Accountability Matters

I then reached out to my friend Addison, who works for a local plumbing, AC, and electrical contractor, about scheduling the install. I adore Addison. She is a glorious twenty-something who gets things done. On a Saturday night, she was able to coordinate with the scheduling gods to get us a 9:00 AM Monday installation. Amazing.

Wait.

My new disposal won’t be there when the installer arrives. That seems problematic, and I do what any middle-aged person would do: Sunday morning, I go to Lowe’s to purchase the same disposal so it’s ready Monday morning, planning to have them cancel the online order while I’m in the store.

My daughter and I arrive at Lowe’s, walk past customer service—noting the eight people waiting in line so long they’ve practically set up base camp—and make haste to the garbage disposals because I do not want to join them at base camp Lowe’s. When we locate the disposals, I find the model I ordered online isn't stocked in the store. It’s a garbage disposal, right? They all pretty much do the same thing. I grab the closest match for a reasonable price and dash to the checkout area.

All the traditional registers are closed except for self-checkout. Having worked at Winn-Dixie for two weeks as a cashier while in college, I feel like I have a mastery of the self-checkout most mortals cannot grasp. Fetch me the scan gun, for I have scanned myself out of far more dire situations. Have no fear.

We start scanning our item of one. The register tallies the disposal just fine and prompts us to pay. I have a coupon for 15% off—specifically intended for new garbage disposals purchased by middle-aged men on a Sunday with their daughter in tow. But wait: there’s no spot on the screen for the coupon. I motion to the twenty-something young woman sporting the Lowe’s vest and explain that while everything scanned fine, there’s no field for the coupon code. She tells me to advance to the next screen, enter my credit card number, and the prompt will appear. Okay. You’ve got the vest, so clearly you know what you’re doing. I proceed as instructed.

Nope. No spot for the promo code.

I flag her down a second time and specifically ask for help. She tells me to scan the barcode on the coupon itself. Nope. That doesn’t work either, and she wanders off.

I flag her down a third time, very specifically telling her it’s not working as intended. I pointedly use the phrase, “I’m having trouble loading the coupon. Would you please help me?”

She replies, “Pay for the disposal and it will give you another prompt for the discount.”

I push back. “That’s not how this works.” Remember, I have history behind the register. She looks at me and repeats that I should just pay. Reluctantly, I do.

The next screen pops up: “Thank you for shopping at Lowe’s. Would you like a paper or electronic receipt?”

Not amused. She’s standing right there watching the entire transaction play out. At this point, a few potential scenarios could unfold:

A. She uses her training, jumps in, credits the order back, applies the coupon, and sends me on my way.

B. She flags down a supervisor for assistance.

C. She apologizes for the error or confusion.

Instead, she opts for D. Send me over to basecamp Lowe’s at customer service and let them sort it out.

I opt for E. “No.”

I tell her directly, firmly, but politely: I will not go stand in that line. I asked for assistance three times, and all three times she assured me the transaction would work out—despite my warning that it wouldn't. She is stunned that I said no. My daughter is none too pleased either.

I pushed back because there has to be accountability in every role. If I make a mistake, I own it. I take responsibility, apologize, correct the error, and move on. Lowe’s is generally known for doing the right thing, but at the moment their emissary is not representing the company as they might hope.

A supervisor overhears the exchange and steps in immediately. As I begin explaining what happened, the young employee starts talking over me. At that point, I comment to both Lowe’s employees that the core issue here is training. Instead of taking ownership and solving the problem at the onset, she tried to defer blame and shift the ordeal to customer service. If she had simply attempted to solve the issue before it escalated, we’d be having a very different conversation. The supervisor agrees, promises to speak with her manager, and then suggests we head over to customer service—the exact destination I was trying to avoid from the start.

On our way to customer service, I clarify that I don’t want the employee to get in trouble; she’s doing her job, but she can do it better. Take responsibility. Be accountable. When a company pays you, it’s a transactional agreement: accepting the paycheck means performing to expectation. In this instance, the execution fell short. She doesn’t need a lecture; she needs proper training and a clearer understanding of ownership. Own your job. Do better.

Basecamp has broken up and there’s no line at customer service. The supervisor has us out the door in under five minutes, complete with the discount applied and the original online order canceled. She apologizes for the friction, briefly recapping the situation to the counter staff, who all nod in agreement: “If she had just handled it at the register, it would’ve taken ten seconds.” Training.

We walk out with the new disposal in hand. As we hit the parking lot, my daughter offers her assessment—speaking politely, firmly, and as a representative of the younger generation in the know: “Dad, you were wrong. You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. It was really rude.”

I disagree. I wasn’t rude. I was firm, direct, and standing up for myself. But I see her point, even if we view the exchange through entirely different lenses. We both agreed that the situation could have gone better in general.

Hopefully that employee grows and develops more self-awareness. The new disposal is officially installed thanks to Addison, my daughter may have learned a little something about standing her ground, and my daughter continues to push me to stay open to other vantage points. Right or wrong, I’m still accountable.