Laszlo Bock, SVP, People Operations Google, Inc. Dear Mr. Bock: My experience this afternoon dealing with Google—specifically, the support desk for Google Drive—was amazing. In one sense, the conversation made me happy for the American economy—because Google is one American corporation clearly doing so well that it can afford to make promises on which it doesn’t deliver, and to employ clerks that are blasé to the point of decadence. Read for yourself. The most Alice In Wonderland-ish moment in my conversation with the Google employee came after some very bitter exchanges, when I finally asked: “May I have your name, sir?” Pause. “I’m not a sir." This statement puzzled me. Did the person mean he/she didn’t want to be referred to with that degree of formality? Or was it that the person was female? Or transgender? Or something else? I took a guess that I had the person’s gender wrong: “I’m sorry, are you saying you’re a woman? What is your name?” “Melissa.” “Melissa, I want to speak with your supervisor—“ Click. Was the line dead? Had she hung up on me? Or was I on hold? “Melissa, did you hang up on me? Hello?” Pause. Another click. Hello?” “Hello, this is Charlie.” Before that jaw-dropping interchange, I had asked the person I had erroneously assumed to be male if it were possible to change the account under which my Google Drive operated. There was a long pause, a sigh was heaved, and the voice then quickly said, “Well, I suppose you could share documents with your other account.” Yes, I said, but my other account didn’t have the especially large storage that my first account had—this was my question—was there a way to transfer the large storage from Account A to Account B? “No. You’ll have to purchase storage for your other account.” Well, what about my other question—could I purchase a premium storage account and give it as a gift? Evernote allows that. Another long pause. “You maybe could use a gift card.” I said I wanted the transaction to be entirely within Google, and that maybe Google Wallet—“If you have questions about Google Wallet, we’re not equipped to handle them here. You’ll have to call Google Wallet.” “I just got off the phone with Google Wallet support,” I explained. “They told me to call here. Look, I’m trying to buy something from you! So if you don’t know, perhaps your supervisor might?” “I don’t think I like your tone.” Finally, more astonished than frustrated, I said to Melissa, “Is there a reference number for this call for me to use when I write to complain about the way you are treating me?” Sigh. “Yeah, it’s sixeightohsixsixohohohohninesixfive,” Melissa rattled off the digits really fast. We had to go over the number twice for me to determine, for certain, that the reference number of the call was 680-660-000-965. Mr. Bock, I hope that the transcript of the call I’ve provided lets you know, without my further explanation, why I’m writing. I’m put out that I called Google wanting to spend money and got spoken to this way. Melissa’s attitude, tone, and speech content were actually more consistent with some of the mentally ill people whom I deal with than with mere hostility. It was absolutely clear that Melissa did not have any desire to help me, and was content to allow that fact to be absolutely open and known to me. Instead of giving my friend a subscription to Google Drive, I’m giving him—and several of my other friends with senses of humor—a copy of this letter. There’s nothing more to say.