Winning a telephone battle

Listen closely.
"AHHHHHH!"
That's the sound of me dealing with a telephone company. It should be the sound of my dad dealing with one, but he's 82 and shouldn't have to handle such things any more.
Our distress may have begun in February; I'm not sure. Such is the way of dealing with big bureaucracies; you never really know what happened. You only know they are in some mysterious way "evil," and you are in some mysterious way "stupid."
Anyway, back in February as the cold winds of winter whipped the snowflakes around my father's apartment windows, MCI started whipping up trouble for him by sending him a long-distance bill. "Odd," my father said, "I don't have MCI."
Simultaneously, he got a bill from AT & amp;T, whom he has had since Alexander Graham Bell said, "Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you."
Set things straight?
So Dad tried to call MCI to set things straight. He gave up in frustration after sitting on hold for almost an hour and pushing enough buttons ("If this concerns a residential line, press one") to play Handel's "Messiah" twice. He ended by calling AT & amp;T and confirmed it as his carrier.
It seemed resolved until two weeks ago when I visited my dad in Cleveland and tried to call home. "There is a block on your long-distance service," the line droned into my ear. "What's up with this, Dad?"
"I don't know. Will you figure it out?" (Only a fool would take on the phone companies twice in one year, and Dad is no fool.)
AT & amp;T feigned ignorance when I called to ask about the block. It did, however, sign him up for long-distance service. Odd. He already had long distance with them, didn't he? "Yes, but we'll do it again." Hmmm.
By Friday, I got this little ditty when I called my father: "The number you have dialed ... has been disconnected."
At this point, I called AT & amp;T again. "Listen, does this problem have anything to do with the new long-distance service?"
"No, it couldn't."
"Has he paid his bills?"
"Yes, he's completely current. It's probably a repair issue. Let me connect you." By the time I hung up the phone, I was assured that the line would be repaired by 6 p.m. Friday. At 6:01, I dialed Dad: "The number you have dialed ... has been disconnected."
Keep trying
My next call to AT & amp;T was direct to the repair office. I dutifully punched in all the requisite numbers: the number for English, the number for repair, my dad's telephone number, the number of times I'd wanted to kill myself since volunteering to call the phone companies.
"Hello, this is Robert, what number are you calling about?"
This always irks me because I just punched in those buttons. Plus, Robert had an accent, which also irks me. It's not that I dislike people from other countries, or people with accents, or that I'm politically involved in a protest against outsourcing; it is that I believe in ease of communication when I'm complaining. Also, I like to know that should I use any profanities, I'm guaranteed that the customer service rep knows what they mean.
"The number is (440) 723-"
"That is four zero two?"
"No. It's (440) 72--"
"OK. Just a minute. That's four zero four."
Call the Slam Office
I hung up and dialed again. The next person who answered knew the number without my spelling it. I was told to call the Slam Office, where they deal with unauthorized changes to long-distance carriers. Bright and early Monday, I got another AT & amp;T rep who answered coolly.
"Look," I said, "my dad's 82, and I feel like I'm 82 since trying to figure this thing out."
Ultimately, I was sent to MCI, where this whole thing evidently began. I waited, listening to Chopin for 40 minutes. Then a lovely lady came on and shuffled me off to a lovelier lady who apologized, said they would credit my father's account, remove the block within 24 hours, and pay me for the seven hours I had just wasted on the phone. No, just kidding about that last part.
But, God bless all the little children around the world; that was easy, wasn't it? I'll let you know in 24 hours.
murphy@vindy.com