Somewhere in the recesses of my mind are all the letters of complaint that are composed, but never make it along the synapses of my brain to my hand to the paper and into the U.S. mail. I aspire to a time when I will be moved to write letters about political prisoners, faulty voting machines, or the unfair arrest of worthy citizens. But the only thing that motivates me to (nearly) write a letter is poor customer service, bad customer service, and worse customer service.

FAO: The Manager of Upscale Urban Supermarket:

Dear Sir or Madam:

I entered your parking lot one Saturday afternoon and noticed a leaking pipe causing water to gush into the basement parking garage. Your employees were apparently attending to the problem, so I parked and went about my shopping. When I returned an hour later, the basement was 8 inches deep in icy water. I had to wade to my car with no assistance in my best winter boots. Did it not enter anyone’s mind to announce that customers in the basement should move their vehicles before the waters amassed? To add insult to injury, the letter of complaint I wrote—and this would be the one such missive I managed in the past five years—was never acknowledged. In my mind, I have stopped patronizing your store.

FAO: The Manager of Luxury Resort Spa in California

Dear Sir or Madam:

I invested $160 in your spa services as a special treat while staying at your resort for a professional conference. I enjoyed the glass of water with cucumber slices, but was disappointed with the massage. While the hot lime wax scalp treatment was quite pleasant, the muscular young masseur was singularly unqualified to give me a massage. I am what one might call a “delicate flower” and his heavy-handed technique caused a muscle injury in my shoulder, which took three weeks to heal. Those of us who are sensitive to pressure are also entirely incapable of communicating that sensitivity, making it absolutely incumbent on the professional to check with us constantly. I wish I had bought a pair of shoes instead.

FAO: The Manager of Popular Nail Salon in Georgetown

Dear Sir or Madam:

I am quite aware that a pedicure is a skilled and delicate operation and each foot is unique in its structure and challenges. However, the last three times I have visited your salon, the pedicurist has caused profuse bleeding while cutting the cuticles on my toenails. I see her trying to cover up the wounds with cotton wool and wipes, but I’m afraid the pain is all too apparent. I resent paying $30 to be butchered and risk wound infection. You will see my bloody toes no more!

FAO: The Manager of Upscale Shopping Mall in Virginia, yes, that would be Tysons Galleria
Dear Sir or Madam:

I spend most of my life avoiding any sojourn to the Commonwealth of Virginia, but have been seduced into a bimonthly trip to secure the services of a talented and trustworthy British hairdresser at that apotheosis of suburban sprawl, Tyson’s Corner. To minimize time spent in traffic, I take the 8:15 am appointment on a Saturday morning. Although the mall is not officially open until 10 am, the hair salon, Starbucks, and Maggiano’s Little Italy are ready for the early birds.

The basic concept of the suburban shopping mall is that one drives, parks, shops, and drives home. And as such, Tysons Galleria has extensive parking garages to accommodate its clientele. And yet, some bureaucrat has taken it upon himself to restrict access to certain parking lots until the mall proper opens at 10 am. The chains remain linked across the very parking lot adjacent to the entrance I need to access for my hair salon.

For the past three years, I have challenged the parking police who chase me around in their official mall vehicles and urge me to use the lot on the far side of the mall. They tell me they want to prevent the mall’s retail staff from parking in this particular lot. I have developed a system where I locate their vehicles, drive out of sight, pull up at a chain and unleash it myself. Some are heavy and difficult to maneuver but I have learnt to identify the ones I can manage. Once inside, I can park in the empty lot close to my hair salon. Other less wily drivers look with admiration and amazement on my bold actions. The minute I open up a pathway, they pour in behind me at which point the mall police are more or less powerless unless they resort to violence. I feel like a modern day Lone Ranger.

Is this the Soviet Union, I ask you?

Lest you think me entirely vacuous, I once spotted an egregious intellectual error in The Washington Post, but being too lazy to write the letter, passed on the information to Lisa Parrish. I forget exactly what it was, but needless to say she was published, and I missed my one chance to shine as an informed and insightful citizen.