Just to document the incredible experience of customer service in Puerto Rico, I present this nugget for your pleasure. There will be and have been many more, I assure you.

Place: Western Auto on Avenida los Frailes

I walked to the service counter and took a number. There was not one employee at the six or so available stations. My place in the queue according to the little number displayed beneath "Now Serving" was eight. I had sixteen. Okay, I’ll just hang here with the other patrons as they smile and compliment me on my adorable children.

Olaia and Jaimito entertained themselves looking at seat and steering wheel covers. "Daddy," Jaimito began, "How can such a big seat fit in such a small box?"

"Jaimito, that’s just a cover for a seat. It’s folded up. It’s like a pillowcase. You take it out and use it to cover your old seat. It’s for when your seat is old and beat up and you want to make it look nicer."

"Oh," he replied. "Daddy, I like this one." And he pointed to a blue flaming skull on a black background.

"Oh, very scary, Jaimito. I don’t think Mommy would like it though. It’s too scary."

"I like it." He smiled.

"Daddy," interjected Olaia, "I think Papa Jim would like this old fashioned looking cover for his steering wheel." She pointed to a wood grained Model-T looking cover that was indeed old-fashioned. It’s funny that she associates Papa Jim with old-fashioned. It’s so cute that she picks up on his tastes, and I thought to myself, he would definitely like that steering wheel cover.

"It’s all cool, Olaia," I said. "We could do a mini Pimp My Ride."

"Really?" Her eyes got big.

"Yeah, we could do a pretend Pimp My Ride… but it would be cool if MTV came and pimped out our old car for us, huh? Lights, TV’s new paint, etc."

"Yeah, but it would cost a lot of money, right?"

"No, MTV does it all for free."

"Really? Well, how would be get the car to them?"

"I think they would come here… but I don’t think they would come to Puerto Rico. Too bad, huh? We’ll just have to settle for our do-it-yourself little mini Pimp My Ride."

"You’re funny, Daddy."

I turned to the service counter. Fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no one there. The clients were looking around anxiously. I peered into the rows of parts behind the counter and spied four employees huddled around a hidden counter, performing some sort of witchcraft that had nothing to do with, from what I could tell, anything. "Ahem, are you attending to clients at this counter?" I queried

"Yes, yes of course." They answered like sheep just realizing that a wolf had entered the pasture.

"Um, well, I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes and there’s nobody here and the little number has not advanced past eight since I got here."

"The guy on that counter must be with a client."

"The clients are here," I answered, "Waiting. Wondering."

"Well, we don’t work that counter." And they turned back to their important work – all four of them.

I spoke up again. "Look, aren’t you going to do ANYTHING?"

I guess I had piqued their annoyance meter and they would be forced to deal with me. One of them got on the intercom and called his compatriot back to his station. Two minutes later, he appeared and began to call out numbers. From where he came or what he was doing, I have no idea – or why there was only one of him. I also have no idea what the other ten or so employees were doing. They buzzed in and around not making one smidgen of eye contact with anyone. They seemed to hope to ignore those of us who came with money to – get this – purchase something.

"I need to change the filter on my transmission."  I finally declared once we had arrived at the number sixteen.

He took out a service order slip and speaking to himself, wrote 1 (one) air filter change.

"Um, I said transmission filter – a filter for the the transmission."

"Oh sorry. Just a second," he said and scurried off.

Two minutes had passed and back he came.  I anticipated his news, quickly fantasizing the following scenarios: It will be done in a hour. It will be done in an hour and only cost $25, or we’ll have that taken care of in just a jiffy for our most valued customer. Why am I your most valued customer?  Correct answer: because you are a customer.

"We don’t do transmissions anymore," he deadpanned.

Gil the Jenius picked up my short piece on the management/employee disconnect in Puerto Rico and ran with it. He pulled no punches, and he’s right to a degree – but… let me add a little more personal detail to my opinion to clarify. I believe in the Puerto Rican employee. The sickness that befalls them, the sleepiness, the rudderless attitude, cluelessness, listlessness, and lack of initiative that we might see isn’t because they are naturally that way.. I think they get a bum rap. I’ve always said it (actually it was Demming, but I can steal, no?):

Bad results are 85% the fault of management.

With that said, my only direct experience with leading/managing a large group of Puerto Ricans was in the Army. I commanded roughly 128 soldiers most of whom were local. I took a dual track with my management style. I made sure that I engaged them, both by seeking and accepting opinions/advice. After all, I wasn’t afraid of being wrong, I just wanted the best way forward.

You know what happened? They came alive. The zombies warmed up, their pallor turning from a gray to a clean clear sun kissed tone. They responded with enthusiasm. They took ownership of their jobs. They accepted responsibility. They became agents of the organization. Once they had authority to match their responsibility, they rose to the occasion.

In fact, they did BETTER than their American compatriots.

I didn’t do much, and I can’t take extreme credit for everything. All I did was treat them as valued assets. I didn’t take privilege. I sleep and ate and suffered as they did, simple stuff, really.

But they’d never been treated that way before. They’d never been given respect the way I respected them.

In my little essay, I do recognize that there are two problems. Employees who won’t act and managers who won’t lead. So yeah, it takes two to tango.

But guess which one I would change first, if I could?

Rain was pouring down in sheets and the traffic had all jammed up, crumpled, jagged, and steaming in the tropical heat. As is my custom, when moving at 3 feet per minute and upon coming to an intersection wherein cars may poke out their snouts and cross through the great slow moving migration, I did indeed complete what had already been apparent, my relative lack of movement, and came to a stop. I had left a good twenty foot gap between myself and the car in front so as to not block the intersection. It was nothing new. It was courteous. It was lawful. It would have been unselfish except for the fact that those twenty feet meant nothing to me… a gap covered in five seconds once the migration should begin anew with a start and a lurch.

We were all there to pick up our beloved children from Catholic School. Mostly we are members of the same community and share a common devotion to braving this cursed traffic jam every day in order that we may fetch our darling children.

So it was therefore surprising that the blowing horns would have begun to fall upon me. Move up! Move up came the frantic wails. Can’t you see those twenty feet are essential to us? Can’t you see that you must move or we shall risk being crushed by the great disaster that comes from behind. And frantically they redoubled their efforts, blowing and snorting.

I held firm, resolute in my righteousness and irritation at the small-mindedness.

Then, without warning a small red Toyota Echo whipped from behind me and lodged himself diagonally into the space, the gap in the intersection directly in front of me. Now even the cross traffic was blocked. But the final straw? Someone in a Mercedes followed suit.

I had had enough. I blocked her. In our little game of chicken (if you could call it that), I could not have been defeated. My car? A twelve year old Chevy Lumina against the beautiful new Mercedes.

Just try it, bitch, I mentally cursed.

So I won. I looked her dead in the eye, shook my head, and mouthed. "Usted es una mal criada." Akin to saying, "The lady is a miscreant."

I love how Spanish allows one to insult with the air of an English butler. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. "I’m very sorry, sir, but the gentlemen is an ass."

So the madam was now stuck in the oncoming lane of traffic, blocked by myself and the stupid little pendejo, Toyota Echo. She attempted to back up and resume her station at my rear, but lo and behold, her traffic jam mate had closed her off from behind. She had no where to go. Oh how I wished there had been a lion or tiger to cull her ass from the herd.

The rain poured harder and I made a decision.

I flung open my door and sloshed my way to her driver’s side window. I leaned on her car and rapped on the window. She cracked it open a smidge.

"The lady is a miscreant. In the whole of my life I have never viewed such a manner. Does the madam believe that no one here to pick up their beloved children does not have hurry. Does the madam have more hurry than myself? Or them (pointing) or them? Does the madam not have the smallest portion of shame? I frankly would be ashamed of myself, a person of the madam’s age (55-60) and maturity to take it upon themselves to comport themselves in such a selfish and uncharitable manner."

Through, she kept attempting to interrupt with indignation, "Perdoname – perdoname – " make no mistake, ’twas not the tone of contrition.  No it was the "Look whippersnapper, I don’t know who you think you are – " the cold icy tone of "Excuse me?"

Indeed.

I had finished what I wished to communicate, so I got back into my car shaking my head and continued along… three feet at a time. Inch inch inch.