Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Fifteen





New hires, aka newbies or spring chickens, are forced to work the holidays in this call center. Everything here goes by seniority and since I was hired in October, I am basically at the bottom of the cesspool. Which sucks, because I had to work on Thanksgiving and today, I am forced to work on Christmas! The day our Savior was born. It’s blasphemous, sacrilegious, heinous and atrocious.

But then again, what am I griping about? I’m not even religious. I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious, and when I say that, people often ask me, “Well what the hell does that mean?”

To me it means that while I believe in God, I don’t necessarily subscribe to any religious doctrines or to organized religion. But I digress. Truth of the matter is, I am just peeved that I have to work on a holiday. On the bright side, my best buddies are also working alongside me on this abomination.

“Psssssssssst. What you got there, Ingeborg?” I catch a whiff of alcohol as she sashays by holding a Hello Kitty water bottle.

“Sssshhhhhhhh, don’t tell anyone. It iz vodka, not vater,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Kars and I raise our Snapple bottles in silent salute, the very ones we filled with some cheap red wine called Fat Bastard.

We bought it at the liquor store for only twelve bucks a pop; and it is seriously the best wine you can purchase at that price.

“Cheers! We’ve got some wine ourselves.” Kars clinks her Snapple bottle with mine and we slosh back our wine.

“Salud,” says Ingeborg and knocks back her vodka. “It iz nice you zitting by us today Karzynn.”

Karsynn so happens to be sitting in the cubicle next to me; Truong has a ton of seniority so that lucky duck has the day off. Nearly all of the cubicles are empty since only a handful of us are working today. The only supervisor in charge is Dawson Darling, and he is a man who lives up to his good name, the antithesis of Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi. Suffice it to say, he’s super laid back and we love him to death.

Ingeborg takes another swig. “Tee-hee-hee, isn’t this vild?”

Kars and I chug down our Fat Bastard in acknowledgement.

“Ingeborg, I just love your accent,” I say with utmost sincerity. “I’m going to start talking like you tonight.”

Ingeborg shrugs. “Go ahead, I am horn-nerd.”

Eyeballing Kars, I say in a grave and serious tone, “Kars—vat vud you like to do zoonight?”

“Vat-evahh, Mazziee,” she manages between sputters; and for some odd reason, this strikes us as hilarious. We find ourselves hooting hysterically like a pair or hyenas.

It must be the alcohol. It’s really not that funny, yet we’re still laughing and convulsing so hard, our sides are splitting.

To celebrate Christmas, Karsynn and I shared three bottles of Fat Bastard right before coming into work, so we’re undeniably a little buzzed now. But we didn’t drink and drive. Being the responsible citizens that we are, we took a cab to work as a Christmas present to ourselves.

Mika appears to be the only sober one around. Striding over, he grins at us with frank amusement. “You girls are hammered; I can smell the alcohol from a mile away.”

It doesn’t take long for Mika to notice my choice of attire. And when he does, he stands stock still with a deer-in-the-headlights sort of look. “Nice sweater, Maddy,” he says in an unnatural and stilted voice. Then he turns to Kars and manages an uneven smile. “Um, you too, Kars.”

And the more Mika stares, the more his face contorts. I watch it go through several alarming transformations. Eventually, he turns to me, as if hoping I’d offer some sort of explanation for this colossal calamity.

“It’s Ugly Christmas Sweater Day,” I announce gaily.

And much to my surprise, tracking down an ugly Christmas sweater proved to be a challenging task. Goodwill and Salvation Army were completely sold out! They’ve become such a popular fad that they’re selling on eBay for fifty bucks a pop. And I refuse to pay more than five dollars for an ugly Christmas sweater.

Luckily for us, Karsynn’s grandma Dottie keeps a closet full of ugly Christmas sweaters. Dottie happens to be quintessentially quirky, but I find her absolutely adorable.

Last Sunday, we dropped by Dottie’s condo and found her curled up on the sofa, numbing herself with a bottle of Southern Comfort. And she was snugly swathed in a Snuggie, looking like she was wearing a robe backwards.

The Snuggie is quite possibly the dumbest invention ever, yet at the same time, super ingenious! Hell, I wish I came up with the Snuggie. It’s a commercial hit and I’d be laughing all the way to the bank.

Dottie was simply over the moon to see us. And while I tactfully avoided any reference to her Snuggie, Kars blurted, “Granny, what’s up with that big cape you’re wearing? You look like Darth Vader.”

And without missing a beat, Dottie said in a deep baritone-d James Earl Jones voice, “Luke, I am your father.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Ninety year old Dottie was a Stars Wars buff.

Then Kars burbled, “You look like a member of an evil cult.”

At that, Dottie became visibly affronted. Apparently Dottie was a devout Catholic, and she fully resented the ‘cult’ reference.

I shot Kars a quelling look, but she bungled on, “Do you have any ugly Christmas sweaters we can borrow?”

Dottie placed one hand over her bosom and bristled crossly, “I happen to love my Snuggie. And young lady, if a sweater looked ugly to me, I would never buy it.”

I immediately jumped in, attempting to defuse the situation. “Dottie, pay no attention to Kars. That Snuggie looks so cute on you. You err...look like you’re in a church choir. And I’m sure nothing you own is ugly, but would you happen to have any festive holiday sweaters we could borrow?” I beamed beatifically.

“Why of course I do, sugar,” cooed Dottie, her ruffled feathers soothed. “Upsy daisy, here I go.” She struggled to her feet. “Stay right here girls. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

When Dottie was out of earshot, I raised my chin at Kars and said smugly, “See! That’s how it’s done!”

And that’s how we scored our ugly Christmas sweaters, the ones we’re proudly sporting right this very minute.

Still a bit shell-shocked, Mika looks like he has no idea what to make out of our Christmas montage of holiday hideousness.

“Mika, you be the judge. Who has the uglier sweater, me or Kars?” I strike a pretty pose in my garish cable knit sweater, featuring a purplish Santa of questionable ethnicity.

Hmm, maybe he is more of a mulberry magenta.

Not to be outdone, Karsynn’s sweater actually plays music. If you squeeze Rudolph’s nose hard enough, it lights up and plays a garbled tune, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer of course, and it probably sounds garbled from being thrown in the washer one time too many.

To showcase her sweater, Kars honks Rudolph’s nose a few times for good measure.

Mika doubles over. “I’ll have to go with Karsynn’s.”





It has been almost an hour now, and I have yet to receive a call; that is the beauty of working during the holidays—most people think we’re closed! And anyone who does call in on Christmas day is a friggin’ Scrooge.

Beep!

Speak of the devil.

“Thanks for calling—” I pause in my semi-drunk state, trying hard to remember what I should be saying. Oh yes! “Lightning Speed Communications. Now how can I help you this Christmas day?” I slur sentimentally.

“I need you to update my billing address,” says the caller.

“Oh-kay.” I hiccup. “I can help with that. Let me just ask you a few questions to verify you.”

After the caller has passed verification, I ask blearily, “Um… what did you say you needed help with again?”

“Updating my address,” he says patiently.

“Right,” I say fuzzily.

Jeez louise, Maddy. Pace yourself and pull yourself together! You’ve only had some wine. Although, I think it was the comedian Jo Koy who once said that wine is real classy...until you drink a few bottles, then it’s just booze.

Right. Focus. Everything is a blur.

I squint, hunting and pecking at my keyboard while he rattles off his new address. Midway through the call, his voice falters and cracks. Seconds later, I hear a muffled sob of despair.

“Um…are you okay sir?” I ask tentatively.

“Sorry to call you today, but-but I just feel so alone. My wife just left me and she took the kids. Sobs. And I just lost my job. Sniffles. And I know it’s only a matter of time before my home’s foreclosed on,” he wails piteously.

“Oh no,” I say empathically. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Then I run out of things to say. Bugger! I have no idea how to comfort him. Meanwhile, he’s having a good cry over the phone. An infinite sadness tugs at my heart. I even feel a bit tearful. It hurts to hear a grown man weep.

“Sir, why don’t I give you two months of service—for free!” I exclaim in hopes of cheering him up. ‘Tis the season of giving, and it is the only thing I can give him right now.

“O-okay,” he stammers. “I just really appreciate you being there to take my call.”

“Well that’s what I am here for sir. Now you can talk all you want. I am listening,” I say with a tenderness that surprises me.

He proceeds to tell me his whole life story.

When the call ends two hours later, I feel so utterly down and depressed. To liven things up, I start giving all my callers two months of free service, and it feels so good to give. I feel a thrill compounded by kindness and generosity, at the thought that I could be helping someone out in some small way, that perhaps I’ve made a tiny footprint in their lives.

A little bit of kindness goes a long way. Jill Robinson, founder and director of the Animals Asia Foundation, has brought about huge changes in the attitudes toward animal welfare throughout Asia, and her tireless plight all started with rescuing one Moon Bear.

Someday, when I am old and gray, I hope to emulate her and set up my very own charity foundation. I’ll name it The Mika and Maddy Harket foundation, you know, like The Bill and Melinda Gates foundation. I’ve got to start somewhere, so why not here? Why not now? There is no time like the present.

With the trickle of calls that filter in, most of the customers are pleasant enough, and I repay them with my generosity.

But one of the callers is so darn nasty that I am convinced he is the Grinch that Stole Christmas.

“I WANT MY INTERNET UP AND RUNNING NOW,” he explodes, rupturing my eardrums.

“Sir,” I slosh, “I am stho sthorry. But the sthevere winter sthorm has cut one nof our lines inth yer area. Unforsthunately, we won’th be able tho get our stcehnicians outh sthere sthill sthomorrow.”

“THERE’S NO EXCUSE FOR THIS BULLSHIT! AND DON’T GO TELLING ME IT’S ‘COZ IT’S CHRISTMAS. I DON’T CELEBRATE THIS BLASTED DAY SO I COULD CARE LESS.”

“Oh,” I say in a relaxed and fluid voice, still abuzz from the wine. “Stho what holiday do you selethbrate sir?”

“NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMN BUSINESS.”

“Um, okay sir. Well, is sthere anything else sthat I can help you with?” I ask blearily. MUTE. Burp.

“WELL NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, THERE IS!”

Great! I’ve just cracked open a can of worms. I hate that we’re forced to ask our callers that asinine question: Is there anything else? Even if there is nothing else, it forces them to think of something.

The floodgates open, or rather, the Hoover Dam breaks, and The Grinch barrages me with problem after problem, fires off complaint after complaint, and harangues me with rant after rant. Sweet baby Jesus, save his miserable soul!

After spending an hour assisting him with his never ending needs, I’ve had it with his sour attitude. Before The Grinch can launch into another tirade, I kindly cut him off, “Well, if that is everything sir, thanks for calling and have a Merry Christmas,” I say in a jolly ol’ fashioned way and promptly disconnect the call.

Whooooopsie! I was supposed to say Happy Holidays.

Oh well, hopefully that call won’t get monitored.

And I did not give The Grumpy Grinch two months of free service.

Bah-Humbug to him!

Without even taking a breather, I take thirty calls in a row. Now I am starting to feel slightly aggravated.

“Why in the name of the donkeys in Bethlehem are all these people calling us on Christmas?” I groan.

Kars looks just as annoyed. “I know, what the hell? Don’t they have better things to do?”

We’re both so fed up that we jam our Not Ready keys to stop the flow of calls and saunter to the Ladies room.

Aha! This time I have come prepared.

After locking the door behind me, I rip off a piece of Post-it Note and stick it right on the eye of the toilet sensor. There!

Demurely, I set my bum down and wait.

And wait.

Nothing happens.

“HA! I HAVE OUTWITTED YOU!” I shout triumphantly at the toilet bowl. No more nasty water spraying up my bum.

I rise ceremoniously to my feet and peel off the strip of sticky paper. And sure enough, the toilet flushes.

Genius. I am so proud of myself.

Standing in front of the faucet, I am washing my hands with a gratifying smile, feeling incredibly smug.

Kars narrows her eyes at me. “Maddy, I think you should hold off on the Fat Bastard. I just heard you talking to the toilet.”





By the time that Kars and I hop back on the bleepin’ phones, the calls have died down.

“WOOT! WOOT!” I whoop in a celebratory mood.

A head pops out of the cubicle in front of me.

“Greetings,” I announce grandiosely. “Merry Christmas! Feliz navidad! Mele Kaliki Maka!”

An equestrian looking woman glares at me.

“Mele Kaliki Maka is the thing to say, on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day,” I carol gaily. “C’mon, sing with me.”

But Horse Lady does not sing back. In fact, her whole face is molded in a permanent scowl.

“I’m Maddy,” I say in a gracious manner and extend the olive branch. “And you are?”

“Tori,” she says frostily and scrunches up her face, looking like a horse that just ate a lemon.

I offer the sour horse a kind smile. “Tori, nice to meet you,” I say merrily. After all, poor Tori looks like a horse that just ate a lemon, so that warrants some kindness on my part.

“Keep your voices down,” she says tersely. “You’re creating a ruckus in here. You and that other girl.” She points at Kars.

“Sorry.”

“And I do not celebrate Christmas!” she hisses.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you celebrate Tori?”

“Birthdays!” She flashes her horse teeth, displaying more gum than teeth.

I find myself staring at her mouth, slightly mesmerized by her out of whack tooth-to-gum ratio. “Well doesn’t it suck that we’re forced to work today?” I say with strained politeness.

Tori shoots me a filthy look. “I volunteered!”

My mouth falls open, forming the capital letter O.

Since it’s Christmas, I decide to take the moral high ground and play nice. “Do you have any kids?” I ask amiably. Kids are a safe topic and serve as an excellent conversation warmer.

Tori’s face softens a micrometer. “I do. I have a daughter. And she just turned thirteen yesterday.”

“Ah, she’s a teenager now,” I say brightly. “What did you get her for her birthday?”

“I paid for her boob job and nose job,” she says this like it’s no big deal, like she just bought her daughter a sweater from Old Navy and a scarf from Abercrombie.

My smile wavers slightly. “Oh, how nice...”

Now, I have nothing against people getting ‘work’ done if it makes them feel better about themselves, you know…whatever floats your plastic boat. But I do think that thirteen is a little too young to be going under the knife.

Karsynn gives me one of her classic Karsynn looks, and I know she’s thinking the exact same thing. But I remain placid and civil.

Who knows? Tori may strike me as odd, but in her daughter’s eyes, she could very well be Mother of the Year.

Blatantly, Tori fixes her patronizing eyes on me, looking me up and down with an air of spiteful evaluation. Her sharp gaze stops at my chest. Then she turns her critical eye on Karsynn’s chest. “You girls have lovely little blinkers,” she smirks, adding, “and those are some of the ugliest sweaters I have ever seen.”

Her sarcasm is not lost on me. I am barely a B cup and Kars is a 36AAA. Not to mention, our ugly Christmas sweaters have completely obliterated our barely-there-bijongas. But still, that is no excuse for Tori to be bitchy and disrespectful. Poor Kars is already convinced her bijongas look like poached eggs. I dart Kars a worried glance, and I can tell by the look on her face that she’s smarting from the insult.

Tori has been malicious and mean-spirited all night, and she has worn down all my tolerance for her nastiness. And as for our ugly Christmas sweaters, well d’oh! That is the whole point of it.

But I do not deign to tell her so. She just wouldn’t get it.

I never set out to provoke Tori, and I was poised to exit the conversation, but that was before her undeserved attack.

Okay, Tori wants to play dirty. Fine. I can play dirty too, I can do passive aggressive. With my lips set in an angry line, I give Tori a taste of her own medicine. Casting a disdainful eye her way, I see that her acrylic sweater is completely covered with pet hair and dander. Aha! Horse Lady must own a horse after all, or at least a dog or a cat. And her bijongas are definitely fake. They resemble gigantic, rock hard cantaloupes, and those dingle bobbers point at me like rocket propelled grenades.

“At least ours are real,” I say demurely. “And what we lack in size, we more than make up in sweetness.”

“Well that’s debatable,” sneers Tori.

Karsynn bolts up. “Well if you weren’t such a miserable horse, maybe you’d see our sweet side.”

Tori’s oversized horse nostrils flare up. Neiiigggh!!!

Karsynn’s claws are out now. Hissssssss!!! “And you know what, Tori? We didn’t purchase our bijongas, so we’ll never suffer from buyer’s remorse.”

Touché. And burn. I believe Kars has just struck a nerve.

Tori looks absolutely stricken. “You-you,” she sputters.

“What?” Kars lifts her chin coolly, feigning innocence.

“You girls are nothing but jealous little bitches!” Tori arches her back, overtly displaying her cantaloupes. “And just so you know who you’re talking to, I was Miss Idaho 1990.”

Karsynn emits a loud, exaggerated snort. “So you were a pageant queen? Well how lovely. Perhaps along with your boob implants, you should’ve gotten a brain implant too.”

Tori huffs and puffs and grabs her things. “You know what? Thankfully for me, my shift ends right now. And I am so glad. I simply cannot stand to be in the same vicinity as the two of you!”

“Likewise,” I say eloquently.

“It’s too bad you girls are stuck here on Christmas!” Tori rubs salt into our open wounds, then storms off in a fury, leaving a cloud of horse hair in her wake.

“Bye bye, Seabiscuit! See you at the Kentucky Derby!” Kars hollers after her. “That horse sure poisoned our peaceful night.”

The plume of horse hair travels my way. “Ah-ah-CHOoooo!” I sneeze, clearly allergic to it. “Hasn’t she heard of a lint remover?”

Kars crosses her arms. “My Christmas wish is for something large and heavy to fall on her airbags and deflate ‘em.”

“Hear, hear,” I grunt in approval, raising my Snapple bottle filled with cheap red wine.

“Amen to that,” affirms Ingeborg, lifting her Hello Kitty water bottle filled with vodka.

Seeing my near empty bottle, Ingeborg totters over and tops it off. “Here, have some vadka.”

I give a gracious nod at her generosity.

And so begins the bijonga discussion: Real vs. Fake.

Kars muses out loud, “I wouldn’t mind getting implants if they’d actually look natural. Heck, I don’t want to end up looking like I’ve got David and Goliath for chesticles.”

“No, don’t do it!” cries Ingeborg. “You are beautiful just de vay you are. I had a breast veduction; they hurt my back too much.”

Waving my bottle in the air, I claim their attention. “All right, here are the cons so far—they look fake and they hurt your back. What about the pros? Other than the obvious of course.” I take a swig. “Holy shit!” I gag and hack. “This shit is strong!”

Blargh. This vodka has killed just about every germ in my body. Hell, maybe even a couple of my organs. I’m pretty sure my GI tract is blitzed into oblivion.

“What the hell is this?” I splutter.

“Balkan 176. It iz 176 proof.” Ingeborg grins impishly. “It iz a Bulgarian vadka, and it iz dee varld’s strongest.”

I stare at her for what seems like several minutes. “Ingeborg, I don’t think this vodka is meant to be consumed neat.”

Ingeborg simply knocks back another belt of her vodka.

“Give me some of that!” Kars orders. “I’ll drink it straight.”

Obligingly, Ingeborg tops off her bottle. “Dar ya go.”

“Merci mille fois,” Kars tinkles gaily, and for a little while she looks thoughtful as she nurses her potent drink. Suddenly, she bursts, “Oh! I’ve got it!”

“Got vhat?” slurs Ingeborg.

“Another reason to get airbags—for identification!” Kars cackles derisively. “It’s like a fingerprint!”

I shoot her a puzzled look.

Kars explains, “Didn’t you guys hear about that murder case in the news? This poor chick was murdered by her ex-husband. He mutilated her face, cut off her fingers and yanked out all her teeth so the cops had no way of identifying her. But guess what? They did!”

“How?” I ask, befuddled yet riveted.

“By the serial number on her boob implants!” Kars practically yells, all hyped up about this CSI-like case.

I take a swig of my turpentine.

Yech. It tastes like shoe polish, but I gulp it down anyway.

“Now that could be a pro, but it could also be a con,” I say objectively. “Say your murderer knew about this, you know what’ll happen? When the cops find your dead body, you’ll have no face, no fingers, no teeth and no baby feeders!”

“Yikes!” Karsynn’s eyes pop open in a horrified sort of way. “That would be awful.”

“Zimply terrible,” seconds Ingeborg.

For the next several minutes, we lapse into a deep silence and remain poignant. The mood is morbid and macabre to say the least. “Enough about murders and mutilations!” I slap my thigh forcefully. “It’s Christmas guys. Christmas.”

To lighten the mood, I flick on my radio.

“Yessssss,” I cheer as my favorite Christmas song plays on the airwaves. My whole face is animated as I listen to Baby It’s Cold Outside. I’m being extra cheesy, snapping my fingers like Sinatra, grooving to the tune, swaying to the melody—

Karsynn butts into my reverie, “You do know, don’tcha, that this is a date rape song.”

“Quit ragging on my song,” I cry huffily. “I do not need you psychoanalyzing it.”

*DA* *DA* *DA* *DUM* *DA* *DA* *DUM* *DUM* DUM*

The wavy, synthesizing hum of a digital keyboard emanates from my radio.

“Ack!” shrieks Ingeborg. “Last Christmas. I love dis song!”

“We love this song too!” Kars and I squeal with delight.

Last Christmas is Wham!’s best hit ever, although, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go trails closely behind. Kars and I watch a lot of VH-1’s I Love the Eighties, and we are huge fans of eighties bands with kooky names. Names like A-Ha, Duran Duran, Pet Shop Boys and of course Wham!

We know all of the words to this song, and so does Ingeborg. Together, we sway drunkenly, belting out the chorus. Mika saunters over, clutching his sides. Surprisingly, he joins in on the chorus; and soon all four of us are singing and slurring sentimentally off key.

The Gods must be smiling down upon us. There are no calls in queue. Nada.

“Okay everyone.” Kars claps her hands. “Time to exchange prezzies!”

This year, all four of us agreed to do a Secret Santa. But it is no secret since we just couldn’t keep our mouths shut. Mika is my Secret Santa, I’m Karsynn’s Secret Santa, Kars is Ingeborg’s Secret Santa. And so, by natural deduction, Ingeborg is Mika’s Secret Santa.

“I want to go first.” Without wasting any time, Karsynn rips into the wrapping paper. “Aww,” she gushes. “A basil seed kit for my Aerogarden.”

“Look,” I point out, “It touts seven types of basil: Napolitano basil, Italian basil, Thai basil, Globe basil, French basil, Lemon basil and Red Rubin basil.”

“Maddy, this is the best gift ever!” Kars hugs me tightly. After we peel apart, she turns to Ingeborg. “You go next.”

Kars and I brainstormed on Ingeborg’s gift all weekend, and I’ll have to admit, what we came up with is simply brilliant.

And I even chipped in on it.

Ingeborg rips open the envelope. “A hundred dollar gift zertivicate to um, Glamour Shots?” She casts us a dubious glance.

Kars rushes to explain, “It is from me and Maddy. We think you need to get some professional photos taken so you can hook up with a modeling agency. It can be a start to your portfolio!”

“Ingeborg, you’re wasting your beauty here,” I admonish. “You should be gracing the covers of magazines.”

Self-effacingly, Ingeborg waves off the compliment.

I barrel on, “Now check this out. Your Glamour Shot session includes a personal consultation with a professional makeup artist and hair stylist to help you look your best for your portraits.”

Gosh. I really am selling it. Guess I do have it in me to sell as long as I believe in what I’m selling.

Kars prances about in a happy clamor. “Ingeborg, don’t forget us when you’re gracing the covers of Maxim. You could even be the face of Victoria’s Secret,” she says with glowing rapture.

“Um, thanks girls.” Ingeborg smiles at us sweetly, then jerks her head at Mika. “Your zurn now.”

“Here I go.” He slits open the envelope. “A gift card to iTunes! Thanks Ingeborg.” He smiles warmly, and Ingeborg smiles back, equally warmly.

I am pleased to report that their relationship has weathered the transition to friendship pretty seamlessly. Mika has even become friends with Archibald aka Sean Connery.

“I’m next,” I squeal with delight. After all that waiting, I am bursting with anticipation.

Mika leans forward in his chair. “I think you’ll love it.”

Without wasting another second, I tear into the paper with gusto. “Oh. It’s a CD. Bruce Springsteen’s Greatest Hits,” I say in a strangled voice, then catching myself, I quickly paste a smile on my face. “It’s awesome!” I add with false cheer.

Mika’s green eyes are dancing. “I knew you’d love it. You have Springsteen on your ring tone and I assume you already have him on your iPod. But being that you’re an old fashioned sort of gal, I thought surely you’d appreciate him on CD.”

I amp up the volume of my fake smile. “Thanks!” I say stiffly.

Moments later, after all the wrapping paper has been stuffed into the trash can, I glance up at the display board. Ah, I am delighted to see that there are still no calls in queue. And for the rest of the night, not a single call comes through. Snow is falling outside and we are having a whale of a time inside, chatting, chilling, grooving to Christmas tunes, munching on microwave popcorn and guzzling more vodka. And I come to the satisfying realization that Christmas at a call center is not so bad after all.

In fact, I feel so warm and fuzzy inside that I decide tonight is the night that I will tell Mika how I feel about him. I have a small hunch that he likes me. Over the past couple weeks, he’s been coming over to my place for ‘tutoring’ sessions, but all we do is read and make goo-goo eyes at each other from across the table. And he usually stays over for hours, until daylight bleeds into moonlight.

My stomach tends to gurgle like clockwork at 7 p.m. sharp, which triggers a knee-jerk reaction from Mika. He’ll whip out his iPhone and place our orders—a Hawaiian pizza for him and me, and a Pesto pizza for Kars. And whenever we crave Chinese food, he’ll drive over to Panda Express and pick up three large orders of Orange Chicken and Kung Pao Chicken. After our takeout dinners, we usually lounge in front of the TV and watch a movie on Netflix.

Last Saturday, we watched Burn After Reading, and I noticed for the very first time that Mika has a really strange laugh. It’s silent.

Seriously. No sound comes out at all when he laughs. Zilch.

His eyes will crinkle, the corners of his mouth will twitch, and his entire chest will quiver, but no sound whatsoever is emitted.

When Kars caught on to his bizarre laugh, she had to put in her two cents. “Yo, Mika! Are you mute?” she teased, and taunted him with her evil Bwah Ha Ha Ha laugh.

During the funniest parts of the movie, Mika looked like a fish gasping for air. I’ve become so fascinated by his silent laugh that I always opt for a comedy, just so I can watch him in action.

Luckily, comedies are my favorite form of entertainment. No other emotion quite compares to laughter. Well, except love that is...which is what I’ve been feeling of late. Mika has quickly become one of my best friends, and sometimes, it even feels like he is my boyfriend.

So why not tell him how I feel?

While I sit and muse, a slew of radio commercials egg me on. Dodge: Grab Life by the Horns, The Army: Be All That You Can Be, Nike: Just Do It!

Hmm, perhaps it’s a sign from up above.

It must be.

Like the three wise men who wisely followed the North Star the night baby Jesus was born, I shall follow these three radio ads tonight. Yes. I shall tell Mika today. On Christmas Day!

Time just flies by when you’re having a blast, and before we know it, our shift is over.

Mika, the only sober one around, insists on giving me and Kars a ride home; Ingeborg’s new flame, Sean Connery, will be picking her up.

Before leaving the building, I quickly excuse myself and hop into the restroom to freshen up.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I jump back in fright. My face looks like a squashed tomato, my hair is a matted mess, and my eyes are severely bloodshot. I look a sight!

Hastily, I do what I can to salvage my appearance.

I’m savagely trying to subdue my hair when Ingeborg breezes in, looking as fresh as the morning dew. Her eyes are bright and clear, her rose petal skin is glowing, and her silky hair cascades obediently down her shoulders. Seriously, she was drinking like a sailor all night. That girl can hold down her liquor like a true champ. In comparison, I’m a lightweight. A super featherweight. I can barely walk, let alone stand.

Afterward, we burst through the exit doors and step out into the icy, cold night. Tittering and swaying, I throw my head back and gaze at the bright, moonlit sky.

“Oh look, it’s still snowing!” I slur with childish delight. Arms outstretched, I stick my tongue out to catch a falling snowflake, just like in the movies.

Dumb idea. Unsteady with drink, I stagger backward, lose my footing, and skid and slide around the ice.

Mika latches onto my waist in the nick of time, hauling me upright, and keeping a tight grip on my arm. And he doesn’t let go.

As we make our way to the parking lot, Ingeborg spots agent 007 by the street-light. “Babe!” she shrieks with joy. Surefooted, she flies down the icy path in stilettos and flings herself into his arms. Sean Connery nuzzles her with his Santa Claus beard.

“Bye, Ingeborg! Bye, Arch!” we yell, uproariously drunk.

Mika releases me and fumbles in his pocket for his car keys.

I slosh about, attempting to walk without his aid. Unsteadily, I take one step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other.

Gak! I almost face plant.

Mika’s strong arms encircle me from behind. Grabbing onto his shoulders for leverage, I brazenly press my body against his.

He shoots me an odd look. “Um, you okay, Maddy?”

“Mmmmm.” I squint at him sexily, laying on my womanly charms.

His smile widens with amusement. “C’mon, Madison, let’s get you home.”

Kars is soon beside us, giggling nonstop. Keeping a firm grip on my arm, Mika wrestles with the lock, yanks the door open and deposits me into the back seat. Kars clambers in after me.

Languidly, I stretch out while Kars arranges herself in a fetal position. Sometime later, we’re coasting down the highway and my head is throbbing like a busted subwoofer.

Pressing my forehead against the windowpane, I watch the world outside whiz by. Ugh. I’m feeling woozy.

I’m going to do this. I’m going to tell him.

After what seems like an eternity, Mika’s car pulls up to our apartment complex. Kars inches out the back seat, mumbles good night and slams the door in my face. F@#%.

Huffily, I crank the door open. Slowly and very steadily, I step out and position myself by the driver’s side. Mika rolls down the window. “Hi there,” I mutter, my eyes glassy and unfocused.

He pins me with his gaze and I drown in his liquid green eyes.

The vodka emboldens me. “I…err…need…to…um…tell you something—” I clap one hand over my mouth.

Aiii Yi Yi! I can feel the bile rising in my throat. Spinning around, I stumble to the nearest shrub and bend over.

Dammit! It’s a fancily decorated shrub, strung with hundreds and hundreds of multicolored Christmas lights. They glisten in the night, like twinkling fairies. But it’s too late. My stomach heaves and I upchuck all over the festive bush.

“Ugh,” I groan, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Reeking of vodka and vomit, I stagger toward my apartment complex. The automatic glass doors swish open and whoosh shut behind me. I squint over my shoulder, blinking in the headlights.

Mika’s Impala backs up the driveway, bumping along the icy, snow-filled road. Then it dawns on me. Egad! Mika saw me retching all over the festive shrub.

I swear I’m never drinking vodka again.

Or as Ingeborg calls it—vadka. No more vadka for me.

That will be my New Year’s Resolution.

HICCUP.