What is a specific instance in which you used your customer service skills to defuse a situation?

You know, it’s funny. I’m trying to be helpful and answer your question. And I’m sure I used my customer service skills thousands of times over the years, but I can’t recall for you one specific instance of it. If I’m being honest, I’m having trouble recalling one specific instance of anything. Anything that’s happened in the past twelve years? All those experiences and events and instances, they just kind of puddle together in one graying, undifferentiated, undifferentiable pool of time, and aging. I don’t know. I honestly do not think I could tell you one thing that happened to me since college, except -- I remember this one time. I was sitting at my desk. And a police officer strode into the office and came over to my desk and grabbed me by the shirt, didn’t say anything. Just grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me out of my chair and dragged me into the bathroom, the women’s room. And he kicked open one of the stalls, no one was in there, thank God, and he dunked my head in the toilet. One, two times. And then he pulled me out, and my hair was soaked, obviously, and I have no idea what any of this is about. And the cop just leaves. He just left me there, gasping and spitting up water. And he just left, and didn’t say anything to anybody, and no one said anything to him. And by this point, all I can do is pick myself up off the floor, and I’m trying to dry my hair and my head with these cheap, thin paper towels, but my shirt is just soaked in toilet water, just ruined. I mean I could have taken it home and washed and dried it, but it would have been ruined for me anyway. So I just took it off and balled it up and threw it in the trash. And I had to walk back through the office in just my bra until I could get back to my desk and put on my coat, and I sat there cold-sweating in my coat for the rest of the day. And no one ever said a word to me about it. To the point where, by the end of the day, I wasn’t even sure it had happened. I mean, I knew I was wearing my coat, and I didn’t have a shirt on underneath, and I knew I was still wet. But maybe -- I don’t know, I started to doubt myself, I started to think maybe I had just invented the thing about the cop and the toilet, to mask some other, more psychologically damaging reality, I mean, I don’t know what, but, something. But at the end of the day, I went in the bathroom, and I saw my boss in there, wringing out my shirt in the sink, and then balling it up again and putting it in her bag. So something happened, with the shirt. And then there is the feeling of the cop’s hands on my neck and shoulders, which I cannot forget, and I can’t forget how much they felt like my dad’s hands, even though my dad has never dunked my head in the toilet, and, truth be told, doesn’t even like to touch me. That I remember.