Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Twenty Five





The sweet, decadent aromas of Thanksgiving permeate the halls. The smell of an oven-roasted turkey dripping with gravy, fluffy mashed potatoes, freshly baked pumpkin pie, and my all-time favorite—sweet potatoes mushed up with a pound and a half of real butter, dusted with brown sugar, and sprinkled with pecans. It’s artery clogging, calorie packing and waist expanding, but it’s so worth it.

My mom doesn’t cook, but she has a tendency to go overboard with small dinner parties. Today, she’s hired two personal chefs along with an army of sous-chefs; and they’re busy chopping, peeling, dicing, cooking and prepping.

Catching a buzz from their hustle and bustle, I grab a box of matches and sidle out of the jam-packed kitchen. I may as well make myself useful elsewhere. There are too many cooks in this kitchen and I don’t want to spoil the broth.

Twelve rustic candles make up the centerpiece of the oblong dining table. Striking a match, I light the candles one by one and instantly feel invigorated by the scents of autumn; the smell of an Indian Summer’s slow farewell.

Feeling someone’s eyes upon me, I look up and catch Mika watching me with interest. I return his gaze, staring at him with a sort of insolent appreciation.

Leaning heavily against the doorframe, he’s dressed casually yet impeccably in black slacks, black button-down shirt, black leather belt, and black leather shoes.

He’s bringing sexy back, and I’m loving his swagger.

“You look lovely, Maddy. Nice dress.”

“Thanks.”

My dress is boldly embellished with a huge rosette appliqué, and it could have gone one of two ways with this dress: incredibly kooky or incredibly chic. Methinks it errs on the latter, and I’m glad Mika seems to think so too.

Even my T-strap heels are decorated with rosettes, and spring bouquet studs adorn my ears.

I’m a walking arboretum.

“So, what time will your relatives be here?”

“Anytime now,” I hesitate. “Um, I have to warn you though, my Aunt Benedicta can be a bit snarky at times.”

In Latin, Benedictus means ‘blessed.’ And my aunt sure is blessed. Blessed with arrogance, egotism and conceit. Some may consider those traits a curse, but not my Aunt Benedicta. She considers it a blessing from above.

“And her husband Stuart is the perfect match for her. He’s super smarmy.” And together those two are a frightful combination. “You’ll see…” I crinkle my brows. “Even my cousin Constance is a constant pain in the rear.”

Ding! Dong!

“By the way,” I say hurriedly. “My Uncle Stuart has strabismus. Basically, he’s cross-eyed. So, if you’re not sure which eye to look at, just stare at his hairpiece, okay?”

“O-kay,” he says tentatively.

“C’mon, Mika.” I hook his arm. “Let’s go meet them.”





“Beatrice! So lovely to see you again,” Aunt Benedicta clips in her fake British-Madonna accent.

“And you as well,” tinkles my mom.

Then they swoop in and give each other the tepid two-cheek Euro air kiss. I swear sometimes, they address each other as if they were two strangers at a wedding.

Eyes sharp as needles, Aunt Benedicta spots me standing in the corner of the foyer. “Mah-dih-shon, dah-ling,” she trills in her over the top soap opera voice.

I reach in for a hug, but she immediately halts me, causing her Tiffany bracelets to jangle up and down her sinewy, veiny arms. Then she puts up her face for an air kiss and I freeze.

Does the right side come first, or the left? Does it matter?

Like air guitar, air kisses just aren’t the real deal, so I never bothered educating myself on the proper etiquette.

I wait for Aunt Benedicta to take the lead.

Grabbing my shoulders, she brushes her feathered lips on my right cheek, and then the left.

Then her critical eyes fall on Mika. She sizes him up and down with shrewd evaluation.

I make the introductions. “Aunty Benedicta, this is my friend Mika.”

“Meeeeeee-kah,” she enunciates, contorting her mouth in an unnatural and unattractive manner.

They go Muah, Muah in the air like a pair of seasoned Europeans.

At least Mika is the real McCoy; my Aunt Benedicta is just a wannabe. And I can tell she’s charmed. Over Mika’s shoulder, she shoots me a look of surprise. One that says, ‘How did mousy Maddy manage to snag this guy?’

But then again, it could just be my overactive imagination since she always looks surprised. Sadly, in her attempt to freeze the aging process with endless Botox treatments and frequent face lifts, Aunty Benedicta’s face looks frozen.

Not frozen in time, but in the moment.

It’s in a perpetual state of no-emotions and no-expressions.

Correction. There is one expression: perpetual surprise.

Meanwhile, the air kissing debacle is far from over as Uncle Stuart and Constance make their rounds. Finally, after all that pretentious nonsense is done with, we settle ourselves in the living room.

Constance emerges from her curtain of jet black hair, and her eyes narrow at me contemptuously. From the look on her face, I can tell she’s not a fan of my dress. She leans to her right and whispers something to her mom; then they look me up and down in a very impolite manner and exchange supercilious smirks.

Swallowing my annoyance, I force a smile, then I incline my head toward Mika and whisper, “I can’t stand my cousin and my aunt.”

Mika’s lips twist into a smile, but he adopts a neutral facade, remaining placid and polite.

I cast a disdainful eye Constance’s way. She’s dressed like a character straight out of a Tim Burton movie. Dark horn rimmed glasses adorn her shifty, rodent-like eyes, and she’s got so much eyeliner caked on that she looks like a panda bear. Her makeup is a stark contrast to her pale, corpse-like skin. Everything about her is severe.

As usual, Uncle Stuart dominates the conversation and I find myself staring amusedly at his Donald Trump comb-over piece. The strawberry highlights clash with his salmon pink sweater. I’m sorry, but a grown man should never ever wear pink. No sane mom would ever dress her baby boy in pink, or paint his nursery pink. And any grown man who chooses to dress in pink is just plain ridiculosity.

As distracting as his funny hair piece and girly attire may be, I try to tune myself in to the conversation that is swirling around me. When the economy was booming, Uncle Stuart loved to boast about all the riches he was raking in from the stock market.

He fancied himself a mover and shaker, and hobnobbed with all the Wall Street head honchos and hedge fund managers. He also heavily invested in Madoff’s ponzi scheme.

Now that the economy is tanking and Stuart has lost his high-flying job, all he ever does is whine about how much money he is losing, how his investments and 401K are dwindling to nothing.

We make all the appropriate sympathetic noises.

“Bernie Madoff has got blood on his hands,” he growls.

“Um, didn’t Steven Spielberg and Kevin Bacon invest with him too?” I ask casually. It was something I read in US Weekly.

Uncle Stuart shifts his anger to me. “Yes! But those are just stupid, gullible Hollywood celebs. Let me tell you, lots of smart people got duped. Smart people like me!”

“I didn’t say you weren’t smart,” I implore.

“You implied it,” he grumbles and sulks like a two year old.

I roll my eyes and Uncle Stuart throws me a murderous look.

A bubble of laughter escapes me.

Hah! It’s a good thing Uncle Stuart is cross-eyed. Although he’s glaring at me, it appears as if he’s glaring at Mika, who happens to be sitting next to me on the leather settee. Poor Mika has no idea why my Quasimodo Uncle is giving him the evil eye, and so he focuses his full attention on Stuart’s hairpiece.

I do the same. For obvious reasons, conversation is driven to an absolute halt.

After an awkward silence, my mom clears her throat. “Let’s adjourn to the dining area, shall we?”

“Let’s,” concurs Aunt Benedicta and struts to the dining room, flanked by her two toddlers.





A feast fit for a king is spread out before us.

My Quasimodo uncle pads heavily into the room and squashes his humongous rear into the seat next to Mika. Now if there is one thing Uncle Stuart loves, it is new company. To him, it is an opportunity to brag in their ears nonstop. And when he does not brag about himself, he brags about the next best thing—his evil daughter, aka the Devil’s spawn. Just barely a minute into our meal, the brag session begins.

“Constance has just landed herself a fantastic job,” he booms.

My ears instantly perk up.

Constance and I are only months apart in age, and ever since we were kids, Uncle Stuart has loved making comparisons between Constance and me. Of course, it was always in Constance’s favor. Constance was always the faster swimmer, she always got better grades, and she attended the better college.

When she got admitted to Yale, it was all we ever heard about at every single holiday gathering. To add insult to injury, Constance also majored in Journalism, and so the comparisons have never ceased.

Uncle Stuart strokes Constance’s hair like he’s petting a prized panda bear. “Constance here is a foreign correspondent for CNN. She’s following in the footsteps of Christiane Amanpour and Anderson Cooper.”

From across the dining table, Constance shoots me one of her I’m-better-than-you smirks, preening like she’s the gold medalist.

Keeping sangfroid, I treat her with taciturn indifference. On the surface, everything seems pleasant enough.

But I hate her.

And I wish she’d wipe that pompous smirk off her panda face.

Foreign correspondent, eh? Well I hope CNN deploys her to Afghanistan, or Syria, or Yemen.

“And what is it that you do Madison?” sneers Uncle Stuart.

I level my gaze with his. “I work at a call center.”

“What a shame,” clucks Aunty Benedicta, in a voice dripping with false empathy.

Uncle Stuart snarls in an accusatory tone, “Oh! So you’re one of those people, aren’t you?”

Slowly, I set my silverware down on the table. “And what do you mean by that?”

“You know, customer-no-service,” he says patronizingly. Then he emits his signature scratchy laugh, reminiscent of the noise a dog makes right before it pukes.

After collecting himself, he shoots me a smarmy smile and adds, “No offense kiddo.”

I know exactly what he’s trying to do. He’s been doing this to me my whole life—trying to make me feel inadequate.

Constance laughs a mirthless laugh and my mom’s eyebrows crease with concern when she catches the determined glint in my eye. Resentment and indignation boil inside me, and I have to consciously bite my tongue to repress the remarks I feel bubbling to the surface. But as tradition requires, a lady never speaks with her mouth full. And so, I patiently bide my time.

Crunching on my romaine lettuce, I allow myself to enjoy the tartness of the cranberries and the crispness of the leafy greens while I reflect upon the rampant stigma associated with my job.

I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m fully aware that most people harbor a deep contempt and hatred toward customer service reps. But now that I’m on the other side of the invisible phone line, I understand. The pressure and stress that management puts on me to sell and keep my calls short, callers who yell at me because their world will end if their DSL service is down for ten seconds.

It often feels as if I’m being crushed and compressed from all sides. It takes a helluva lot to keep my composure, yet I always do my best. I am courteous, respectful and go above and beyond to be helpful, as long as the callers don’t make it obvious that they wish for me to die a slow and painful death.

There is bad customer service but there is also good customer service, and I have always prided myself on the latter. And with Uncle Stuart’s unprovoked attack, I feel marginalized, ostracized and victimized. Like I’m pushed against a wall.

I find myself in a situation where it’s me versus them. A customer service rep versus the haters.

Oh I know. I can be a tad bit dramatic and childish at times, but he started it! Plus, I feel this perverse need to defend myself, to defend the honor of customer service reps all around the world—in the States, in India, the Philippines, Botswana, Bolivia, Brazil, Malaysia, Russia, the Czech Republic.

I can’t let him get away with talking smack about my people.

As the Lord said to Moses and in the great words of Martin Luther King, “Let My People Go!”

Meanwhile, the tension at the table continues to crackle and mount. Projecting an image of unflappable calm, I raise my chin at my Quasimodo uncle. Acting like a true lady in the face of adversity, I say eloquently, “And you, Uncle Stuart, are one of those customers. And by that I mean brainless, idiotic, fart-brained fools who call in asking for help, yet think they know everything.”

Uncle Stuart is incandescent with rage. “How dare y—”

Mika cuts in, “If I may, Stuart?”

“What?” hisses Quasimodo.

Mika gives him a steady look. “Are you currently employed?”

“No!” he snaps. “I was laid off nine months ago and—”

Mika boldly interrupts, “And are you collecting unemployment?”

Something inaudible sputters out of Uncle Stuart’s mouth, which I take to mean a “Yes.”

Mika says in a measured voice, “Well Maddy and I have jobs and we’re not a burden on society.” He shrugs and continues, “No one wants to work at a call center. But some of us just wind up working there, and we try to make the best of it, and Maddy here surely has. She’s one of the nicest and brightest reps, and our callers love her.” He darts me a warm look and announces with great pride, “You may or may not know this, but Maddy recently got promoted.”

Uncle Stuart sneers scornfully, “Who the hell cares? I’d rather be unemployed for the rest of my life than work in a blasted call center. It is just beneath me.”

Mika clears his throat, then continues in a tone that is authoritative and borderline sexy, “Look, Stuart, I’m really sorry that you lost your job, but when you hit a rough patch, you can either choose to be humiliated, or you can choose to learn humility. Perhaps working at a call center would do you some good. You could use a little humility.”

Suddenly, my mom begins flapping and thrashing about in her chair. “Ackh, Kak, Kakh!”

I leap to my feet. “Mom, are you okay?”

“Achk! Kakh!” she hacks and sputters.

A gasp escapes the table as she continues to choke to death, right before our very eyes.

At once, I clap her hard on her back and a cranberry comes flying out of her mouth. It ricochets across the table, clunks onto the white china and spins like a dreidel.

Everyone stops and stares.

A lowly cranberry has never looked so mesmerizing.

“I-I’m fine,” my mom stammers and drains her glass of wine.

It pretty much goes downhill from there.

No one says a word for the rest of the meal; but there are plenty of pinched eyes, pained expressions and tightened lips.

And I know Aunt Benedicta is simply livid with me after my terse exchange with her Quasimodo husband. But try as she might to make a scowling Medusa face, she just looks...surprised.

Constance has her usual hateful smirk pasted on her panda bear face and Uncle Stuart’s Kim Chee expression remains unchanged. He is back to being a pickled cabbage, sulking with his pudgy arms crossed over his barrel chest, glaring at me with his crazy eyes.

How cute! My cross-eyed and cross-armed uncle.

Now all he needs to do is cross his legs and Voilà! He’ll have the whole look complete.

I blow out an explosive sigh and catch Mika’s eye.

He smiles broadly. Holding my gaze, he shoots me a look that says, ‘You go girl!’

I smile back at my comrade. “Mika, could you please pass me the gravy?”

“Of course,” he says evenly.

I reach for the gravy dish and our fingers lightly graze.

We exchange a lingering look, one that seems loaded with potential meaning. And for the rest of the meal, his eyes never leave mine. Sparks seem to be shooting in all directions, and I am no longer aware of my Quasi relatives. I am no longer aware of anyone but the two of us.





Half an hour later, I’m standing on the front lawn, watching Aunt Benedicta and her crazy clan drive off into the stark night.

My mom takes me by surprise when she says, “Sorry honey, I’m taking off too. I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘k love?”

I blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Kirk works in the ER and his shift ends at midnight.”

“Kirk? Mom, what happened to Vincent?”

“Oh, you were right,” she says with a tinkling laugh. “I am never dating an Ob-Gyn again.”

I stare after her open-mouthed as she slides into her Audi.

“See you kids tomorrow,” she hollers out the window. Then she toots the horn twice and zooms off.

Mika elbows me playfully. “Well that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I guess it could’ve been a lot worse. And by the way, thanks for standing up to Quasimodo. That took some kahunas.”

He shrugs it off. “Stuart sure is an interesting guy.” After a stretch of silence, he says, “So...what do you want to do now?”

Laughing somewhat deliriously, I manage, “Are you kidding me? After all that drama, I want to do nothing.”

“We can do nothing.” He clears his throat. “We’re all alone now in this big, empty house.”

“Want to go hang out in my room?” I hear myself saying.

Our eyes lock and I smile at him with the timeless mystery of a Venetian courtesan. A cortigiana onesta. At least that’s what I’m going for. For all I know, I probably exude the persona of a pariah dog in heat.

A faint smile passes over his face. “Sure,” he acquiesces.





I’m lying on my bed, pushed up on one elbow, watching Mika flip through my high school yearbook. My yearbook is scribbled with soppy sayings like: May your life be arithmetic. Joys added, Sorrows subtracted, Friends multiplied, Love undivided.

And I distinctly recall the naughty line that Garrett Jennsen penned in. Garrett is now a professional skateboarder, and I had the biggest crush on him my senior year. This is what he scrawled between the cracks of my yearbook, now riddled with a thousand creases: Cows moo, ducks quack, but I am the first to sign your crack.

Mika jerks his head up. “Who’s Garrett Jensen?” he asks in a sort of proprietorial tone.

“No one special,” I say simply.

“Humph,” he grunts and flips the page.

I cringe when he finds my picture.

Oh God. I look like the chief of the Nerd Herd.

Like most high school yearbooks, there’s a designated spot for departing seniors to endow underclassmen with random nuggets of wisdom.

Mika reads the caption beneath my picture, “High school is like a lollipop; it sucks until it is gone.”

Smiling knowingly, he leafs through the pages. He stops when he arrives at the ‘Most Likely To’ page. I bury my head in my pillow. Oh no. He’s about to come across my embarrassing nomination. Peeking through my fingers, I quietly observe him.

His eyes skim the page, and they suddenly light up. He reads my blurb out loud, “Madison Lee, aka Word Girl—Most likely to be published.” A slow grin breaks over his face. “You were Word Girl?”

I burn with shame. “I know, doesn’t that spell geek all over? I’ll never live that one down.”

“I think it’s cute,” he says. “Okay, Word Girl, I have a question for you.”

I sit up straight. “Shoot.”

“Who versus whom? I’m never sure which word to use.”

I twist my lips. “Well, that’s a bit of a tricky one, since they’re both pronouns, but—”

“Well is it who do you love or whom do you love?”

“The Rolling Stones and Bo Diddley got it wrong. This may come as a surprise, but it’s whom do you love.”

He sidles closer until we’re just inches apart. Gazing into my eyes, he draws an imaginary line over my nose, traces my lips and looks at me as though memorizing my every feature. Touching his forehead to mine, he says in a low and intimate voice, “You.”

You...just one simple word, yet the tenderness in his voice is so overwhelming that I’m moved by his utter conviction.

Before I can react, he threads his fingers through my hair and pulls me into a warm and sensuous kiss.

Mmmm. Mika is such a good kisser. His lips are soft yet firm, and he varies the intensity and pressure…hungrily then gently, passionately then sweetly.

Somehow, some way, we manage to grope our way across my bed and slide under the cold sheets. He dips his head and seeks my lips, but I find myself yawning appallingly—long, drawn out yawns. Gosh. This is so embarrassing. As widespread lore has it, something in turkey induces sleepiness, and thanks to the hefty portions of bird I gobbled up at dinner time, my eyelids feel so heavy…

Exhaustion washes over and claims me.

I’m in the midst of another heavy yawn when Mika smiles and strokes my hair. “It’s okay…let’s just rest,” he says lovingly and drops a kiss on my forehead.

Lazily, I rest in the crook of his arm, snuggled under his chin. And for a long while I do not move, reveling in the joy of being close to him.

While the weather outside is soupy, we lie in my twin sized bed, our arms and limbs entwined. I listen to his deep and even breathing, feeling incredibly sated and content. Drowsy with love and drowsy with food, I succumb to a deep and delicious sleep.