Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Twenty Four





“You grew up here? This place is incredible!” Mika’s awestruck eyes sweep the interior space of my home.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I shrug. “Sort of a cross between Frank Lloyd Wright and Jeff Lewis, don’t you think?”

He continues exploring the floor plan. “This place is huge; you didn’t tell me you lived in a five star resort.”

My gaze travels across the open and spacious room. “I guess you could say it’s capacious,” I say facetiously.

He conducts his own tour, his eyes keen and intense as he wanders around.

I find myself rifling through the stack of mail on the kitchen countertop. A student loan statement, a student loan statement, another student loan statement.

Minutes later, Mika asks, “Can I check out the patio area?”

“Sure.” I set aside my student loan statements. “I’ll join you.”

He swings open the glass door and we step out.

“I like this.” He grips the steel railing. “I like how this entire deck is wrapped around that oak tree.”

“Yeah, my dad was all about sharing his living space with nature. He was a tree hugger…like you.”

“Tree humper, polar bear lover, forest freak, Eco Nazi. I’ve heard worse.”

“No, I said tree hugger, not humper,” I laugh, gesturing to his Earth Day T-shirt.

He glances down at his shirt and smiles. “Yep. We’re all in this together. We must take steps to conserve energy and reduce our carbon footprint,” he lectures in a comical tone.

“Okay.” I nudge him playfully.

Mika can be such a colossal dork at times, but I happen to find it especially endearing. For a little while, we rest our elbows on the railing and gaze out into the distance.

“See that hill over there? Me and my dad used to belly-slam our sleds down that hill.”

He shoots me a sidelong glance. “I wish I could’ve met him.”

I return his gaze and smile wistfully. “Me too...”

Mika and my dad would have surely hit it off. My mom is not even here to welcome me home. To welcome us home.

I pull my cardigan tightly around me. “Let’s go inside. I can show you your room.” I usher him indoors, away from the ominous winds.

While Mika disappears to gather his things, I cross the living room and head for the kitchen. I’m about to grab a drink out of the fridge when a yellow post-it note catches my eye.

I peel the note off the fridge.



Hi honey,



Sorry I couldn’t be there. I’m at work, not sure when I’ll be home tonight. See you tomorrow?



Love, mom



I breathe out a heavy sigh. Just like old times. Crumpling the note in one hand, I hurl it into the trash.

Seconds later, Mika finds me in the kitchen. “Lead the way,” he says, lugging a clunky Samsonite suitcase.

Since we’re only visiting for a couple days, I packed light. And the fact that Mika packed an entire suitcase somewhat baffles me. “What have you got in your suitcase? A dead body?” I raise a delicate brow.

“Something like that...” he says in all seriousness.

It takes us approximately five minutes to trek to the far end of the east wing, and Mika makes some smart comment about me living in a manor, calling it Maddy’s Manor.

“Here’s the guestroom,” I announce airily.

At one time, this used to be my playroom. And true to the design of Frank Lloyd Wright, colossal stained glass windows dominate the space, sending shards of rainbows across the room.

While my dad tried his best to mimic the style and design of his famed architect, the result isn’t always comfortable, nor is it practical. I immediately feel a draft in the room.

“There’s some thick quilts in there if you get cold.” I gesture toward a wooden chest.

He nods, depositing his suitcase at the foot of the bed.

“Make yourself at home. Grab whatever you want from the fridge; my mom’s stocked it up. I’ll hop in the shower now and then we can grab a bite to eat.”

“Sounds good. Will your mom be joining us?”

“Nope,” I say with a slight frown. “Not tonight, anyway. She’s at work, but she’ll be here for our Thanksgiving feast tomorrow.”

He shrugs off his jacket. “I’d like to take a shower too. Not with you, I mean,” he quickly adds. He winks playfully. “But if you want to save water and conserve energy, we could always shower together. We’d only be helping out Mother Nature.”

I release a nervous laugh. “Um, as you can see, you’ve got a bathroom in here and the towels are in the closet to your right.”

He undresses and starts shirtless for the bathroom.

Eyeing his half naked body, I clear my throat. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

I bound athletically up the stairs two at a time, fly into my bathroom, fling off all my clothes and step into a scalding hot shower. I’m lathering soap over my body when my mind elicits erotic images of Mika in his shower.

Unwittingly, I envisage hot water sluicing over his shoulders, coursing past his washboard abs, dripping down his muscular legs...drops of water glistening and clinging to the tuft of fuzz between his—Eeeps! An image of an elephant trunk pops into my head.

Shaking off that disturbing image, I step out of the shower.

As I’m toweling myself dry, I smirk at the thought that while my body feels squeaky clean, my mind is filthier than ever.

Emerging from the steamy bathroom, I hastily throw on my usual attire. Next, I dig in my closet and drag out my reliable North Face parka, the one that makes me look like a grotesquely engorged Michelin Man.

Waddling down the stairs, I find Mika looking resplendent in a suit. A very Gucci looking suit.

A light bulb goes off in my head. “Oh! That’s why you packed such an enormous suitcase!”

“Hey, a wrinkled suit is a fashion faux pas.”

Much to my chagrin, when Mika takes note of my attire, he chides, “Maddy, go change!”

I dither on the stairs. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“I’m taking you to a fancy restaurant.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he retorts.

“Um, okay,” I hesitate. “I guess I’ll go up and change then.”

He shoots me a winsome smile.





Decisions, decisions. What to wear? After much deliberation, I finally settle on a Tracy Reese dress. The chic bodice is a throwback to the Chanel classics, and the Oscar de la Renta-ish skirt is detailed with intricate embroidery.

I feel very ‘old Hollywood’ glam in this pretty frock, like I’ve just walked onto the set of Mad Men.

Next for my makeup, I opt for the au naturale look. I want my skin to appear dewy and luminous. But creating the natural look is one tough task to pull off. It takes loads and loads and loads of makeup to achieve ze au naturale look. As I’m caking on my fourth coat of foundation, I check the time.

Zoinks! Mika has been waiting downstairs for almost half an hour. Time to switch things into high gear.

I inspect my appearance in the mirror. My lips look understated with my nude lip gloss. But tonight, I feel bold.

I glide on some killer red lipstick and fluff up my hair. After slipping on a pair of dark sheer tights, I hop over to the shoe rack and wriggle my feet into my Miss L Fire blood red Hedy heels.

It’s sex on heels, adding a touch of vavavoom to my outfit.

Okay, now I’m ready.

Strutting down the stairs, I unfurl with the power of a femme fatale. The right dress and shoes can make any woman feel like a million bucks. I bet if Hillary Clinton ditched the pantsuits and donned a pretty frock from time to time, she’d be a less grouchy Secretary of State. And with a different attitude, perhaps she could broker a peace agreement in the Mideast between Israel and Palestine.

Mika is standing in the foyer with both hands in his pockets.

As I gracefully descend the stairs, his eyes rake me from head to toe, traveling slowly and deliberately, almost sensually.

Straightening himself, he shoots me an appreciative smile.

“You look gorgeous,” he says in a thick voice.

I gaze at him from half lowered eyelids. “Thanks, so do you.”

I’ve made reservations at Bri,” he says with aplomb. “And I’ve called a cab; it’s waiting outside.”

Gallantly, Mika helps me into my coat and whisks me out the front door.





Our cabbie is a jovial Indian man named Vijay Singh. Driving at breakneck speed, Vijay strikes up a conversation about the sour economy. “This recession is terrible. My daughter Gita graduated from college months ago and she’s still jobless.”

“What did she major in?” I ask politely.

“Philosophy,” says Vijay, swerving in and out of traffic.

Well no wonder, I think to myself. That has got to be the most pointless degree ever. All you can ever do with a degree like that is teach philosophy or philosophize, asking yourself mindless questions like, “If an ambulance is on its way to save someone and runs someone else over, should it stop to help that person?”

A good friend of mine, Descartes, has a PhD in philosophy. He was a pothead, still is, and he now works at Blockbuster.

But then again, who am I to even talk? What good did my journalism degree do? I’m stuck in a friggin’ call center.

“I myself have a master’s degree from Delhi University,” says Vijay and slams on the brakes, just barley avoiding a head-on collision.

We lurch sickeningly forward and then flop backward like a pair of rag dolls. “That’s cool. How long have you been driving a cab?” asks Mika, gripping the sides.

“For far too long.” Vijay chortles. “When I started driving a cab eight years ago, I told myself it’s nothing permanent. Short term only! But then the years start to pass.” He stops and pounds his fist on the horn. “And now with the economy going down the drain like this, I’m just thankful I can put food on the table.”

Staring numbly at the bright lights whizzing outside, I grimly reflect upon my own predicament. I certainly don’t want to end up working at that call center forever. Already, I’ve been feeling considerably burnt out. Over the past few weeks, the call volume spiked and I was forced back on the phones again.

This Thanksgiving break is a much needed one. I was coiled so tightly that I was about ready to snap. But at the same time, I feel the same way Vijay does, grateful that I at least have a job.

“Vijay, if you ever want to make a career change, come out to Pocatello,” I offer. “You can get a job at a call center.”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “Actually madam, being a cab driver is not so bad after all. I enjoy working all by myself.”

For a brief moment, I consider what it must be like to be a cabbie. How liberating! I wouldn’t have to talk to customers all day long. Vijay is chatting with us on his own accord. It’s his prerogative if or not he wants to talk; and if I was at the wheel, it’d be my prerogative if I’d want to talk or not. Plus, driving always has such a calming effect on me.

Mika seems to have a keen sense of knowing what’s brewing about in my head. “You could not be a cab driver.”

“Why not?” I huff.

“I’ve seen the way you drive, weaving in and out, cutting other cars by an inch, flying over speed bumps. When you’re at the wheel, I’m constantly pressing the phantom brake pedal.”

“Actually,” Vijay chimes in, “she’d make an excellent cabbie.”

“See!” I smother a triumphant grin.

Traffic slows to a crawl, but Vijay is undeterred. He zips in and out of traffic, swerves around corners, jumps over curbs and drives down sidewalks. Minutes later, he violently swings the cab onto the side of the road.

“Here we are at Bri!” He flashes a toothy grin. “Very popular among the locals. And by the way, you two look like a beau-ti-ful couple. Enjoy your evening,” he says regally.

“Thanks, Vijay, it was so nice to meet you,” I say, inching across the back seat. For some odd reason, I don’t correct Vijay about us being a ‘couple.’ Neither does Mika, I observe.

Mika pays the fare and I notice him slipping Vijay a hefty tip.

Chalk another point for Mika. I’m glad he’s no cheapo.

Sauntering into Bri, I realize Mika is anything but cheap. My goodness! This place is going to break his Belgian bank account.

My bug eyes sweep across the golden gilded room and I find myself mesmerized by its opulence and grandeur. It’s splendidly baroque and ornately orchestrated. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceilings, tufted chairs are tucked into alcoves, a roaring fire glimmers and glows in the score of reflections in the room.

Inclining my head toward Mika, I whisper, “I didn’t know we were attending the Tsar Ball at Catherine Palace.”

He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me. “I couldn’t afford the plane ticket to Saint Petersburg, so this will have to suffice.”

Within minutes, we’re seated by a burlesque-y hostess who bears a striking resemblance to Dita Von Teese.

I stare after Dita as she sashays off. Leaning forward, I ask in a hushed voice, “Mika, do you think she’s cute?”

“I think you’re cute,” he says without missing a beat.

I scoff at his deflection. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Smiling, he shakes his head and consults the menu.

I do the same.

Seconds later, he pops his head over the tall menu. “Shall we go for the tasting menu?”

“Let’s go for it,” I say robustly.

As if on cue, two posh waiters materialize at our table and introduce themselves as Juan and Steve.

Juan takes our orders and nods approvingly. “Our chefs only use the freshest, local ingredients.”

Steve concurs with his team mate. “Yesssss. And all the food prepared here is organic and sustainable.”

My eyes shimmer. “Sustainable? How splendid.”

At first the trend was organic food, and now a new one has snuck up on me—Sustainable!

And I’m a complete sucker for it all. Trust Mika, being an eco-friendly guy, to pick a green restaurant.

After our orders are placed, Juan and Steve magically fade into the wallpaper. Leaning back against the plush seat, I gaze at the Jackson Pollock-like artworks that line the walls.

Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major plays softly in the background, set in perfect harmony to the romantic and whimsical ambiance.

Wait a minute.

Or is this Concerto Number 3 in G major?

I perk my ears up, straining to listen. But I can no longer tell.

To my absolute horror, I discover that I am tone deaf.

Egad! My ears have been ravaged by that call center! Eight years of piano lessons washed down the drain!

Mika watches me closely, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s slightly alarmed by my state of distress. He clears his throat. “So, what do you think of this place?”

“What’d you say?” I rub my damaged ears, and soothe myself with the thought that although Beethoven was tone deaf, he was one of the greatest pianists of all time.

“What do you think of this place?” he repeats.

Basking in the candlelight, I gush, “It’s magical.”

Moments later, Juan and Steve appear by our sides and serve our first entrée simultaneously. They lift the silver lids off the platters in perfect synch, as synchronized as two dolphins at SeaWorld. Their timing is perfect and their tricks flawless.

Wow. This place is surreal, like a cross between SeaWorld and dining. And come to think of it, they do have such a thing at SeaWorld. It’s called Dinner with Shamu. Only difference is, this is fine dining with our waiters Steve and Juan.

The first entrée is Escargots à la Bourguignonne.

“Um...” I stare uncertainly at the escargot that’s swimming in some sort of garlic buttery sauce. “Mika, you can have mine if you want.”

He spoons a snail into his mouth. “You don’t like escargot?”

The look on my face says it all. “Don’t you love euphemisms? If they called it snails, I bet you no one would eat it.”

“I would.” He takes another bite to prove his point. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Maddy.”

“Yeah I do,” I say with a faint smirk. “Sorry, Mika, but I’m pretty ghetto. I don’t have a sophisticated palette like you.”

“You? Ghetto? You live in an architectural dream.”

“Well, my parents were well off, but they worked full time and neither of them cooked. I mainly lived on frozen pizzas, hot dogs, and mac and cheese.”

“That’s it?” He looks appalled. “I grew up poor, but only in the material sense of the word. My mum made a feast out of every meal. We spent lots of time discussing food, preparing food and consuming food.”

I lean my elbows forward in fascination. “So what did you eat most of the time?”

“My mum’s homemade meatballs in sweet cherry sauce,” he says with a smile. “And you?”

“Hot dogs cold, right out of the fridge,” I admit, embarrassed.

“You speak of euphemisms, but don’t you know that a hot dog is pig snout, pig liver, pig kidney, pig fat and scrap that’s ground up, stuffed and squeezed into casings made of animal intestines? You’ll eat that but you won’t eat a snail,” he taunts.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll try a snail.” I fork the tiniest escargot, squeeze my eyes shut, and force the slimy thing down my throat.

He stares at me expectantly. “So?”

My face contorts. “The texture is a bit strange, but the garlic buttery sauce sort of makes it edible.”

“Well, I’m glad you at least tried it.”

The next course is Grilled Portobello Mushrooms and Alaskan King Crab Legs served with a red wine reduction.

“Now this is a humongous fungus!” I stifle a laugh.

A smile crooks his lips. “I’ve never understood why they call skinny, spindly crab legs King Crabs.”

“I know,” I concur. “They should call it Poor Man’s Crab legs, or Anorexic Crabs.”

Sometime later, our next dish arrives—Pan Roasted Breast of Squab over Beet Salad and Oven Dried Black Figs.

“Enjoy your street pigeon and weeds,” says Mika cheekily.

“Mmmm.” I crunch on a lettuce. “I love rabbit food. And as for this pigeon, it’s payback time for messing up my balcony.”

Mika takes a bite off his rat with wings. “Sorry pigeon, this is for firing your mess all over my car.”

After all that pigeon bashing, I’m suddenly consumed with guilt. “You know what? Pigeons are also symbols of peace,” I say, paying tribute to my meal.

Mika matches my somber mood. “Pigeons are credited with saving thousands of soldiers’ lives in World War One and Two.”

“How?” I ask, nibbling on my salad greens.

“They were used to carry messages. Pigeons can fly at high speeds for miles and miles without stopping for food and water.”

For a little while, we lapse into silence.

“You know what?” I say in a sage voice. “I think we should call this hero with wings a squab. That way I’m not reminded of the fact that I’m eating a patriotic, lifesaving pigeon.”

“Okay, no more deconstructing euphemisms,” agrees Mika wholeheartedly. “They’re around for a reason.”

Our fourth course is soon placed before us, this time it’s Citrus Marinated Salmon with a Confit of Navel Oranges, topped with Sustainable Sturgeon Caviar and Pea Shoot Coulis.

Now let me start with my one caveat—I really detest caviar. But as I cautiously spoon some pearly eggs in my mouth, it pops with a flavor that’s surprisingly pleasing to my palate. The food here may sound pretentious, but it certainly doesn’t taste pretentious. We relish and savor every bite, praising and applauding the dishes along the way.

The last three courses are all desserts. And the first one up is White Chocolate Bread Pudding drizzled with Bourbon Caramel Sauce. It is to die for.

I breathe out a sated sigh. “Mika, you’re the best! I’ve never had food like this before. Thanks so much for bringing me here,” I say preemptively.

He beams at me. “You deserve it!”

“What did I do?” I fork a voluptuous portion of pudding.

“Well, you spent a lot of time tutoring me, and you helped me out with my papers.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “I hardly did anything. And if you thank me for tutoring you one more time, I’ll eat my own head. Actually, you have to eat a tenner.”

“Well you did,” he insists. “You have mad talent, Maddy. You could even earn some extra money on the side if you wrote for an essay mill.”

I stare agog at our next dessert placed in front of us.

Juan announces, “Triple Molten Chocolate Lava Cake served with a side of hand churned chocolate ice cream.”

It is literally a detonation of chocolate. And it is dynamite!

Mika smiles at me indulgently. “You can have some of mine.”

“Sure,” I say without hesitating, and he slides his oozing plate of chocolate my way. “You were saying?”

“Have you ever considered writing for an essay mill?”

I lick chocolate sauce off my bottom lip. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know?” he asks, mildly surprised and I shake my head. “It’s a ghostwriting service,” he explains. “College students pay big money to have these essay mills churn out their term papers.”

“How much do these papers go for?”

“Well a friend of mine paid fifty bucks per page, and his paper turned out to be well over a hundred pages long.”

“Whoa! That’s way more than what some New York Times bestsellers are paid per page. Now have you ever bought a paper from one of these essay mills?”

“No,” he says with conviction, and I believe him.

He continues, “I may struggle with writing but I enjoy doing the research. Anyway, that was a dumb idea. Don’t sell yourself short. You shouldn’t waste your talents writing for an essay mill.” After a pause he adds, “You shouldn’t waste it at that call center either.”

The last dessert is elegantly placed in front of me: Raspberry Champagne Sorbet topped with fresh mint.

Just perfect for cleansing my palette!

“Well?” he urges. “I know how much you hate working at that call center. Why don’t you explore your options elsewhere? Do something you love.”

“Well,” I hesitate, “I applied for a tech writing job with Ajon; they design software for medical devices.”

“Really, Maddy? That’s great! Have you heard back?”

I shake my head and pop a mint leaf in my mouth. “I only just applied a few days ago. Anyway, I’m not even sure if I’ll take the job if I get it.”

Mika reaches for his napkin and wipes his mouth with vigor.

I’m so glad he doesn’t dab. I find it so prissy when men do the demure dabbing thing.

After setting his napkin on the table, he startles me with his outburst. “Are you kidding me, Maddy? If you get an offer take it.”

“I’m still thinking about it,” I say, and promptly change the subject. “Shall we get going?”

He nods and whips out his Visa. Discreetly, our waiter Steve swoops in, slips the leather booklet in his hand and disappears around the corner.

“Thanks again for the awesome meal!”

“You’re very welcome,” he says graciously. “What’s next?”

“Well, it’s a good thing this place is downtown. I want you to feel the spirit of this city, so I say we take on Chicago by foot.”

He pokes his nonexistent belly and chuckles. “After all that eating, walking sounds good to me.”

Steve returns with the bill and Mika signs the receipt.

I sneak a peek and gasp, “Mika! That is too much. You can feed everyone in Botswana with that money. Let me at least pay for half.”

“No!” he protests.

“Yes!” I insist.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Okay,” I grudgingly give in.

After settling the bill, he asks, “Where’s Botswana?”

“In Africa.”

“So…” he regards me. “Is Botswana the poorest country in the world?”

“No, I think the poorest country is Zimbabwe; it has a ninety sextillion percent inflation.”

“Sextillion,” he echoes. “Is that like a billion trillion?”

I nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. “I think so. I know they had one of the largest bank notes in history—the one hundred trillion dollar bill!”

He laughs. “I’d like to buy some Zimbabwean eggs. Oh sure, that’ll just be one hundred billion dollars.”

I giggle. “They actually got rid of the Zimbabwean dollar last year. Their government got tired of printing new money.”

“Or,” he points out, “they could’ve just run out of paper.”

“True.” I smile.

He smiles back. “So if Zimbabwe is the poorest country in the world, then why’d you say I could feed the whole of Botswana?”

“I just like saying Botswana. Anyway, we should get going.”

Juan appears in a flash and pulls out my chair.

“Thanks, Juan,” I say gregariously. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Thanks for the excellent service,” Mika adds heartily.

Our tuxedoed waiters stand together with their perfect postures. With a cordial nod, they execute a final bow of impeccable grace.

What a performance!

Mika and I bundle up and roll out into the crisp, clear night.

“This area is also known as the Loop,” I say as we stroll down the strip.

Since Christmas is only a month away, Michigan Avenue has become a magnificent mile of lights. Christmas lights weave and entwine the trees and branches, illuminating blankets of white snow.

Macy’s and Marshall Field’s gargantuan window displays are dolled up with vibrant, colorful creations, unfolding the magic and splendor of the season.

We promenade side by side, absorbing everything: the throngs of people out shopping, a Salvation Army volunteer tinkling the donations bell, fantasy-like decorations that adorn every space, the jolly ol’ sounds of Christmas music emanating from the retail stores, the lights, the lights and the lights.

It feels like the most Christmas-y moment ever, bar none.

And it’s not even Christmas!

Mika says animatedly, “What a way to kick off the holidays.”

I laugh joyously, imbued with the holiday spirit. “I’m so glad you came.”

He links his arm through mine. “Phenomenal dinner, nice walk under the lights. We should do this more often.”

“I know...” I pat his arm affectionately, “we should.”

But inside, I doubt that we will.

Mika will soon return to The Land of Waffles, while I’ll still be stuck in The Valley of Potatoes. For now at least, I briefly close my eyes and remember this moment.