Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Twenty Three





The next several months pass without incident and I throw myself into my work with fierce determination. Being a second level technician has its definite perks, especially when I have an awesome supervisor. Thank the Lord I no longer answer to The Führer. I’ve finally escaped her Gulag camp and I still, to this precise moment, feel a heady sense of freedom.

My new supervisor, Douglas Gomez, is known as the Yoda in this call center, and I can see why. He is a brilliant mentor and guide. He is my maestro, and I blossom under his tutelage.

The instant I expressed my ardor for writing, Douglas put me on a special project. And so a large part of my job now consists of writing user guidelines for our knowledge base.

I’ve since learned that this style of writing is called technical writing. Just like poetry writing, technical writing is an art form in and of itself. Instead of the speaker-audience relationship that I am used to, this style of writing tends to be more of a teacher-student relationship. Consequently, there is a fine line I have to toe. On one hand, I have to be careful not to dumb down to my readers, and on the other hand, I don’t want to leave out too much info to the point that my documentation hardly makes any sense at all.

Tech writing was a bit daunting at first, but I dove right into it and honed my skills every day, learning to develop my own bare bones style of writing and define my own voice.

A lot of my time is spent organizing complex material in a logical manner, and I’ve even picked up Visio, which is a great tool for creating diagrams. Whenever I include graphics in my documentation, I immediately score a hundred points with my readers.

Another part of my job involves interacting with third level engineers, and my go-to tech is Mika. This is the fun part as I get to play the role of journalist slash investigative reporter and extract as much information from him as possible.

Mika has been beyond helpful and patient with me, but he occasionally slips and starts speaking in code, and I find myself having to ask him all the ‘dumb’ technical questions. But truly, that is the only way I can thoroughly understand a subject. After all, I can’t write about something I only half understand. And with Mika as my faithful guide, and with me constantly poking and prodding him for more, there is no stone, rock or pebble left unturned.

Still, I am a rookie in this field of writing, and when Douglas is not satisfied with my work, he sends me back to the drawing board where I’ll have to rewrite a second, third, sometimes even a fourth draft. But I love the challenge, I love sinking my teeth into a juicy project; and most of all, I love writing again.

It is such a wonderful release.





After a long day at work toiling away in my windowless cubicle, I stroll out into the night, leaving the call center behind. A pale, watery sun is setting behind the clouds, and the air is chilly with a hint of frost.

Leisurely, I plod along the sidewalk, listening to the sound of dried leaves crunching beneath my Uggs. For a brief moment, I stop and admire the stunning backdrop. Leaves have matured into fiery colors of bliss. Fall is such a sexy season. An explosion of visceral colors—spicy reds, burnt oranges and mango maroons decorate the trees and the tarmac.

As I’m driving home through the suburbs, I’m reminded that Halloween is just around the corner. Ghouls, bats and cobwebs hang from the gallows; jack-o-lanterns and tombstones adorn the suburban lawns. I find myself cringing when I drive by a blood soaked guillotine, complete with a freshly bludgeoned head.

Now that is a little too gory for my taste.





Several days later at work, I’m treated to the sight of something much gorier. Great Scott! A great number of my co-workers take Halloween very seriously.

A little too seriously if you ask me.

Two days before, management had sent out an email stating that we could all come into work on Halloween dressed in costumes. And already, I have spotted ten Lady Gagas, and over a dozen scary looking, blood curling trannies.

Apparently, I’ve completely underestimated the vast number of men who would jump at the chance to dress as women. And what’s even more disturbing is, these men actually look better dressed as women.

Our site manager, Richard Just-Call-Me-Dick Jones, struts by in sparkly silver stripper heels, fully decked out in a red mini, blousy top and Farah Fawcett wig.

Dick looks like an orangutan from the Malaysian jungles.

An orangutan that’s wearing way too much rouge and red lipstick.

When Dick Jones is in his customary khaki pants and bright polo shirts, he’s a dead ringer for Gary Busey. Trust me, his eww factor is way up there. But as a woman, he’s passably attractive, perhaps even good enough for Bangkok’s infamous Patpong Street.

The orangutan look suits him.

Tiny’s head pops out of his cubicle, and I’m shocked to see that he too is dressed in drag.

“Why aren’t you dressed in costume, Maddy?” Tiny adjusts his Rihanna-inspired wig, then he whips out an umbrella and sings the chorus to, you guessed it—Umbrella.

I’m wiping tears from my eyes when five Call Center Termites sashay by, fully slutted out in ultra-revealing, breath-restricting German barmaid costumes.

How cliché. Halloween has become an opportunity for girls to dress like total sluts for a day. I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but when I come into work, I like to dress comfortably. My daily uniform consists of dark skinny jeans, Anthropologie tops, and Ugg boots. Truong insists on calling my boots Fuggly; to which I say, “Viva la Ugg!” I love my Uggs no matter what the haters may say.

Truong waddles over in a huge cardboard box with cut outs for his arms and head.

I gawk at his costume. “What the hell are you?”

“I am a light switch,” he says with flair.

“A light switch?” I say and stare. “I don’t get it.”

Truong takes my hand and guides it to the plastic tube that’s haphazardly taped onto the box. “Flick the switch and TURN ME ON BABY!” He flashes a hundred watt smile.

“How cheesy,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “But I’ll give you props for being cheap and creative.”

Upon giving me a once over, his smile instantly recedes. “Why didn’t you dress up?”

“I did,” I say indignantly. “I’m a werewolf from Team Jacob’s wolf pack.”

“But, Maddy, where are your fangs? Your fur? Your wolf face?”

“D’oh! It’s not a full moon tonight. I only turn into a werewolf when there’s a full moon.”

But Truong is paying me no heed. He is far too busy drooling and ogling over something…or someone.

I whirl around to see what all the fuss is about.

It’s Mika.

He swaggers toward us, fully decked out in cowboy gear from head to toe. Truong and I blatantly stare, losing ourselves in his rugged beauty.

Mika’s hair is slicked back, and he’s handsomely outfitted in a denim shirt and a caramel suede vest fringed with tassels that sway to the rocking motions of his body.

As I cast my gaze downwards, I see the fattest Texas-star belt buckle holding up his faded Levi’s. Holy Cowboy! Even his boots are donned with silver spurs that go jingle, jangle, jingle.

Mika cocks his head to one side. “Howdy y’all.”

Without warning, he quick-draws and I find myself staring into the barrels of two identical water pistols.

A split second later, he rotates his wrists, showing off a fancy gun twirling display. Then he expertly slides the pistols into his leather holsters and drawls, “Welcome to the Wild, Wild West.”

“Howdy cowboy.” Truong fawns all over Mika. “I know who you are! You’re Jack Twist from BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN!”

Mika laughs and protests, “No, I’m Clint Eastwood from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

“Nuh-uh,” Truong dismisses with a wolfish grin. “You’re Jake Gyllenhaal from Brokeback Mountain.” Sighing theatrically, he purrs, “You even have his sexy lips, sweetie.”

Mika shoots me a long suffering look.

Beep!

Bummer! Visiting time is over.

I throw Mika a rueful look and sprint back to my cubicle with my wireless headset in tow.

Even though I am a techie, I haven’t truly escaped the phones. Whenever we’re swamped with calls, Douglas throws me back into the queue to help out, and today is no exception.

“Thank you for calling Lightning Speed Communications, my name is Maddy. What can I do for you today?”

Heavy breathing. “Well for starters,” says the caller, “you could do me.”

O-kay, so I’ve got a pervo on my hands.

I ignore his sleazy comment. “Sir, may I have your first and last name please?”

“My name is Long Ngock Nguyen. However, the N in Ngock is silent. So it’s pronounced Long Cock Nguyen. But you can just call me Long Cock,” he insists in a greasy voice.

Long Cock?!? This is worse than the Richards who prefer to be called Dicks. MUTE.

“Truong!” I holler from across the room; he now sits ten rows away from me.

“What?” he shrills with a hint of annoyance.

I wave my arms in the air, motioning for him to come over.

Reluctantly, he disentangles himself from Mika and prances over. “This better be good! You just wrenched me from the arms of my cowboy lover.” He pulls a face.

“Trust me! It is. And guess what? I’m talking to your long lost brother Long Cock Nguyen.”

“No way,” he cries in disbelief.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mika furtively sneaking away. Good for him; he’s made his escape from the light switch.

Meanwhile, Truong is peering at my screen. “Well, Nguyen is a pretty common Vietnamese name. But Long Cock eh?” he says, clearly impressed.

And for the rest of the call, I try my best to ignore Long Cock’s lewd comments and sexual innuendos. “You sound so sexy and so sweet. I love the sound of your voice. How old are you?”

Ugh! This guy is revolting! Why doesn’t he just call the phone sex line? To get him off my back, I inform him that I’m ninety nine years old and suffering from incontinence.

“I don’t believe ya for a second sweetheart. You sound about sixteen! What are you doing tonight? Are you going to party it up? What will you wear? C’mon darlin’, fulfill my fantasies.”

Is this guy for real?

I veer the conversation back to business. “What is the reason for your call sir?” I ask blandly.

“You want to know what I’ll be wearing tonight?” he asks and I remain silent. I really don’t care, nor do I wish to know.

He tells me anyway. “I’ll be dressing up as one giant gift box with a big bow wrapped around my head. And on the tag it shall say ‘To: Women, From: God’. Get it?” He sniggers derisively. “I’m God’s greatest gift to womankind.”

Surely this guy cannot be for real.

“Is there anything else.” I phrase it more as a statement than a question. It’s my wrap up line for saying, “Take a hike!”

But Long Cock doesn’t take the hint. He yaps on and on about all these costumes he fantasizes—French Maid, Naughty Nurse, Naughty Schoolgirl…I tune myself out to all of it.

“Is there anything else?” I interrupt bluntly. And every time he spews his smut, I interject and repeat myself over and over again, “Anything else? Anything else? Anything else?”

Finally he concedes, but he gives me the corniest line ever.

One I’ve heard over a gazillion jillion times.

“Yeah babes, how about the winning lottery ticket number?”

I force a stilted laugh. “Oh you’re so funny,” I say in a dry voice.

What a cornball!

He snorts loudly, like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever told. “Or you could put a million dollars into my bank account.”

Um, now why the hell would I do that? First of all, if I had a million dollars, I wouldn’t be working in this dump, listening to pervs like you.

I exhale sharply. “Well, if that’s everything sir, thank you for calling,” I say and promptly disconnect the call.

Swiveling around, I find Truong still hovering by my side, and he’s wearing a slight frown on his usually good-natured face.

“What’s up, Truong? Why so glum?”

“I wish my mama would’ve named me Long Cock.”

Oh brother.





The circus at work follows me back to my apartment. I saunter into the living room to find Karsynn dressed as Marie Antoinette in full regalia. “Kars, is this why you skipped work today?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been busy prepping for my debut as the Queen Consort of France,” she says, tittering in six inched platforms.

“Kars, you look like an albino monkey. And those shoes are a little ridiculous. How can you even walk in them?”

“I can and I will,” she says adamantly. “You know how short I am, and I refuse to live my life as a Hobbit. Anyway, c’mon! Let’s storm the Bastille!” she roars, pumped up and ready to party.

I flop onto the sofa. “I’m staying in tonight.”

“Don’t be such a bore Maddy. What are your plans?”

“Nothing much really. Mika is coming over and he’s bringing a movie.”

“Well don’t wait up for me.” She whips out an elaborate lacy fan and begins vigorously fanning her face. “I am going to evoke another French Revolution.”

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Kars, the French Revolution is what led to Marie Antoinette’s death. Her people convicted her of treason, sent her to the guillotine and sliced off her head.”

“Mon Dieu,” she gasps in horror. “Zut alors.”

Knock! Knock!

“Sacré bleu. That must be my Dauphin.” Swishing her train across the room, she makes her royal exit. “Au revoir les enfants. Bisous. J’adore. I’m here, my darling Dauphin,” she tinkles. “Marie Antoinette la Dauphine de France.”





Hours later, the doorbell buzzes and I pad to the front door in my worn out bunny slippers which are collectively missing one eye, two ears and a nose. Cracking the door ajar, I catch a whiff of Mika.

I inhale his sweet, intoxicating scent. He smells of soap.

Fresh, crisp and breezy…ocean breezy.

“C’mon in,” I say with a pleasant smile.

He holds up a DVD. “I rented 3:10 to Yuma. Hope that’s okay with you. It’s a western.”

“Good choice!” I exclaim as I’d watch a western over a horror flick any day. “Make yourself at home; I just need to grab some popcorn out of the microwave.”

I dart to the kitchen, and in a hop and a skip, I am back in the living room. I find Mika on the sofa, messing with the controls.

The main menu is on the TV screen and he’s surfing through the options, programming the receiver so the movie plays in Dolby Digital Surround mode.

Oh, he’s such a man.

I ease myself onto the sofa and wedge the bag of popcorn in between us. Next, I cover our feet with a wooly afghan and settle back into the cushions.

“Okay, let’s start the movie,” I say eagerly.

The movie moves at a good pace, and the characters quickly captivate me. Russell Crowe plays the bad guy turned good guy, and like most Westerns, this movie is all about the measure of a man. How far will he go to fight for justice?

Two hours later, the movie ends and the credits roll. I sneak a peek at Mika and suspend my belief for a moment. I imagine the two of us in a dry and dusty desert in some old mid-western town. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the familiar whistling tune that’s played in all the old spaghetti westerns. The sound effect blared right before a showdown—Nah Nah Nah Naaaaaaaaaah NEOW NEOW NEOW.

Or is it Woo Woo Woo Woooooooo WEOW WEOW WEOW?

Anyway, you catch my drift.

“There’s a new sheriff back in town,” I drawl sassily, like I’m the seasoned gunslinger and Mika is the young punk stirring up trouble in my jurisdiction.

Our eyes lock.

There is a minute of silence as we stare each other down.

Our hands hover anxiously by our sides, ready to draw.

I don’t blink and neither does he.

Then all of a sudden, the scene turns Bollywood.

Consumed with raw passion, we throw down our weapons and run to each other. In slow motion.

Our bodies collide and we lock ourselves in a steamy embrace. Our lips mesh in a scalding kiss.

Abruptly, I’m jolted out of my Western-turned-Bollywood flick when I hear Mika ask, “Did you like the movie?”

“Yeah, it was pretty good. Although, I miss watching comedies and not hearing you laugh.”

He chuckles, and of course, no sound is emitted. After a long minute, he says, “So...”

“So...” I nervously adjust myself on the sofa. Our toes lightly brush and we immediately jolt apart.

His eyes crinkle. “Your toes feel like icicles.”

“And yours feel like hot coals,” I say with a silly grin.

We enjoy a brief and playful banter. “Would you like me to warm up your toes?” he asks.

I tilt my brow. “Would you really want to warm up my toes?”

“I’d love nothing else,” he says evenly.

My toes curl up in anticipation.

Seconds later, I feel his toes rubbing against mine, creating friction and instant warmth.

“Better now?”

I nod and tuck my feet under me.

He rises from the sofa and ejects the DVD from the player.

I play for time. “So what are your plans now?”

“Call of Duty: Black Ops awaits me.” He straightens himself and flexes his arms like Chuck Norris.

“You’re in the marine corps reserve?”

He laughs. “No. It’s a Xbox game. And what about you?”

“Oh, I’m staying in.” I stretch out my arms and legs. “I’ve got to book my ticket before the prices go up.”

“Book what ticket?”

“My plane ticket. I’m going home for Thanksgiving.” After a thoughtful pause, I ask, “Do you have any Thanksgiving plans?”

“I plan to be holed up in my dorm room since mostly everything will be closed. But the campus cafeteria will be open and they serve some pretty good turkey.”

“What?” I gawp. “Cafeteria food is like cat food. You need to have a real Thanksgiving meal.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Hey, why don’t you come home with me? It’ll be fun and I can show you around Chicago.”

To my surprise, Mika concedes without a fight. “Okay. Don’t you remember? I’d promised you I would.”

“Yes, you did. At the pizzeria. Great! It’s a done deal then!”

He smiles an endearing smile. “When do we leave?”

“In about three and a half weeks.” I hop off the sofa and fire up my laptop. “C’mon Mika, let’s book our tickets.”