Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Seventeen





New Year’s Eve was another anticlimactic day, and January flew by in a frantic whir, by far the busiest month of the year. We were slammed with call after call, and February couldn’t creep in soon enough. And before I could even say, “Look out!” Valentine’s Day rears its ugly head.

Someday, I need to do my civic duty and petition for Congress to have Valentine’s Day expunged from the calendar. Love Sucks Day is what they should call it. This dreadful and emotionally damaging day strikes me with fear...fear of being alone, fear of discovering that nobody loves me.

Thinking back, I used to look forward to Valentine’s Day. My dad always had red roses and Godiva chocolates delivered to my classroom. His sweet gesture made all the other kids green with envy. The enclosed hand written card always said: “From your secret admirer,” but I recognized my dad’s spidery handwriting.

Every Valentine morning, I have fond memories of waking up to the sound of his chipper voice singing this beautiful song:



There is beauty all around, when there’s love at home;

There is joy in ev’ry sound, when there’s love at home,

Peace and plenty here abide, smiling sweet on ev’ry side;

Time doth softly, sweetly glide, when there’s love at home.



There was plenty of love in my home. But that was then. Now I’m just a miserable cow on V Day.

As I drag myself into work, I pass by a repulsive bouquet of blood red roses at the front desk, waiting to be picked up by some lucky gal.

I exhale sharply as I pass by one heart shaped balloon after another. Finally, I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh.

Oh! What’s this?

A red gift box is sitting on my desk.

Who could this be from?

I glance furtively around.

Very carefully, I untie the pretty sash and lift the lid open.

Be still my beating heart...lying inside is the most romantic gift ever. Gush. I find myself gazing adoringly at a heart shaped cinnamon roll.

There’s a card inside too. As I slide it out of the red envelope, a smile touches my lips. A cute little cinnamon stick waves at me with a gloved hand. I gently flip the card open and see Mika’s neat, cursive handwriting:



A sweet treat for my sweet friend



Yours, Mika



Truong pops his head out of his cubicle. “Is that from my Mikquisha?” He points to the box and I nod.

“You bitch!” he squeals, feigning outrage. But I can tell that he’s happy for me from the twinkle in his eye.

I babble happily, “He signed the card ‘Yours, Mika’.”

I know it’s silly. But I ascribe all sorts of meaning to it. Jason Mraz’s I’m Yours anthem replays in my lovesick head. I’m so elated that everything seems so rosy, so blissful.

In a hazy love trance, I log in to my phone.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy. How can I help?” I ask jubilantly.

Tra La La. Valentine’s Day is such a wonderful day.

I even remember to use the Telemarketing Sales Rule script, which is the Permission to Sell Script, or the PiSS script, as I call it. Quite honestly, I often forget to mention that dreaded script, even though they drill it into my head to Sell, Sell, Sell!

At first, the mere act of pitching a sales offer was terrifyingly painful. But over time...well, let’s just say I’m numb to the pain now. It’s do or die.

So I do.

Half the time at least, just enough so I don’t get myself fired.

The caller informs me that she’s having problems accessing the internet.

“Ma’am, I’d be happy to assist you with that. Now, while I’m pulling up your information, if I see a product or a service that may be beneficial to you, is it okay if I mention it at the end of the call?” I ask, cringing at the same time.

Her response comes in a puzzled tone. “Whad’ya mean?”

“Exactly what I just said,” I say, keeping poised. “If I see a product or a service that may be beneficial to you, is it okay if I mention it at the end of the call?”

“Oh dear,” she apologizes, guilt co-mingling with frustration creeping into her voice. “Sugar, I still haven’t the slightest idea whatcha harping aboot.”

I repeat the TSR script for the third time, but this time around, I word it a teeny bit differently. “Ma’am, if there is a product or a service that may help you save time and money, is it all right if I tell you about it later on?”

“I’m sooo sooo sorry.” She releases a nervous laugh. “I still don’t understand whatcha going on aboot!”

Something inside me becomes unhinged. “I WANT TO SELL YOU SOMETHING. DO I HAVE YOUR PERMISSION?”

Gosh. I don’t mean to spell it out for her. It just sounds so crass when put like that.

“Oh me goodnees-eh. Well why didn’tcha just say so in da first place? Sure, sure,” she tweets.

As it turns out, the caller, Marlene Dushek, is a really sweet old lady and I immediately detect her Wisconsin accent.

“So,” my voice softens like it always does when I’m confronted with sweet old ladies; they tend to bring out the best in me. “Are you from Wisconsin, Miss Dushek?” I ask amiably.

She chuckles heartily. “You betcha! I’m a cheese head through and through. And a Packer fan too, don’t-cha-know?”

“Go Packers!” I cheer. “And which part of Wisconsin?”

“Oconomowoc,” she says in a heavy Wisconsinite accent. “It’s a varrry nice place up narth. And I’ve lived here for over seventy years.”

I stifle a laugh. To most Wisconsinites, everything is ‘up north.’ I spent many muggy summers in Green Bay with my Aunt Sally, and whenever I asked her where we were going, her reply was always, “Up narth.” No matter if we were headed just down the street, or to the south, east or west, her compass only pointed one direction—North.

“Miss Dushek,” I say, veering it back to business, “what can I help you with today?”

“Yah. I’ve been stuck on yer website furrr weee hours. And I can’t get on tuh any ooother sites.”

I decide to try the oldest trick in the book. “Miss Dushek, can you please reboot your computer?”

“Oh-kie doh-kie,” she chirrups. “If you don’t mind eh, I’ll just do some dishes while my komputarrr boots up.”

“Sure go right ahead,” I say with a smile in my voice.

I hear the faucet cranking, followed by the sound of gushing water, and in the background, I hear the rollicking rhythms and heavy accordion sounds of polka music. This polka song sounds like an upbeat mariachi band at a wedding.

Absently, I pick up my pen and doodle on my notepad.



I heart Mika I heart Mika I heart Mika



Then I draw swirly flowers and creeping vines all around it. After filling up a page chock full of fancy swirls, squiggly lines and doodles, all proclaiming my love for Mika, I check in with Miss Dushek. “Has your computer booted up ma’am?”

“Oh yeah! It did. I’m sooooo varrry sorry, I fergahht that you were still on hold,” she chirrups, amidst the sound of ceramic dishes clanking about.

“And did that fix the problem?”

“You bet-cha! Thank you so much. You did good. And thank you for being so patient with me. Now dearie, I’d simply love to send you some of my famous homemade salsa.”

“Trust me Miss Dushek, I’d love to try your salsa. But I’m clear out in Idaho and even if I did live in Wisconsin, it’s against company policy to accept gifts.”

“That’s such a silly policy,” she tinkles. “Now why don’tcha tell me more aboot whatcha wish to sell. I’m all ears now.”

Since she has given me the green light, I pitch the sale, “Well ma’am, we’re also a cell phone provider and if you sign up for our service and bundle it with your DSL bill, it’ll help you save some money.”

“Oh. But I am blind as a bat. I think I need dat special kinda phone furr older folks. Ya-know, one of ‘em Jitterbug phones?”

I’m really not an aggressive seller, so I say, “That’s okay, Miss Dushek, whatever works for you.”

“Thanks again, sweetie,” she coos and hangs up.





Over my lunch break, Kars and I traipse over to Mika’s cubicle. Hovering by his side, I tap him lightly on the shoulder. He looks up, catches my eye and smiles. I can tell that he’s on a call, so I mouth, “Do you want to join us for lunch?”

He jabs his MUTE button on the phone. “I can’t,” he says ruefully. “I’m afraid I’ll be stuck on this call for a while. This caller’s system is FUBAR.”

Kars and I immediately get it.

FUBAR = F*cked Up Beyond All Repair or F*cked Up Beyond All Recognition.

“Okay, see ya later then,” I bid him adieu.

When we’re safely out of earshot, I grumble, “I haven’t even gotten a chance to thank him.”

Kars tilts her chin. “Thank him for what?”

“Oh that reminds me! Wait here a sec.”

I nip back to my cubicle and fetch my heart shaped cinnamon roll, then I bound back to Kars and proudly display the treat in the palm of my hand. “See!” I say rapturously.

My eyes shimmer at the sight of my Valentine prezzie. It’s as if I’m gazing at a sparkling De Beers diamond.

I gush, “This is my Denny & George scarf moment.”

“Nice,” says Kars, clearly impressed. “See! I told you that he likes you. Now are you going to eat it or not?”

I gaze at her uncertainly. “Maybe I should freeze dry it so I can keep it forever.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, just eat the damn thing.”

Stubbornly, I shake my head.

She whips out her iPhone and snaps a picture. “There! Now you can eat it. I’ll send you the pic so you can scrapbook it.”

“Thanks, Kars!” I take a huge bite and smack my sugar coated lips. Mmmm. Mika sure knows the way to my heart.





Four hours later, I have yet to thank my benevolent benefactor. I agonize and wait until my shift ends. And when it finally does, I head over to Mika’s cube with the sole intention of giving him a proper thank-you, which in my mind involves a hug and a peck on the cheek. After that, I envisage us driving off into the sunset.

Strangely, when I arrive at Mika’s desk, he’s gone.

I glance furtively around but he’s nowhere in sight.

Kars is soon beside me. “C’mon, Maddy, I just saw Mika leave a few minutes ago. Maybe we can catch up with him outside.”

My face instantly lights up and we rumba out of the building.





Outside, my world slows down to a complete standstill. I spot them—Mika and some girl, who is hanging and clinging onto his arm like a baby orangutan.

At once, I feel shots of territorial pangs rip through my veins. It doesn’t help that she’s drop dead gorgeous. But she’s not a classic beauty like Ingeborg.

Nope. Far from it. She looks like a chick from a Girls Gone Wild commercial that’s forced down my throat on late night TV.

In short, she’s skanky.

A gorgeous skank, but skanky nonetheless.

Skank woman is wearing Daisy Duke shorts, even though there’s a foot of snow on the ground and it’s minus two hundred degrees.

Oh, and her skin is the color of a tangerine.

Spray on fake tan gone wrong. Overdone and over baked.

And her stringy hair is definitely over peroxided.

Frozen to the spot, I feel a sharp metallic taste in my mouth, mildly sickened by the sight of Mika and Mystery Chick.

I watch them make their way across the parking lot, headed in the direction of Mika’s car.

Gallantly, he opens the door for the tangerine and she slides into the passenger seat in a very uncouth manner. Her legs splay wide open, like a beaver trap.

Mika jogs over to his side of the car and hops in.

Seconds later, the engine roars to life and his car peels away. They zoom off into the stark night while I’m left standing there with my hair billowing in the biting wind.

Sniffles. That was supposed to be me and Mika driving off into the night.

Kars clucks like a flustered Mother Hen. “Maddy, I’m sure that slut is just a friend of his.”

Swallowing hard, I manage a sardonic smile. “Yeah, just like I’m a friend of his,” I say bitterly.

Kars gives me a respectful few minutes of silence, and I use it to gather my thoughts and pull myself together.

Right here, right now, I resolve to make some changes.

Any romantic feelings I have for Mika, I shall squash into the deep recesses of my heart.

There are plenty more fish in the sea, and this time, I need to find myself a local trout from a river nearby. Maybe even a farm raised catfish or tilapia.

Humph. What I surely do not need is some overrated Belgian swordfish from the Atlantic Ocean.

Kars gently pats my arm. “Let’s go home, Maddy.”

“Okay,” I mumble, feeling utterly broken.





Later that night, I throw myself a pity party. I fold up on my bed, licking my wounds and hugging my sorrows to my chest.

Outside, the Heavens open up and rain begins to pour.

Listening to the dismal sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpanes, I allow myself to descend into a brief foray of sadness.

I feel an inexplicable knot in my chest. My eyes fill in spite of myself and salty tears spill down my face, stinging my raw cheeks, sopping my pillow.

Abruptly, my BlackBerry blares with the voice of AR Rahman belting out Jai Ho.

Ah yes, I switched my ringtone. A new year, a new ringtone. A new year, a new man.

I need to force Mika out of my mind.

I hereby declare the Mika love fest over and done with!

I have a feeling it’s him calling. He’s been calling me every night. Sometimes to talk, sometimes just to say good night, and I’ve always looked forward to his phone calls.

But not tonight.

I refuse to answer and let it go to voice mail. Seconds later, the music stops and I glance at my cell. ‘You Have 1 New Voice Mail.’

Curiosity gets the better of me. I dial in and listen.

Mika’s deep timbered voice floods my ears. “Maddy, I hope you like your gift. I’m sorry I was tied up all day; it’s just been one of those days where every caller was upset about something.” Pause. “Anyway, call me.”

I delete the voice mail. And I don’t call him back.

This whole time, I have been grasping at the straws, hoping and searching for something that does not exist. Well, it exists, but only on my part.

Sigh. What more can I say? I am in love with a man who is in love with a citrus fruit.

Today, Cupid’s arrow has struck me.

But instead of going Ahhhhhh, reeling with joy and love, I am yelping Owwwwww, writhing from pain and yearning.

Oh how it hurts to be in love!