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Dr. John's
Customers
By Michael Alan Hamlin
March 01, 1999
Ron Kaufman, the Singapore-based
corporate trainer and educator originally brought to Asia by Singapore
Airlines to teach customer service, likes to relate a real-life
incidence of customer relationship building that centers on a fellow
he calls Dr. John. Last week, Mr. Kaufman was relating the episode
to Jollibee officers, managers, and franchisees (See, excellent
firms really do keep investing in training and education, even during
tough times… Okay, okay, Jollibee’s had a great year because
everyone who wasn’t a regular weekday customer in 1997 was
conserving in 1998. BUT, they’re getting ready for recovery
and the resumption of lunch-time gluttony. I mean a resurgence of
the power lunches that don’t usually take place at the jolly
bee.).
Dr. John is a 6’3" Canadian
dentist. But not just a dentist, a pediatric dentist. Instead of
repairing timeworn, abused teeth or replacing them with dentures,
he devoted his career to preparing children to care for their teeth
over a long life notably featuring a mouth full of original enamel.
But despite his good intentions, a couple of years after establishing
his practice he was having a tough go at it. He wasn’t making
any money, and the patients he did have, well, weren’t impressed.
So Dr. John went looking for advice.
And lucky for Dr. John — and his "customers" —
he found it. Rather than tell Dr. John what was not exactly right
with his clinic — like most consultants he didn’t really
know — the enlightened consultant merely asked a simple question:
"Dr. John, have you ever thought about what your clinic looks
like to someone 3"6" instead of 6’3"? Perhaps
that perspective would provide some insight into a more realistic
business model. Dr. John was skeptical, but desperate. So early
the next day, Dr. John went to work early. Very early.
Just outside the door — after
making certain no one was looking of course — tall ol’
Dr. Jones went down on his knees. The first thing he noticed was
the sign that read "Dr. John’s Pediatric Clinic."
While the brass letters had looked impressive — even prestigious
— to 6’3" Dr. John, 3’6" Dr. John thought
they looked ominous, and way, way up there. And as he looked back
down the hallway at other medical offices, which continued far,
far away down the corridor, brass letters beckoned in the same,
unfriendly way… "Hahahahahaaaaa," they screamed.
Shaking off a cold shiver that worked
its way down his shoulders, it occurred to Dr. John that not many
people his height — his was still on his knees — could
even read, "pediatric." Or would want to. And if they
could, or would, they couldn’t spell it. They sure wouldn’t
understand it. And neither would they want to. Dr. John began to
realize he had been scaring his customers into virtual morbidity.
Slowly, he leaned against the door
to push it open. What a door it was! Heavy. Wooden. Italian. Expensive.
Impractical. And he thought to himself, "Why do I have this
door?" And Dr. John remembered that he had this door because
the snooty British interior decorator that he had hired to design
the office had visited his home to discuss his plans. And Dr. John’s
home had a very similar door. "Where did you get this lovely
door?" the decorator had cooed. "Oh, we imported it from
Italy," Dr. John gushed. "Then we should put the same
door on the office, so that being at work is like being at home,"
the designer smiled.
"My god!" Dr. John sighed,
"this door is for me."
As the door closed behind him, Dr.
John looked out to the expanse of his office. Before him lay a rich
valley of plush, thick carpet, that made it difficult to walk on
his knees, or small feet. Big-person sized chairs dominated the
waiting area, and conveniently positioned along beside them were
Sports Illustrated, Vanity Fair, and the insufferable and irresistible
tabloids.
And there, there in a forlorn, far
corner, was... a play area. Some blocks, some toys, some well-worn
children’s books.
His eyes wide with terror, little
Dr. John looked to his left. And there rising from the plateau of
the floor was a mighty mountain of a counter. A counter so high
it could make his nose bleed. And worse, beyond the counter was
a no-man’s land where things happened that only big people
— the people who brought him here — could understand.
And for the second time, Dr. John felt a shiver slide down his spine.
Slowly he worked himself toward the
treatment rooms and their large, intimidating lights that stood
like sentries over the platform that would slowly, noisily, and
agonizingly raise him toward the masked executioner. And Dr. John
understood, now, that his premise — to do good by treating
children — was sound, but the process was wretched.
Not too long after, though, little
kids walking up to Dr. John’s office saw a sign that looked
a lot like one they’d expect to see on a toy store that read,
"Your Kid’s Mouth." Beside it, was a bright red door
that easily slid open. And when it did, wow, a playground with toys,
slides, and books… everywhere. If you could manage to look
just beyond it, in the corner, Dr. John’s patients could see
a suitable place for mom in the corner.
Off to the left, a smiling teacher-looking
person, who was called a receptionist. Well, some things don’t
change. But she knew your name, and you knew hers. And while it
might not have been the best part of all, you did see Dr. John,
whose chair was positioned in a sculpted depression in the floor,
at eye level, waiting for you to climb up and go to work.
Only that’s not Dr. John. It’s
his franchisee.
Copyright © 1999 The Events
& Awards Managers of Asia and
Hamlin-Iturralde Corporation. All rights reserved.
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