Customer Service Matters: It’s Why I’m Leaving My Ford Dealership

Or, maybe, making sure I dress for success at the service desk

“The next time I need my car serviced, I’m channeling my inner Doris Chandler,” I told my bewildered husband.

I imagined myself approaching the service desk in my highest heels and my “I mean business” suit, hair and makeup flawless.

He imagined I’d lost my mind.

Doris who?

She was my former coworker, at least as tall as my 5’10”. Determined to be imposing and confident when she needed help outside her realm of expertise — car repairs or maintenance, for example — she dressed to the nines in her highest heels to make sure mechanics wouldn’t think of taking advantage of her.

I knew this because she did it and told me why.

Did it really make a difference?

I’d driven my jumped Ford Edge to the Ford dealership — known for its 5-star customer service — in jeans, a sweater, and a winter coat. My head was wild with curls and without makeup. I wore no heels.

And I was five hours late.

(I’d called the dealership almost in tears that morning when I couldn’t make the appointment because I couldn’t unlock my car — with the key fob or car key, a story in itself. They said I could bring it — or tow it — to them at any time that day, or I wouldn’t have dared.)

It was two days after Christmas, our fourth morning in a row with temperatures in the 20s. In Florida, that was something.

My Ford Edge is a Floridian. It even says so on its tag.

It also says, “In God We Trust.” It says nothing about dealerships. Or mechanics. Or service managers.

After a jump start…

As I drove to the dealership, I called to alert them to my arrival — and my need to leave the car running as it wouldn’t start without a jump.

“Oh, you’re coming — now? Your appointment was for 8 a.m.”

While polite, the man who answered my call made it clear my arrival was inconvenient and, therefore, I shouldn’t expect immediate service.

Despite that, I hoped I would — because how long could a battery installation take, right? But, no.

“We’ll need at least two hours to charge the battery before we can prove it was at fault,” the man at the counter told me. “You will need to find a ride home.”

He provided no congenial wave of his arm to point me to a waiting room with a pot of old coffee, vinyl chairs, and other waiting customers staring awkwardly at soap operas on an old TV. Or staring at their phones. Nope.

Just the door to frigid Florida and the clear message I wasn’t welcome.

How kind.

My husband took 45 minutes to get me. I waited — half the time shivering on the shaded metal bench outside the service department’s wall of windows, the other half sitting on a nearby curb in the sunlight.

No one offered to save me from my discomfort.

From cold to crude accusations

When I returned to get my car the next day, I asked my service manager how common it was for a battery to fail in such a short time. Did my model of car have a reputation for draining batteries?

He seemed affronted I asked.

“The battery was nearly three years old, rather a normal time for it to fail. Certainly, the car model has no such issues.”

I asked, then, about the remaining months of the 100-month warranty period on my battery, now that the battery had been replaced.

“What 100-month warranty?” my service advisor asked. “This battery only has a 3-year warranty.”

“You mean three years non-prorated and then the rest prorated, right?” I said.

“Where did you get that idea?” Bill responded. “We haven’t offered that warranty since 2018.”

“It’s written right here.”

I showed him the receipt from 2020, in which the service advisor had circled the battery type and handwritten the warranty details he’d promised me.

“Who wrote that?” this Ford representative asked.

“I guess it was Cody Curtis,” I said, pointing to the name listed as the service advisor.

“That’s not Cody’s handwriting.”

“Well, it’s not mine,” I said, pointing to my distinct script written on the outside of the gallon-size Ziploc bag where I kept all the documents for my Ford.

I was insulted. Was he insinuating I’d written it myself? I’d never owned a Ford, never purchased a battery from a dealership until 2020, and would not have known such a thing as a 100-month warranty existed.

Apparently, it doesn’t. At least, not for me.

The surprising end result of poor customer service

Bill walked me to my car, opened the hood, and showed me the new battery. I was dismissed.

I left, fuming inside. But as I drove away from the dealership, the fume dissipated, replaced by relief. Why? I realized I was free.

Free.

That warranty had handcuffed me to the dealership. It had extended my car-lessness for days while I waited for Ford’s business hours and an open appointment. Those additional days of cold weather made my battery so dead it didn’t even have the strength to unlock the door.

Which meant I had to fork out money to a locksmith to unlock my car for me. (A long story you can read about here.)

What seemed a blessing — a battery under warranty — became a liability and an insult.

What else in my life seems to offer me security but keeps me similarly chained?

I am reminded of Psalm 20:7, which reads:

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
    but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”

Psalm 20:7, NIV

I’m putting less trust in the “chariot” dealership now, I can assure you.

Lesson learned

The next time my battery is dead I can purchase a battery from anywhere I choose (maybe a store open 24 hours?) — and replace the battery in the comfort of my driveway.

Which might be sooner than I’d like, actually.

When I arrived home that day, my husband checked the new battery. It might have been unused, but the dealership had installed an old battery — one dated 14 months prior.

I’m not impressed.

Funny enough, when I purchased my battery through the dealership, I was asked to give them a 5-star review. (“Anything less is considered a failing mark,” they say.) The receipt for the battery included a page indicating the full checkup they’d given my car as part of their customer service.

After my first encounter with the dealership, when I received an email with a survey, I was impressed enough to rate them with 5 stars.

This time, I walked away with a different impression. Sure, I saw the same signage pleading for 5-star reviews as I checked in and out of the Ford dealership, but I never got the follow-up survey — or any inquiry as to my satisfaction.

I’m offering it here. 😉

But, then again, maybe it was my fault.

I hadn’t dressed like Doris Chandler.