Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Eighteen





The next day, I find myself staring impassively at my cubicle wall. Resting my elbows on the desk, I silently brood while waiting for a call. It’s pretty slow today. It’s the day after Love Sucks Day and all these couples are just too darn exhausted to call in after spending the night locked up in their love boudoirs, caught in the throes of passion.

No complaints here.

At least something good comes out of that evil day.

“Truong, your Mikquisha is taken,” I say sullenly.

He fiddles with his silk scarf. “My Mikquisha? More like your Mikquisha.”

“Nope,” I say despondently, “not anymore.”

His expression softens. “Oh, what’s wrong, Maddy? Tell Mama Truong all about it.”

After a pause, I say, “I saw him with a girl yesterday.”

“Describe her,” he instructs firmly.

“Gorgeous. Long stringy blond hair. A bleach-o-saurus and a tan-o-saurus and—”

He cuts me off, “I know who that bitch is! Orange Slut with Split Ends. Her name is Tatiana Green.”

“Tatiana Green?” I snort briefly. “She’s more orange than green. Her name should be Tatiana Tangerine.”

Truong emits a gleeful chortle.

“But wait!” I cry. “How do you know her?”

Then I realize—how can he not? Truong is privy to everything that goes on in this call center. He isn’t called the ABC or the AP wire for nothing.

Truong studies his cuticles. “Oh, I have my sources,” he says with candor. Then he whips out a purple filer and sands his nails with vigor.

A plume of nail dust settles on my desk.

So annoying.

Truong also clips his fingernails in the middle of calls, which I find absolutely repulsive. I personally would never floss, pick my nose, use q-tips, pop my blackheads or shave my pits at work. That is why it is called personal hygiene.

I’ll be conversing with my callers, and in the background I’ll hear the maddening Clip Clip Clip Clip sounds resonating in my ears, sounding very much like Japanese water torture. And before I know it, fingernail shrapnel will be zinging in all directions. My work space is fraught with danger!

Seriously, I really don’t think I’m overreacting when Truong’s essentially sending large organic bits of himself my way.

I’m dreading the summer time; that’s when he’ll waltz into work in flip flops and clip his toenails. Ugh! That’s the problem with Truong. He brings in his whole grooming kit and operates Truong’s Nail Salon in his cubicle.

Although Truong’s grooming habits bug the hell out of me, I’m trying my darndest to act like a tolerant neighbor. Well, that is until a fingernail scrap lands inside my mouth while I’m in the midst of yawning.

“Truong! Cut it out!” I sputter and spit out his nail. “Please, this is not Truong’s Nail Salon,” I remind him for the umpteenth time.

“Okay, I’m done. I’m closing shop.” He stows the clipper and filer away. “By the way, that’s why you’re supposed to yawn with your mouth closed.”

“That’s technically impossible,” I retort.

“Whatever! Just cover your mouth next time,” he chides, like it’s my fault that his fingernail landed inside my mouth.

Moments later, Truong roots around in his Marc Jacobs man purse and fishes out a bottle of nail polish. After giving the bottle a good shake, he unscrews the cap and begins to give himself a manicure.

“Thank you for fumigating this place,” I say with a trace of sarcasm.

He ignores my jab. “It’s Chanel Vendetta,” he intones like a vindictive vixen.

I check out his raven black nails. “Nice. Very Adam Lambert.”

My gaze shifts over to his pinky. “Hey, Truong, why is your pinky nail so long?”

“For digging ear wax, nose wax and eye wax,” he says without missing a beat.

I make a disgusted face.

“I’m just kidding! Although I know that’s what you were probably thinking. Am I right?” He looks me squarely in the eye.

I shake my head but it’s transparently obvious I’m lying.

He dips the brush into the bottle. “It’s actually for good luck.”

“I see. But you know what some people will assume it’s for?”

“What?” he asks without looking up.

“Scooping up cocaine for a quick bump.”

This time, Truong looks up. “Girrrrl, I am no druggie! That shit does not fly with me. I’ve never done drugs in my life,” he protests huffily. “But you want to know who’s a coke head?”

Feeling a bit restless, I swivel my chair, spinning it round and round in circles. “Who?” I ask dizzily.

“Tatiana,” he deadpans.

I shoot him a speculative look. “How do you know?”

He shoots back one of his infamous I-know-I’m-the-shit sort of looks. “Mama Truong knows everything.”

“Well, spill the goods then, Mama.”

He holds his hand up eye level and appraises his work. “She and I went to the same high school, and I caught her doing blow plenty of times.”

Intrigued, I lean forward in my chair. “Tell me more.”

“That Tatiana is one skanky hoe. That hoe slept with the entire high school football team and cheerleading squad.”

I give him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “No way!”

“Way. Girl she so did. That chick is one hot mess.” Truong inclines his head, like he always does when he is about to impart some juicy bits of gossip. “She works in the cafeteria downstairs because she’s got a felony record. They won’t hire her up here. No, no, no. That bitch is gang-sta man! She’s done time in the slammer.”

“Time in the clink? For what?” I ask, astonished.

He blows on his fresh manicure. “She stole someone’s identity, and she got busted with a DUI.”

I let out a short gasp.

Truong shakes his head. “I can’t believe our Mikquisha would go out with a stupid, skanky slut like that.”

I can’t believe it either. But Truong has sparked my interest. I need to satiate my ardent curiosity and find out more about this Tatiana character. “Truong, when’s your lunch?”

He glances at his Cartier. “Right now.”

“Me too. Do you want to go down to the cafeteria?”

He smiles a wicked little smile. “Hell yeah sista! Let’s go check out Tatiana the Tangerine.”





The cafeteria is buzzing with activity and we’re standing in line, waiting to be served by the Tangerine. A scruffy, unkempt man, sporting uneven side burns and a mangy twelve foot long ZZ Top beard, is queuing up right in front of us. Poor guy. He appears to be suffering from a serious case of persistent eczema. His skin is peeling and shedding all over the place.

It is now the unabomber’s turn to be served.

He lurches forward and leers at Tatiana lasciviously.

Tatiana flutters her fake lashes and flashes the unabomber a coquettish grin. “Hi handsome,” she gushes.

Um, if that isn’t full blown flirtation, then I don’t know what is. Doesn’t Tatiana realize that she’s not a waitress at Hooters?

D’oh! You don’t get tipped at a cafeteria for being a floozie. In fact, you don’t get tipped at a cafeteria period.

“Hey-ya doll, I’d like some tater tots purty puhlease,” the unabomber drawls like a Confederate Yankee.

“Comin right up, big boy,” coos Tatiana in a syrupy voice. She scoops up a hefty ton of tater tots and plops it onto his plate. “Is that all?” she asks saucily, wiggling her butt.

“Can ya get me a to-go box, sexy?” he drools. Apparently, Tatiana’s incessant flirting is not lost on him.

“Sure thing, cutie!” Tatiana winks and spins around to grab a Styrofoam box.

Truong and I gawp. OMG.

Tatiana’s low-rise jeans ride so low that her fishnet thong and butterfly tattoo is on display for the world to see.

Fishnet thongs? Why even bother wearing undies?

Meanwhile, the unabomber is panting like a dog in heat.

“Here you go, sweetsie.” Tatiana blows him a sensual Marilyn Monroe kiss before he slithers away. “Who’s next?” she chirps.

As soon as her eyes rest on me, her whole demeanor instantly shifts. It’s so palatably different that I can taste the hostility in my mouth. “What can I get you?” she huffs.

“Some tater tots,” I say politely and offer her a kind smile.

I will not judge. For all I know, she could be a very nice person underneath all that spray tan.

Tatiana makes an irritated sound. Then she scoops up three measly tater tots and plops them onto a plate.

“May I please have more?” My tone is patient and courteous.

“No!” she sneers and thrusts the plate at me, dismissing me like I’m some sort of insignificant insect.

I remain glued to the spot, much too shaken to retaliate.

The unabomber’s plate was swimming with tater tots, and I only get a few scraps?

Tatiana flicks her stringy peroxided hair over her shoulder and turns her attention to Truong. My jaw literally drops when she gives him the same appalling treatment.

WTF?!? We have done nothing to her (well at least not yet; I’m fully confident that Truong can be a bitch enough for the both of us). What is Miss Tangerine’s problem? Truong and I may not be walking testosterones, but we’re still human beings nonetheless.

“What do you want?” Tatiana’s tone is sharp and rude. “Hurry up! I haven’t got all day here.”

Big mistake. Big, BIG mistake. Queen Truong takes shit from nobody! She has undeniably awakened the sleeping dragon.

“Some tater tots.” Truong narrows his steely eyes at her.

Tatiana returns his contemptuous gaze and slaps two tater tots onto a plate.

“Bitch! You better give me more tater tots,” he screams in a blood curling voice.

There is a moment of still silence in the cafeteria as several heads turn curiously to check out the commotion. Little do they know that the drama has only just begun.

Tatiana glares at Truong scornfully. Then she picks up one puny tater tot and plops it onto the plate.

The tater tot drops with a sickening thud.

“There ya go!” she sneers.

Truong goes ballistic. “Now you look at me, Miss Tan-o-rexia Nervosa!”

Tatiana remains intentionally obtuse. “F*ck you, faggot,” she spits and flips Truong a birdie.

Truong flies into a blind rage. “Is that all you’ve got bitch? You give me the finger and call me an eff-ing fag? You know what? That lame tattoo of a dead moth that’s on yer back is so befitting! It’s what I call a tramp stamp. And it’s so nineties.”

Tatiana’s face contorts.

But Truong is far from finished. When Truong wants to bitch, he can bitch up a Katrina level storm. “And please do me a favor and throw on some intense Pro V repair treatment. I am sick of looking at your split ends.”

Slightly dazed, Tatiana touches her parched hair.

“And news flash! You’re no Kim Kardashian. If I were you, I’d cover up that sorry excuse for an ass. Now you take these tater tots and stuff ‘em up your nonexistent, cellulite, ricotta cheese behind!”

With that parting shot, Truong chucks the plate of tater tots at Tatiana’s face and yanks my arm. “C’mon. Let’s go, Maddy,” he commands and storms off in a fury.

As I’m being dragged away by Truong, I peer over my shoulder.

Tatiana appears flummoxed, and for a fleeting moment, my heart goes out to her.

But she quickly recovers. Straightening herself, she pelts us with tater tots with an almost deadly precision. The flying tater tots go whizzing over our heads like hot bullets.

Okay, now I don’t feel sorry for her anymore.

Truong and I break into a run, dodging tater tots, shrieking hysterically and ducking for cover.

When we’re safely out of Tatiana’s tater shot, Truong bursts into rhyme. “There’s some hoes in this house. There’s some hoes in this house. There’s some hoes in this house,” he raps in a low, grating voice.

Gasping for breath, I tease, “Calm down, MC Truong. Now do you mean holes, hoes or whores?”

“She’s a whore,” he hisses. “But back in the hood, we say hoe!”

“Okay.” I snicker.

“Fo shizzle,” he foshizzes, crossing his arms.

Then he busts out chops to a different rap. “Got lice bitch? Got lice? Got Kikkoman spice in your flied lice?”

I double over.

“Westsiiide, Wu-Tang,” he grunts gangsta style. Then he flicks his scarf around his neck in a dramatic fashion, and instantly all his thug-like credibility evaporates into thin air.

“Maddy, that Tatiana is one nasty bitch. And what the hell is wrong with Mika? Why would he go out with a messed up chick like that? I’m completely gobsmacked!”

I shrug morosely. I’m gobsmacked myself.





Sometime later, I’m logging in to my computer when an alarming thought suddenly strikes me. Tatiana is a real threat. Ingeborg was just an empty threat, like the Weapons of Mass Destruction. As much as I tried to search, I could not find a single mean bone in her body. That girl is a true saint.

But Tatiana the Tangerine on the other hand is pure evil. A Kim Jong-il nuclear threat. Or is it Kim Jong-un, since he is the next successor? And then there is the older son, Kim Jong-nam. Hmm, I need to get my Kim Jongs straight.

Truong interrupts my highly charged political thoughts. “Will you fight for Mikquisha? I say we do! Let’s start a war, Maddy!” He pumps his fist, fired up and all gung-ho. “Hell, she’s no competition! She’s just a citrus fruit!”

“No,” I say disconcertedly.”

“Why not?” he demands.

“I already gave up on him yesterday.”

After a pause, Truong mutters, “Yeah, that tacky tangerine will bring too much drama into your life.”

“No drama for me. I prefer to sail in tranquil waters.”

Truong begins humming the melody to Mary J Blige’s No More Drama. “No more pain,” he sings soulfully, hopping on board the Soul train, pointing at me.

Taking his cue, I croon, “No more game, No draaama.” I punctuate my words with big bends and little dips.

Consumed with raw emotion, I find myself swaying from side to side like Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles.

“No more. No more. No more,” Truong groans, hands in the air, belting out the lyrics in a weary, evocative manner.

“No more drama, I’m tired of all this drama,” I sing with raw conviction, turning up my soul meter.

Wearing a pained expression, Truong scrunches up his face and moans, “No more drama yeah, no more, no more, no—”

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed...”