Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Nineteen





“We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting, we are meeting a stranger.”



~T.S. Eliot (The Cocktail Party)





The words of the great poet and playwright ring loud and clear. The Mika that I thought I knew has died. He is a complete stranger to me now. All the things I believed to be true about him are thrown into doubt.

Things have sort of tapered off with us.

And to be quite honest, after that incident with Tatiana and the tater tots, I refuse to have anything to do with her. If she’s the sort of girl that Mika is into, well maybe he’s just not the sort of guy for me, friend or otherwise. I’m still cordial with Mika, but every time I see him, the air is zinged with awkwardness.

And so I try my best to avoid him. Whenever our paths cross, I make a quick about-face and take off in another direction.

Mika has yet to confront me about my erratic behavior, but he’s been withdrawn and detached. Sometimes he looks sullen, almost broody. I catch him leaving with the tangerine every day, therefore, things must be progressing nicely between man and fruit. Right this minute, in the parking lot, I’m forced to witness them yet again.

“Just look at that hoochie mama. That skirt is so short you can almost see her coochie,” says Kars with revulsion.

Tatiana climbs into Mika’s car and indeed her skirt rides up, exposing her coochie.

Hey! That must be how the word ‘hoochie’ came about!

Hooker + coochie = Hoochie.

I share my epiphany with Kars and she smirks. “Makes perfect sense. Anyway, let’s not get started on that hoochie. I know how much she bugs you.”

“I may not like her, but she doesn’t bug me that much. What bugs me is the fact that Mika is dating her.”

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad over that hoochie who doesn’t even wear panties. And what makes you think Mika is even dating her? It’s never been verified.”

“Well, it’s never been falsified either,” I retort.

“I think you need to have a talk with Mika and just flat out ask him.”

“I can’t...” I let out a ragged breath. “It’s too weird. We haven’t spoken in days. I’ve, um, sort of been avoiding him.”

“Why? Poor boy doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong.”

“I don’t know.” I sigh dramatically. “I just thought that maybe he felt something for me. And seeing him with someone else just confuses things.”

Suddenly my phone blasts with Katy Perry rocking out in full angst to Hot ‘n Cold. Reaching for my BlackBerry, I answer, “Hi, Truong.” Pause. “Okay.” I hang up. “Truong is bringing lunch for us tomorrow.”

“Sweet! I won’t need to go to the cafeteria, which means I won’t have to deal with that hoochie mama.” Abruptly, Kars exclaims, “Hey! You changed your ring tone.”

I shrug it off as if to say, “Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

“Oh, Maddy, you’re such a dingbat! Mika has been hot, hot, hot for you the whole time. You’re the one who’s cold, Miss Ice Queen.”

“I’m not cold!” I cry defensively. “Okay. Maybe I had my guard up a little at first, but I almost pulled the trigger. I almost told him I was more than a bit in love with him.”

“What? When?”

“On Christmas.”

“Well why didn’t you?” she counters.

“Ingeborg’s vodka. It was my best friend and my worst enemy. It emboldened me, but before I could pour my heart out, I puked my guts out,” I mutter glumly, still burning from shame at the memory.

Karsynn collapses onto my shoulder, giggling. “How come I wasn’t there to hold back your hair?”

“Hullo, don’t you remember? Kars, you were hunched over the toilet all night. And not only did I hold your hair back, I braided it too.”

Kars scrunches up her face. “I don’t recall.” After a beat, she asks, “What kind of braid?”

I bite back a smile. “Princess Leia.”

“Aww,” she gushes. “You’re such a good friend, Mads.”

“You bet I am.”

We walk in companionable silence.

After an unreadable minute, Kars says quietly, “Just talk to Mika. You’ll see…everything will work out just fine.”

I admire her cock-eyed optimism. “I’ll think about it,” I say, just so she’ll drop the subject.





Beep!

“Thank you for calling Lightning Speed Communications, my name is Maddy. How can I help?”

“Hi, Samantha, my username is not working,” says the caller and, I don’t even bother correcting him.

Sigh. I gave up a long, long time ago. I’ve had customers call me Theresa, Sylvia, Amy, Amanda, Kimmy, Natalie, Susan and Jessica. And none of those names sound remotely like Maddy.

“I can help you with that sir,” I say and take him through the whole authentication rigmarole.

Once that is out of the way, I probe, “Sir, what username did you type in?”

“Ilovebodyodour67,” he says in a kind and gentle voice.

A loud snort escapes me. I compare his username against our records. “Sir, you are typing in the right username. Can you please make sure that it’s in lowercase letters?”

A beat of silence ensues.

Finally, he speaks. “I can’t.”

I blink. “Huh? Why not?”

“All the keys on my keyboard are in uppercase letters.”

I rub my temples. “Sir, can you please make sure that your Caps Lock is not turned on.”

A beat. Another beat.

“I’m so sorry, Samantha, but what do you mean by that?”

Beam me up, Scotty.

I help navigate him through that simple task, and it literally takes him twenty minutes to turn the Caps Lock off. Regrettably, that doesn’t fix the problem.

“Sir, when you type your username, do any numbers appear?”

“No numbers are showing up. But I am typing 67.”

“Okay sir, that means your Num Lock key is turned off and I need you to turn it back on.”

“How do I do that?” he asks in a clueless voice.

I steel myself and walk him through that very task. But it is akin to leading a blind donkey out of a cave.

“I still don’t see it,” he tells me for the umpteenth time.

“It’s on the right-hand side of your keyboard, right above the number seven.”

“I’m so sorry, Samantha, but I still don’t see it.”

“Sir, I’m really trying here—” I break off and inhale sharply.

“Don’t worry, Samantha, I know you can help me fix this. So please don’t give up on me. You can do it. I know you can.”

My voice falters. “Sir, I appreciate your vote of confidence, but there’s only so much I can do.”

“What would you like me to do, Samantha? I’ll do whatever you tell me to do,” he says obediently.

I grit my teeth. “Sir, can you please just open your eyes and look?”

“Wait! Is it this Num Lock key?” he cries excitedly.

Relief washes over me. “Yes! There is only one Num Lock key. Push that key,” I say to the Numskull.

“But the green light above it is now turned on.”

Closing my eyes, I mutter, “Yes sir, it’s supposed to be.”

“Oh!” he says, seemingly surprised.

“Okay sir, you’re all set now. Is there anything else?” I ask, ready to wrap up the call.

“Yes, Samantha, as a matter of fact, there is. If I need to call back with a problem, how late are you open?”

“We’re open twenty-four seven,” I inform him briskly.

“Huh? I’m sorry, but can you please explain, in simple and plain English, exactly what that means?”

“It means we are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year,” I explain good-naturedly.

He-Who-Loves-BO seems pleased with my answer. But then he hits me with this next mind numbing question. “Um, what time zone is that? Eastern, mountain or pacific?”

I blink. A couple of times

?????????????????????

When I finally find my voice, I say, “Um...all of them?”

“I am so sorry, Samantha, but I still don’t follow what you’re saying. Now you’re open twenty-four hours a day in what specific time zone?”

I decide to simplify things for him. “Well sir, what time zone do you live in?”

“Um...Eastern?” he says uncertainly, like he’s a contestant and I’m a game show host quizzing him live on Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader.

“Well in that case sir, we are open twenty-four hours a day, Eastern time.” I scratch my head at how ludicrous that sounds. But Jeepers! That is the only way I could get through him.

“You are? Well that is wonderful. Thank you for all your help, Samantha. You’ve been super. Have yourself a fabulous day,” he says in a chipper voice.

“You’re very welcome sir, and thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications.”

Now, I have got a pretty high tolerance for stupidity. But that has got to be the dumbest person I have ever spoken to. I daresay he was dumber than algae! Heck, I am not even that smart, but he is so dumb that in comparison, I come off looking like some sort of astrophysicist who just won the Nobel Prize for quantifying the universe.

But in his defense, he was upbeat and positive throughout the call, and he sounded like a very happy man.

Ah...ignorance is bliss.

Plus, he was so incredibly nice, and oftentimes niceness can take a person a lot further in life. I imagine Mister I-Love-BO floating through life in a happy bubble, meandering aimlessly through smelly, sweaty gyms.





It’s my lunch time! Very swiftly, I log off the phone before another call comes through. Truong is already on his lunch break and browsing the internet.

“Truong, I just spoke to a guy whose username is I Love BO.”

He chortles gleefully. “I once dated a guy with really bad BO. Let me tell you, Maddy, it was so bad. You would not believe the stench! But Pepé Le Pew was super hawt, and so we dated for a week until I could not take it anymore. So I told him very nicely that I had serious issues with his BO, and that he really needed to take a shower.”

“Did you guys still date after that?”

“No. But many months later, we bumped into each other and he thanked me profusely for bringing it to his attention. I’m such a Good Samaritan,” he says with a virtuous glow.

“What? He thanked you for bringing it to his attention? Are you telling me he didn’t know that he needed to shower?” I say in my most sardonic voice and smirk. “Wow!”

“Cut it out you ninny!”

I reach for my water bottle and take a sip of water. “What are you browsing, Truong?”

“Just the latest news on Prop 8,” he says distractedly.

I pause thoughtfully. “Do you hope to get married someday?”

“Oh hells no,” he cries. “I mean, of course I want my peeps to be able to get married, but I personally do not want to get hitched. No, no, no. No marriage for me.”

This takes me by surprise. “But why not?”

“Why should I buy the whole pig when all I want is a little sausage?”

I let out a howl of laughter.

Kars perches on my desk. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Pigs and sausages,” says Truong without missing a beat. “It’s the mantla that I live by.”

I turn to Karsynn and explain, “Truong was just telling me all about his mantra in life.”

Kars purses her lips. “I’ve got a new mantra myself, thanks to Doctor Mares.”

Janis forced Kars to seek therapy shortly after her breakup with Bob. So once a week, Kars visits her psychologist and I’m all for it. It is high time she gets some help so she stops dating these pathetic Potato Head Players who aren’t worthy of her.

“That’s awesome Kars,” I enthuse. “What is your mantra?”

She crosses her arms. “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results each time. It’s an Einstein quote.”

“I have one along those lines,” I cry. “Burn me once, shame on you—”

“Burn me twice, shame on me,” Kars finishes with a smile.

“Ditto,” tweets Truong.

Kars appears to be doing just fine, when suddenly she makes an exasperated sound. “What the hell is wrong with me? I want to be released from the shackles of Douchebag Desire!”

I cast her a meaningful look. “It takes time Karsynn, but you will. You will,” I repeat with conviction.

“Do you think I’m a quack? I mean, I’m a psych major myself, and here I am seeing a psychologist.”

“No! Of course not,” I say at once. “Just think of it this way, a hairdresser always gets her hair cut by someone else and—”

“Not true,” Truong interjects and points out, “My cousin is a hair stylist and she cuts her own hair.”

“Oh shush, Truong.” Turning to Kars, I say, “He is missing my point. Kars if you need help, you need to keep seeing your psychologist. You can’t treat yourself and be objective about it.”

Taking my cue, Truong echoes, “Yeah, you should keep seeing your psychologist. I think it is helping and I just love your new mantrrra.”

I seize him fiercely by the shoulders. “Truong! You just said it!” I exclaim breathlessly. “You just enunciated the letter R. Say it again. Say it again.”

“Mantra,” says Truong, beaming at me like a baby who just uttered his first word.

“You did it!” I cry ecstatically and slap him a high five.

Kars thumps his back. “Respect, man! Big ups! Now say ‘shrimp fried rice’.”

“Shrimp fried rice,” says Truong, enunciating each and every syllable. It sounds as crisp and as clear as Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady when she recited The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly in the Plains.

Ahhh, his words are like music to my ears. Like a Puccini and Bellini aria. Like Hamlet’s Second Soliloquy. Feeling a sudden swell of emotion, I fling my arms around him. “I’m so proud of you, Truong!”

His face creases into a triumphant grin. “Speaking of which, guess what I brought today? And, I’ve got plenty to share.”

“SHRIMP FRIED RICE!” Kars and I whoop in unison.

“Correctomundo!” he exclaims. “Let’s go chow down.”

In a celebratory mood, the three of us sashay to the break room and nuke our fried rice in microwave ovens that can only be described as older than dirt. Seriously, these microwave ovens should be locked up in the Smithsonian museum. If I don’t die from this job, I’ll die from being exposed to the hazardous radiation that leaks out of these archaic ovens.

Minutes later, we scarf down our Chernobyl shrimp fried rice with gusto. After our satisfying, albeit radioactive, meal, Kars lets out a loud belch, not bothering to stifle the sound, whereupon Truong nods at her, recognizing it for the accolade that it is. “Good one.”

“Time for dessert,” I announce airily.

“Dessert?” My eating companions light up at the sound of that beautiful word.

“Uh-huh, I’ve got some popsicles in the lactation room. Stay right here, I’ll go and get ‘em.”

Truong looks at me with a slightly disturbed expression. “Um, why are you storing food in a room where these fertile women mutate into cows? Their boobs turn into milk udders! It’s utterly, correction—udder-ly gross.”

Kars leaps to my defense, letting Truong in on the best kept secret in this call center. “Dude, the lactation room has the cleanest fridge in the building. And no one will steal your food if you store it there.”

“Girl, it is so not worth it. It’s way too freaky deaky! Plus, I do not want to walk in on some grouchy woman with an alien device attached to her boob udder. Have you ever seen that shit? It’s frightening!” He shudders.

“Truong,” I say mildly, “even if you want to store food in the lactation room, you can’t. You’re a guy and that room is strictly for women. Anyway, wait here. I’ll go get our popsicles.”

“Strawberry for me,” hollers Kars.

“Lime,” Truong barks his order.

“Be right back,” I say and nip to the lactation room.

Bursting through the door, I stop cold in my tracks.

Mika is fast asleep on a lounge chair. Just great! He’s the last person I expect to see here, and the one person I’m trying so hard to avoid.

Spinning around, I’m about to make my hasty retreat when my BFF instincts kick in. If Angela walks in on Mika, it surely won’t bode well for him.

Angela walks around barefoot and pregnant all the time. She has twelve kids, with another bun in the oven. Not surprisingly, she’s constantly cranky and mean-spirited.

Honestly, that woman should consider getting neutered.

And she monopolizes the lactation room, treating it as if it were her own hotel room.

I must get Mika out of here before Angela sees him.

Standing next to him, I hesitate.

My heart softens just watching him in his deep slumber.

Poor Mika…he looks worn around the gills.

His hair is rumpled and dark circles rim his eyes.

Gently, I rouse him awake. “Mika, what are you doing here?”

He stirs and sits up. “Huh? Oh, I was up studying late for my finals.” He rubs his eyes. “I was so tired...yawn...I stumbled into the first empty room I could find.”

“C’mon Mika, we must go now,” I say with a sense of urgency.

“What’s the hurry?” A slow and lazy smile crooks his lips. He pats the leather chair, indicating that I should take a seat. “You should try this chair. It’s so plush. And it even reclines.”

He proceeds to do a little demonstration. Lifting the lever, he leans backward and forward in an exaggerated manner. “See?”

“Mika, this is a lactation room; that comfy chair you’re sitting on is for nursing moms.”

“Whhhhaa?” His voice is scratchy with sleep.

“This room is for women only. You can get in trouble for being here. It’s like a man being caught in the ladies restroom, and if Angela catches you in here, she’ll report you to HR,” I say in a hushed voice.

“But why are you in here, Maddy? Are you lactating?”

“No!” I blanch.

He rakes his hair. “So why are you here then?”

“That reminds me.” I throw open the door to the mini freezer and fish out my box of Dreyer’s popsicles. “Want one?” I offer awkwardly. We haven’t spoken in weeks, and here I am in the lactation room, offering him a popsicle.

He blinks.

“Um, it’s loaded with fruit, not fat.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “I prefer ice-cream bars myself. But sure, I’ll have a popsicle.” He holds out his hand. “Hit me with any flavor.”

“C’mon.” I steer him out. “First we need to get you out of here before you’re incriminated, then you can have a popsicle.”

Covertly, I pop my head out to make sure the coast is clear.

It is. I motion for Mika to make his exit.

Once we’re safely out of the milk room, I thrust a popsicle into his hand.

“Maddy,” he hesitates, “I hope this popsicle is a truce offering.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look,” he says, wearing a strained expression. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. And I’ve been giving you some space...but we really do need to talk.”

“Um, okay.” I avert his eyes. “Call me tonight? I have to run these popsicles to the break room before they melt. Kars and Truong are waiting for their desserts.”

His hand reaches out as if to touch my face, but he seems to think better of it. Dropping his hand to the side, he sighs. “What’s wrong, Maddy?”

“Nuh-nothing,” I stammer.

“I’ll call you tonight, then. Is ten thirty okay?” He scrutinizes me with his dark, penetrating eyes, and I suddenly feel very shy.

I nod in affirmation. “See ya,” I say and skedaddle off.