointment to receive my first maintenance was easy.  First my car told me, with 200 miles to spare, that I was due for an oil change.  I called the phone number printed on the sticker that was placed, fortuitously, on my windshield.  I asked to come the following day and they gladly gave me an appointment at 11:30am.  I arrived on schedule.

In the service bay, I was approached by a service associate who took my name and left--without speaking--to check the computer, apparently not convinced that I had an appointment.  He took the keys from my hand and left me standing for five to ten minutes in the 95 degree heat while he “inspected” my car, noting every nick and ding.  Apparently, the commitment to service at Lexus is exceeded only by the company’s need to insulate itself against liability.

My “personal” service consultant was not in the house, which was strange as we had an appointment.  Instead, I was ushered at last—my crippled knees were killing me from being left standing in an area with no seating—to the office of a pinch hitter who vowed to take care of me.  He explained with great pride that today’s service would be “free.”  I asked him who he thought was paying for it; he laughed as if I had told a joke.  He reviewed the services that would be provided, which did not include an oil change.  As the “oil maintenance required” warning was what precipitated my visit, I was concerned.  He asked me to trust him that this car did not require an oil change until 10,000 miles.  There was a known bug in the warning system that Lexus had chosen to ignore when they shipped the cars, he explained.  Apparently, there is no limit to the steps this company will take to perpetuate its quality brand!

Having completed the business portion of the interview, he switched to the amenities, reminding me once again that a free (there’s that word again) espresso bar was awaiting me upstairs.  I should be sure to check in with the barista because that is where they will contact me when my car is finished.  Once upstairs in the lounge, I settled at an uncomfortably high table with uncomfortably high stools.  The barista asked for my last name, at which point she added me to her clipboard and then picked up a phone.  The table was dirty—I had picked the cleanest of the five—so I shimmied down the stool and went in search of napkins at the bar.  After I had wiped my table clean of crumbs, the barista gal appeared with a wet rag and wiped my table again, leaving it soaking wet.  I then made a second attempt at scaling the stools, drying off an area big enough for my laptop, and went to work.

A few minutes later, my sales guy “happened” upon me sitting there, wondering how I was enjoying my car.  He did not remember my name, but he remembered the color and model I had purchased.  I reminded him that I was the lady to whom he had promised to send a pink key fob cover; he laughed, oblivious, and walked away.  

No sooner had he disappeared down the stairs to the right, a young woman entered, stage left.   Not recognizing her, I returned to the cocoon of my work, burying myself in my laptop.  It was a shock when she appeared, speaking, at my table. “You are the RX!” she said in an accusatory tone.  I peered over my reading glasses at the interruption, saying nothing.  “I’m not trying to sell you anything,” she continued rambling, stringing together a bunch of sentences so fast I could not tell what she said.  I waited silently for a question I could answer.  “You are mad!” she said, accusing me again.  “I have not said a word,” I pointed out.  “Well, I’m in charge of marketing,” she said, almost a contradiction of her earlier statement.  “I hope you are enjoying your car.”  She ran away without having made it clear what she hoped to gain from interrupting me in the first place.  I resisted the temptation to call her back in order to school her in the proper way to approach a customer, to introduce oneself, and to clearly state—in a positive way—what your business is.  Instead, I laughed to myself at the well-orchestrated ballet of minions, each playing a role with no understanding of the main plot.

Eventually, the Barista shouted my name—“Johnson!”  When no one answered, she checked again until she got the name correct, shouting again.  It would have been more elegant to make a note of the customer at check in—what I was wearing, where I was sitting—in order to approach me politely and inform me that my car was ready.  I guess she was too busy watching TV.

I appreciate the value of good service.  I know that when I choose to dine at an elegant restaurant, I am paying for far more than the cost of the ingredients.  Service is an art form, not a commodity.  I had been led to expect that Lexus was a company that understood not only the letter, but also the spirit, of its service pledge.  I am disappointed to find only a pandering assortment of sycophants with a thinly veiled, self-serving, bonus-driven agenda.

Tomorrow's blog:  Lucky Sevens