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Katana and 8200 - Side by side |
Our story began in November of 2006. Two weeks prior, I had been in Germany for the first time. It was wonderful to experience that place in a culture and language I love so much. Upon my return to the states, I was refreshed and eager for other new experiences. How convenient then, to know that in another week, work would send me to San Jose, California.
But this is a story about phones, and it’s a romance. In the words to follow, I invite you to share in my exhilaration, frustration, restoration, and eventual loss.
I began to dream of new phones that week prior to California. In my pocket was the wonderful Sanyo 8200 clamshell. Our time together had just exceeded the two-year mark, and, although there were no true issues beyond the minor cosmetic scuffs intrinsic to any relationship, I had grown weary of its inadequacies. The 8200 had replaced a Samsung A400, itself nothing special and made worse after its acquisition by the introduction of the Samsung A460, which was among the first group to have an external display. I was happy to jettison the reliable, but inferior, A400 as soon as I could. The Sanyo was markedly different from the Samsung. It felt sturdy, more robust. There was an audible and tangible click when it opened, and I felt a twinge of joy every time. The external display doubled as a viewfinder for the camera and there was a secret flashlight mode for the flash. Call voice quality was clear and loud. I strained to hear a caller even in a quiet room on the Samsung, but the Sanyo excelled in noisy environments. The 8200 had everything I could possibly want, and I could think of no reason to part with it.
And so it was that one night I went to dinner with a friend. Arriving ahead of him, I witnessed his approach through the parking lot. As he approached, I discerned that he was talking, engaged in a phone conversation and using a headset. As he closed the distance between us, he wrapped up his conversation and took out his phone to end the call. That is the moment my world turned upside down, for I discovered there was no wire. Although I was slightly late to this technological party, I’m no idiot. I had heard of and knew the capabilities of Bluetooth, but this was the first time I saw it in action. Somehow, the realization that my friend was wearing a headset and his phone (without attached wires!!) rested securely in his pocket crystallized this ability. At that moment, I had to have Bluetooth capability.
Sadly, my beloved and capable 8200 with its myriad features lacked this new bauble. I engaged my rational mind to quiesce the torrential desire for a new phone with a blue hue, and was somewhat successful. I would occasionally peruse the available handsets and determine that none could overcome the 8200 in feel or function even if it had a Bluetooth radio. This is around the time that Motorola introduced the RAZR, which seemed to be the iPhone of its day. In a world where some sacrifices had been made for the convenience and practicality (and, in my opinion, the enduring perfection) of the clamshell design, Motorola introduced to the market a mobile device that was, surprisingly, sexy. The RAZR was not available to Sprint customers, but it laid the groundwork and other companies soon put forth their take on this popular design.
In the Sprint camp, at least, none were perhaps more successful than Sanyo with their Katana line. Commercials for the device highlighted its thin form factor by morphing its namesake into the phone itself slicing through paper. This was successful marketing in 2006. My rational mind was still at work providing argument against additional expenditure and “change for the sake of change”, but its power had dimmed against the onslaught of desire. Bluetooth was a constant mantra. The Katana seemed to have beaten Motorola’s RAZR; it was cool, sleek, metallic. And it had Bluetooth.
Thus, on Thursday, November 9, 2006, I strolled into a Sprint store during my lunch break. I knew what I wanted when I walked in the door, but I placated the salesman with some initial questions; forty-five minutes later, I was back at work with my shiny black Katana. Certainly, there were some pangs of guilt that night as I powered down my 8200, closed the clamshell (*click*), and put it away in a drawer. Such sentimentality had mostly faded by the time I boarded a plane the following Sunday and flew off to San Jose. In the evenings, I explored a little; the thinness of the Katana was an afterthought in my pocket. One evening, I stood on the beach between Monterey and Santa Cruz, and watch the sun slip behind the waves of the Pacific. I used the Katana’s camera to capture a photo of that view, which replaced the background on the phone. Every time I flipped open the Katana, I saw that evening on the Pacific coast.
Times were good. Bluetooth technology was in hand allowing me to realize that long-held dream of pairing headset to device and talking on my mobile sans wires as nature intended. The Katana was a robust device, but the passage of time revealed areas of sacrifice needed to present such a slender package. Perhaps my most intense gripe was voice quality. Pangs of regret and longing for the abilities of my 8200 were felt each time I asked a caller to repeat something or excused myself to stand outside a modestly noisy room. Most everything else was to my satisfaction, especially the deep warmth experienced whenever I slipped my Bluetooth headset over my ear.
Six months passed without incident. Winter came and gave way to spring. Spring was ready to clear the way for summer when one evening I found myself at the home of a friend to celebrate his birthday. I know that it happened when I sat down on the deck out back to continue in conversation with friends, but I did not become aware of it until I settled into my vehicle for the drive home a little while later. When I extracted the phone from my pocket, there was obviously something wrong. The external display was cracked, and this damage caused the entire display to be illegible. Internal and external displays shared the same LCD screen. As I said, I knew when it happened because I immediately recalled that the phone had bound on the keys in my pocket as I sat down. Downtrodden and not knowing what else to do, I resolved to visit my neighborhood Sprint store first thing.
My intent was to have the Katana repaired, but I prepared for the worst. In my pocket as I entered the Sprint store to discuss my options was my trusty 8200. Dreading the worst as I presented my issue to the kindly Sprint representative, I was mildly surprised to learn that repair was possible and relatively cheap. I also learned that this was not an uncommon issue. The Sprint guy explained that for the same fee, they would either replace the broken portion of the phone from spare parts or, failing repair, replace the entire device. After deploying the 8200 back into service (an issue with which the representative struggled somewhat, as he could not read the necessary information from the Katana), I departed the store eagerly awaiting the end of this ordeal and the restoration to me of a fully whole Katana.
I wish I could report to you at this point that the phone was returned to me in short order and that our heretofore blissful life had resumed. I would like to tell you such a story, but it was not to be. Sadly, this begins a dark tale of irascible and incompetent customer service, outright lies, and personal woe.
Ten days passed, and no word had come. I called to determine status and learned that replacement was favored over repair. They were waiting on stock and would be back in touch when I could come and retrieve my new phone. As I hung up, I silently rejoiced. No concern would I have over whether the repair would hold; I simply would have a new handset and could continue on as if nothing had ever been amiss. Life seemed good in that moment. But, there was a storm brewing.
I cannot from this distance recall the time period in which this replacement was to be accomplished. I do know, however, that it was exceeded. In mid-July and roughly three weeks after hearing that the handset would be replaced, the last shreds of my patience were gone and I once again called the store. Another would have more sensibly called much sooner. I had a simple question (“where is the replacement handset?”), but the answer and ensuing conversation were not simple. It is, in fact, the second worst customer service experience of my life. On the call, the representative with knowledge of the matter checked a few records and reported back that the earlier order for a replacement device had been blocked and only a repair was authorized. Further, while this denial of replacement had occurred soon after the order had been placed (three weeks ago!), it was news to the associate, which also meant that no other action had been taken. Five weeks after taking in the handset for repair (which, by the way, could have been accomplished by the on-site technicians), absolutely no progress had been made. As my memory has been spared the intricate detail of this conversation, I will spare you. It was a drawn out conversation and consisted of mostly my ire toward inept handling of the situation and insinuations of incompetence. From the other end, it was only an endless iteration of nothing more could be done. At its conclusion, the poor, broken Katana was placed into queue for repair, which would take another ten days. There would be no advancement in the queue for any reason, apparently.
And so it was that I entered the store again within that last time window to retrieve my resurrected Katana. Out of my pocket went $80 and into my pocket slipped the Katana. Frustrated as I was by the prolonged hassle, I was happy to have back my phone. After words of appreciation for its service, I placed the faithful 8200 back in the drawer from whence it came. Normal life resumed and I was content. A matter of days later, I was scheduled to spend a week in Boston on business. The Boston trip came about with little notice and it preceded an already planned vacation to Connecticut and New York City with my girlfriend-now-wife. Instead of flying out together, I would spend my time in Boston, then meet her and friends in Hartford, CT. I was looking forward to seeing New England in early summer and having a portion of the trip financed by my employer was a definite bonus. Life was fresh and full of purpose; yet, on the horizon were those pesky clouds of woe.
I meandered through airport security on the day of my departure, and sat down at the gate to await boarding. While there, I pulled the Katana out of my pocket and discovered the unthinkable when flipping it open. The screen was a miasma of broken lines and static; something had gone horribly wrong. I could just make out the signal bars, but nothing else was decipherable. I was simultaneously anxious and furious. I now had a phone that was in questionable working order and two weeks away from home lay before me. Was this phone cursed? I quickly went through my steps to determine if there was a moment where it may have come into hard contact with a surface. There was a small fumbling of items at the scanner, when it had tumbled 5 inches from my hand to the conveyor; perhaps this was the cause. I was incensed at such shoddy repair work. I spent my time on the flight thinking about workarounds. I had few options as I would not be in one place long enough (10 days!) to have it repaired. Also, it was my only method of communication (which prompts a realization on how dependent on communication our society has become. Try weeks, months or years without word from loved ones as our ancestors did. Ha!!). I had two options. I could live with it or replace it. Only a used/refurbished replacement would be possible as I would have to pay full price. Another discovery was soon made, however, when I was settled in my hotel room in Boston (after a harrowing drive through deserted Boston streets in the rain which is another topic entirely; beautiful city but I will never drive there again). While vibrate mode worked on the phone, it would not produce sound. Now, not only was I reliant on my memory of phone numbers stored on the phone itself (fortunately, my memory of such things is pretty good), but I would not know of an incoming call until a message was left that prompted the external red LED to blink. The comedy of this situation is almost Shakespearean.
I did settle on a solution the next day, but it is not immediate. It is time to call the 8200 back into service once more. While that device is 2000 miles away, so is my girlfriend-now-wife. She will be charged with the task of retrieving the 8200 from my apartment and transporting it from Texas to Connecticut. I just need to survive the week. Despite a few minor obstacles, I am able to do just that. Once my girlfriend-now-wife arrives in Hartford, things are all right again. We spend a few days with dear friends, see some great New England sites (including a wonderful day at Mark Twain’s house), and I forget about my phone drama. It is not until several days later when we are settled into our Manhattan hotel room that I make the call to Sprint to reactivate the trusty, and increasingly appreciated, 8200. The rest of that trip went smoothly.
One of my first tasks when back home was to correct the problems with my phone. I know that the Katana has not suffered any severe damage and am confident that my good friends at Sprint will work to correct the mistakes they made. Thus begins the worst customer service experience of my life. This honor is bestowed mainly because almost no corrective action was taken aside from reconnecting the phone’s display to the main board. The only upside is that the repair was performed while I waited. Upon receipt of the phone from the technician, I checked that all was in working order. Yes, the display was now as it was, clearly announcing incoming calls and allowing access to stored content. Unfortunately, no sound emanated from the device. In addition, the repair was incomplete. On one side of the phone, the back cover bowed out where a screw was not secured. I pointed these problems out to the technician, and kindly expected them to be corrected. Instead, I received from her a verbal assault against my poor stewardship of the phone. She let me know of her conviction that I had dropped the phone from considerable height, that I was the recipient of considerable favor to have the display repaired, and that nothing more would be done. To my protests, I received only caustic encouragement to be grateful and depart. Apparently, I encountered this woman on a particularly bad day. Taken aback at such treatment, I approached the store’s manager to seek redress. He informed me that he was sorry, but that he was not empowered to override the decision of the technician. Lacking any pathway to improve the situation, I went home and waited for the fuming to subside. My initial thoughts were to work my way up the corporate ladder until I found someone who could correct this injustice. My next thoughts were about how much time and energy this would take. The ones after that were of how weary and defeated I felt. This was a grieving process, no doubt.
Not too long after, I discovered that by pressing on the loose screw on the device’s back plate, sound was restored. This implied that all one need to do to improve appearance and function was to secure this tiny screw. I had a screwdriver small enough for the task, but this led to another discovery; one which I believe explained the refusal of the Sprint technician to make further repairs. The threads for the screw were stripped, so securing the back plate was impossible. To repair it correctly would have meant replacing the device (which was still under a warranty period from the first repair of the screen). We were visiting my parents soon after, and I presented the issue to my father. I accepted that a repair attempt could lead to an early termination of this phone’s life, but as I didn’t care anymore, there was not much risk. He took the phone into his workshop, and brought it back a little later with the back plate and screw secure fastened. Know-how and super glue had worked their magic. The phone felt stable and produced sound. I had my phone back with complete function and only minor (relative) blemishes to its appearance. Yet, there was no love; my heart had grown cold against it.
Time rolled forward from that date. I got engaged, married, got a dog, and the Katana remained. Then, on the evening of May 26, 2011, as I leashed our dog for a walk, it happened. I picked up the Katana from the table with the intention of putting into my pocket; it never made it. Somehow, it slipped my grasp and tumbled to the tile below. It had taken a blow or two in the intervening years, but somehow I sensed this was the last one. I was not surprised to flip open the display and find that it was again illegible. By the time night came in earnest, nothing appeared on the display at all. As luck would have it, I had scheduled a trip to visit my parents in Abilene over the weekend for Memorial Day. Its death would, of course, come in an hour of need and when least expected.
After considering many options and much research, I left Sprint and replaced the Katana with a sleek and very poweful Android device of which I am quite fond. It is worth noting that the picture accompanying this post was taken with the Android. I am happy to have moved on.
It should be noted that my experience with Sprint as presented in this narrative was before the days of Dan Hesse, who I believe managed a Herculean task of righting the foundering vessel. While I am no longer a Sprint customer, my dealings with them while a gold-level Sprint Premiere customer in the last two years has were always the most professional. Of course, none of those involve visiting a retail store. I claim no authority either way.