Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Four





“Hurricane Katrina has struck again!” Karsynn surveys the pile of clothes strewn across her room.

My suitcase is empty but my stuff is everywhere and the room is in utter chaos. To be honest, Karsynn’s room was pretty much a pigsty even before I moved in, but I did sort of take it to a new level today.

Looking helplessly around, I cry, “I have nothing to wear.”

Karsynn seizes me by the shoulders. “Look, it’s just work—at a call center, remember? We don’t have to dress up since we don’t meet any clients. Plus, my mom says some lady comes into work dressed in her pajamas for Christ’s sake. So your skinny jeans and grandma top are fine.”

“Grandma?” I glance down at my blousy, ethereal Leifsdottir top; it’s laced with ruffles, gathered with ruching, and stitched with tiny, iridescent rosettes. “This is vintage inspired,” I cry in an injured voice.

“Po-tay-toh, Po-tah-toe,” she tuts. “You say vintage, I say granny.”

Eyeing Karsynn’s camouflaged pants, red bandana and mossy green top, I bite my tongue and let that comment slide. I am not taking fashion advice from someone who dresses like Rambo—First Blood Rambo, not the new Rambo.

I change the subject. “This isn’t about work, it’s about Mika. Remember? Before I left work on Friday, he said he needed to talk to me about something. Privately. So we’re meeting for lunch in the cafeteria today.”

Karsynn looks askance. “You mean I’m not invited? Not even Ingeborg?”

“Nope.” I grin stupidly.

She strikes a thoughtful pose. “Hmm. I wonder what he wants to talk to you about.”

“I’ve been wondering that myself all weekend,” I say offhandedly, trying to still my fluttering emotions.

Kars eyes me suspiciously. “You’re hoping he’s got the hots for you, eh?”

“Me? No! Yes! Oh I don’t know.” My voice falters.

“I know you’ve got the hawts for him,” she snickers and falls head-first into a pile of clothes.

“I do, but he’s going out with Ingeborg. And I love Ingeborg. I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Plus, it’s strictly platonic between me and Mika.”

“Platonic, Plutonic. Po-tay-toh, Po-tah-toe.” Kars rolls her eyes. “It’s all semantics to me.”

Studiously ignoring her, I reach for a black scrunchie, and in two swift motions, my hair is up in a neat ponytail.

“Jesus-Mary-Mother-of-Joseph, take the hideous thing off right now,” she orders fiercely. “Scrunchies are so nineties! You’ve got gorgeous, glossy hair. I’d sell my firstborn to have hair like yours; plus if you leave it down for a change, Belgium boy may notice.”

“Whatever,” I say dismissively. But I do take off the scrunchie and run a brush through my hair a couple of times.

Kars swings her feet out of bed and paces the floor. Scanning our checklist, she says, “You got your cinnamon scented candle?”

I peer inside my bag. “One cinnamon scented candle—check!”

“Photos?”

“Got ‘em!” I hold up my favorite snapshots.

Our cubicles will be our home away from home, so we plan on decorating and personalizing our cardboard partitions.

Kars taps a large box. “One basil garden—check!”

My eyes widen. “You’re bringing your Aerogarden to work?”

The Aerogarden is a hydroponic device that uses some sort of NASA space age technology. Well, at least that’s what Karsynn tells me.

She hoists the large box into her arms. “Yeah, why not? I love the smell of basil. Plus, it’ll help me snag a man.”

I stare at Kars, bemused.

She pads to the door. “Oh yeah, didn’t you know? In Italy, sweet basil is thought to attract husbands to their wives.”

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “We’re in Idaho—not Italy.”

“There could be Italian men working there,” she quips airily.

Shaking my head, I prop the door open. “After you.”

Kars and her indoor garden trot out.

“Is that everything?”

Her head pops out of the burgeoning greenery. “Yes ma’am.”

“Let’s boogie!” I slam the door shut behind me.





As soon as Kars and I troop into work, we spy Hillary the Not Ready Nazi at her desk, sitting ramrod straight with her back to us. We take this opportunity to check out our new boss.

Hillary is staring at her monitor, and appears to be reviewing an excel spreadsheet of some sort.

Abruptly, she attacks her keyboard with brute force, pounding it into oblivion. TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!

I stiffen. She looks so intimidating, and already my fear for her is all consuming. Kars and I remain firmly glued to the spot, transfixed by her muscular fingers that are hammering away at the keys.

My gaze shifts to the Madonna biceps that decorate her arms.

Gulps. I’m pretty sure she pumps iron.

Sensing our presence, Hillary swivels round.

My heart stops and my eyes widen in horror. Egad! She is a grisly ogre living amongst us. I find myself blatantly staring at her hatchet nose. It looks like a nose job gone wrong, almost like it’s collapsing inwards.

She’s even got a slight moustache.

Or as they call it these days—a nose neighbor, a crumb catcher, a trash stash, or a tea strainer.

With an expression of mild petulance, Hillary raises a tufted unibrow that’s mushrooming out of control. “And you are?”

“Um, I’m Maddy,” I manage feebly.

“And I’m Karsynn, reporting for duty,” she pipes in chirpily.

“And we’re on your team,” we say in unison. Then we eye each other, struggling to keep a straight face.

Hillary doesn’t look the least bit amused. She rises ceremoniously to her feet. Fully erect, she towers over us. Oh God. She must be over eight feet tall.

Kars and I cower in the corner as the giant looms over us.

Hillary immediately fires out her commands, “Make sure you come into work at least fifteen minutes early so you have time to boot up your computer and log in to all of your apps. I expect you to be on the phones taking calls at twelve sharp! That is when your shift starts and that is precisely when I expect you take calls! And I expect you to be ready to take calls at ALL times, so don’t even think of touching the Not Ready key,” she says acidly. “And I expect you to obey my orders, so don’t even think of questioning me. If I say ‘Jump’, you say ‘How High!’ ”

Each time Hillary spits the word ‘expect,’ her saliva sprays onto our cheeks. Gosh. Her mouth is an industrial humidifier, vaporizing the air around us. I need some Vicks Vapor-rub.

“Understood?” she roars, striking fear into our hearts.

We bob our heads up and down.

Her lips curl into a sadistic smile and I quickly plaster a smile on my face, stretching it as tightly as a bungee cord that’s about ready to snap.

Hillary’s nostrils flare with annoyance. “You are dismissed!” She swivels back to face her monitor.

Kars and I exchange a look of alarm, wearing identical raised eyebrows. After collecting ourselves, we slink back to our cells.

Jeez. We haven’t even started our shifts, and already she’s made us feel like convicted felons facing death row.

Ingeborg, already seated in Cell Block D, waves at us and demurely slides on her headset. On anyone else, it looks like a plain metal band. On Ingeborg, it sparkles and shimmers like a diamond encrusted tiara. But tiara or not, once that headset is on, you’re chained to your desk.

“What’s her problem?” mutters Kars. “Heck, it’s not even noon yet. We’ve got five minutes before we have to start taking calls.”

“Well, I guess we better hurry then,” I say, scrambling over to Cell Block A. Hurriedly, I chuck my bag onto the desk and fire up my computer. But I soon realize that ‘fire up’ is the wrong word.

I grit my teeth as my computer chugs and spits at a leisurely pace. By the time I’m logged in, I can already hear Ingeborg taking her first call.

“Thank you for calling Lightning Zpeed Communications, my name iz Ingeborg, vot can I help you vit today?” she twitters like a canary.

I love Ingeborg’s accent! It puts a smile on my face.

Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi stands up from her watch post and fixes her steely gray eyes on me. She raises her tufted unibrow, making her meaning quite clear.

Humph. I wasn’t aware that this is a no-smile zone.

Hillary the Giant’s height gives her the added advantage of enabling her to spy over us. Hmm. I wonder why she’s so mean. Maybe kids used to pick on her and call her names like Andre the Giant, The Jolly Green Giant and Tall Chief.

Poor Hillary. I’ll try to be nice to her.

Instantly, I wipe the smile off my face and load up my apps. I plunk the cinnamon scented candle on my desk and stick a sepia-toned photograph on my cubicle wall. It’s a picture of me and my dad, taken on a muggy July afternoon at the Navy Pier. His hair is tousled from the wind and his eyes are crinkled from squinting at the afternoon sun. I vividly remember all the details of that summery day. We sat on a weathered bench by the pier, and he held my little hand in his big hand. Together, we feasted on our Häagen-Daz waffle cones and my dad was smiling at the camera with an ice-cream moustache.

My dad passed away from lung cancer eight years ago.

Losing him was devastating. I lost my dad and my best friend all in one day. He’s the realest thing I’ve ever had, and he left the biggest gap in my life when he left.

I gaze at the photograph with affection, smiling back at him. Taking a deep breath, I slide on my headset.

Okay, now I’m ready to take a call.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, how can I help?

“Because your F*ckING lines are down, it has cost my business over FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS IN F*ckING DAMAGES!” blasts the caller.

Sheesh, someone has a potty mouth.

“Sir, I apologize for any inconvenience and I’ll be glad to look into this matter for you. But could you kindly refrain from using such foul language with me,” I say all primly and properly.

“FIX MY F*ckIN PROBLEM FIRST AND THEN WE’LL SEE YOUNG LADY!”

“Oh-kay sir,” I say in a constricted voice. “First off, let me ask you a few questions to authenticate you.”

The verification process is excruciatingly painful as he is less than cooperative; it’s literally like getting a root canal without anesthesia.

By some miraculous fluke, I manage to get him authenticated.

“Sir, do you mind if I place you on hold for a few minutes while I do some research?”

“YES! I DO F*ckIN MIND BEING ON HOLD. BUT GO THE F*ck AHEAD! YOU F*ckIN IGNORAMUS NIMROD.”

Welcome to the world of Customer Service.

Now that the A-hole is on hold, I check the intranet site to see if there are any known issues.

I scroll down the list and Bingo!

There is an outage in Arizona, due to severe thunderstorms late last night that damaged some of our OC3 lines.

And that happens to be where this moron is calling from.

Next, I check his account details. Hmm, I notice he’s on our Consumer Package. Uh-oh, this does not bode well for him.

With the Consumer Package, we do not guarantee coverage twenty-four/seven. We only guarantee coverage at all times for Business Packages because business clients are designated special lines that aren’t affected by bad weather.

Well, not quite as much.

And since this caller is calling about a business account, he should technically be on the Business Package.

Exhaling sharply, I brace myself and hop back on the phone with the tyrant. “Thanks for holding sir. I’m so sorry but we have a known issue in Arizona, where the lines are in fact down. Our technicians are working hard to fix it,” I say reassuringly.

He goes ballistic. “I NEED THIS FIXED NOW! WHY AM I PAYING FOR SOMETHING THAT I CAN’T EVEN F*ckIN’ USE?”

“Um, actually sir, you’re on the Consumer Package and you’re paying...” I rifle through my stack of papers and locate the page that lists all the fees. “Let’s see here, Consumer Package—you’re paying $24.95 per month. Now if you run a business, then you’re supposed to be on the Business Package which costs $249.99 per month,” I inform him in a brisk and professional tone.

“WHY THE F*ck WOULD I PAY $250 WHEN I CAN GET IT FOR $25 A MONTH?” he snarls mockingly. “GO ON, TELL ME BITCH! WHY DON’T-CHA F*ckIN ENLIGHTEN ME?”

“Well, sir,” I say ever so sweetly. “If you had been on the Business Package, your DSL service would be up and running right now; and it would have saved you (drum roll please and a pause for effect) FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS.”

Heated pause. I can hear him fuming on the line.

“F*ck YOUUUUUU!” Click

He hung up. Well good riddance! Didn’t his momma ever teach him good manners?

If his tone was marked by gentility rather than hostility, my empathy for him would have been unequivocal. I’m always on the customer’s side, and to be quite frank, his frustrations weren’t without merit. But since his modus operandi was to attack me, I operated thusly in defense mode. ‘Tis the nature of the game.

Before I know it, my phone goes Beep!

Here I go again. “Thanks for calling Lightning Speed...”

Call after call after call comes through and thankfully none of them are as bad as the first one. After taking about fifty calls in a row, it’s 2 p.m. and I’m scheduled for a fifteen minute break. Apparently, there’s some labor law requiring call centers to grant fifteen minute breaks to their workers every two hours.

Uncle Sam did get something right.



This is what my schedule looks like:



12–2 p.m.: On the phones

2–2:15 p.m.: Break (Hells Yeah!)

2:15–4:15 p.m.: On the phones (Moan)

4:15–4:45 p.m.: Lunch (cue Harlem Gospel choir belting out Hallelujah chorus)

4:45–6:45 p.m.: On the phones (Groan)

6:45–7 p.m.: Break (cue choir of Angels singing Glory, Glory, Glory to God)

7–8:30 p.m.: On the phones (pop two Tylenol pills)



In a haste, I log off my phone, pop a Tylenol pill and saunter to Karsynn’s cubicle. Ingeborg skips over to join us, and then the three of us sashay to the Ladies room.

Together.

I don’t know what it is about us girls, but it’s like some sort of strange, unspoken ritual, necessitating us to tend to nature’s call together.

I walk into a stall and use my elbow to shut the door behind me. Being the germ freak that I am, I tear off some toilet paper and mummify my hand so my fingers don’t touch the handle or the lock. Next, I tear off more toilet paper and strategically place it on the toilet seat before carefully setting my bum down.

Karsynn, the self-proclaimed space craft, is already hovering over her toilet. I know this for a fact because she’s hovering so high that it sounds like rain drops hitting the pavement.

Since I barely know Ingeborg, I haven’t the slightest idea what her toilet technique is.

“So how did your calls go?” Karsynn talks over the sound of her raining pee.

“Mine started off real bad, but then it got better.” I raise my voice so as to be heard over the toilets flushing around me.

Kars cries huffily, “Well mine sucked big time!”

“Ugh!” I moan peevishly. “Don’t you just hate these motion-sensored toilets?”

Suddenly, without warning or provocation, my toilet flushes.

I leap into the air like my bum’s caught on fire. “Hey! I wasn’t done yet!” I glare at my toilet reprovingly.

Oh! The nerve of it! Now I’m paranoid that some nasty toilet water has sprayed up my bum. Mental note to myself: bring baby wipes next time.

After taking care of business, I amble out of my stall and join Ingeborg and Karsynn at the sink.

Karsynn frets, “I wanted to go into Not Ready, but Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi was watching me.”

Ingeborg giggles. “I know, she vas vatching me too.”

“I’d be careful if I were you,” warns Kars. “I’m pretty sure she wants a piece of you.”

Ingeborg shrugs, wide-eyed with innocence. Turning to me, she asks, “Vas ze Giant Not Ready Nazi vatching you too?”

“Like a hawk,” I groan with displeasure. Then it all of a sudden occurs to me, “Um, I think we should refrain from calling her the Giant Not Ready Nazi. I mean, it’s a little too obvious, don’tcha think?”

“Ya think?” Karsynn raises a sardonic brow.

“Seriously, if she catches on, our heads could be on the chopping block.”

Kars nods. “Right. We need to be covert. Let’s come up with a code name for her.”

“How about Ze Führer?” suggests Ingeborg.

“I like that,” I say.

“Me too,” echoes Kars. “Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi is hereby dubbed The Führer!”

Satisfied with her code name, I’m about to wash my hands at the sink only to discover that the faucets are also motion-sensored.

Grrrrr, this is so frustrating.

I wave my hands under the faucets and nothing happens.

After several attempts of frantic waving, the water gushes out for two seconds and then shuts off. I reach for the soap and guess what? The soap dispensers are also motion-activated.

What a fiasco! Giving my hands a proper wash is turning out to be a painful and time consuming ordeal.

After spending five minutes doing a Hokey Pokey dance with the uncooperative faucets, we finally leave the restroom. I glance at my watch. Crapola. There’s only four more minutes left on my break.

Some break.

Happily, we spot Mika at the water cooler.

“Mi-ka!” we call out to our brother.

He turns at our exclamation and Ingeborg trips prettily to his side. “Hey.” He smiles at his Bulgarian beauty; she beams at him beatifically. After that adorable exchange, he turns his attention to the American rejects.

“How’s the new job go-ing?” taunts Kars.

“It’s go-ing,” he replies with a half-smile.

“Oh! Be right back!” I sprint to my cubicle. Hurriedly, I grab my water bottle and dash back.

Time is of essence.

When I arrive at the water cooler, Karsynn and Ingeborg are noticeably absent. Mika is the last man standing.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Ingeborg went to check out Karsynn’s Aerogarden. She, um, loves to cook with basil.”

“Oh.” I fill up my BPA-free bottle with some Mount Olympus spring water.

He clears his throat. “So...don’t forget to meet me for lunch at the cafeteria.”

“I’ll be there,” I say without meeting his eyes.

Glancing at my watch, I gasp in horror. I have to be back on the phone in T-minus ten seconds. “Later!” I abandon him with a toss of my head and scurry back to my cell.





The cafeteria is packed, but I spot Mika instantly; he’s seated at a table, sipping on a Coke. Regular, not diet—my kind of guy.

Our eyes meet across the room and his face breaks into a grin.

Smiling back at him, I approach his table.

I’m surprised to see that he has one plate of food for himself and one for me.

“Hi,” I say coolly, when I’m within earshot.

“Hi,” he says, equally coolly. “I got you some food. It’s chicken fajitas with a side of guacamole, and I thought it’s something you might like. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it, all right?”

“No. This is great,” I insist. “I love Mexican food. Thanks.”

After taking a seat, I lift my plastic fork and throw caution to the wind. “So what do you want to ask me?”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “It’s sort of a favor.”

“What favor?” I probe.

After a hesitant pause, he says, “I’d like you to be my tutor.”

I sit in a stunned stupor. “Your tutor?” I say, trying hard to conceal my disappointment.

“Yes,” he affirms and ventures, “I’m struggling with my ESL class. I’ve failed it twice already and I’m retaking it for the third time this semester.”

“ESL, um...what’s that?”

“English as a second language. It’s a prerequisite course for all international students at the U,” he explains. “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll understand,” he quickly adds.

“No, it’s not that,” I protest. “I’m just a bit surprised. You speak very good English.”

“Well, the ESL class focuses on grammar, sentence structure, that sort of thing…and I’m not very good at all that.”

I make a non-committal hmmm sound, fork a mouthful of guacamole, and allow my eyes to dwell on him while I mull it over.

Admittedly, I’m a bit crushed that he only wants me to tutor him. And since I secretly admire Mister Forbidden Fruit, I really shouldn’t be spending more time with him.

On the flip side, we’re strictly friends and he’s such a nice guy that I can’t possibly say no. Can I?

Mika watches me intently.

“What if I said no?” I ask with a delicate lift of my brow.

“No?” he says with a pained expression.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” Sheesh, I cave in way too easily.

A smile spreads across his face. “Really?”

“Yes. But I’ll have you know up front that I have absolutely zero teaching experience.”

He brushes off my concerns. “If I didn’t think you’d be a good teacher, I wouldn’t have asked you.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, but…” I falter and bite my lip. “I’ll figure something out.”

And so we arrange to meet every Saturday at the university library for some ‘tutoring’ sessions.

Over our lunch, we talk about random things and I learn that Mika is a US citizen.

While vacationing in New York, his mom went into labor six weeks prematurely; and thus, he has dual citizenship.

I bite into my fajita. “Dual citizenship? Ahh, now it all makes sense to me. I’ve always wondered if you were working here illegally.”

“If they deport me back to Belgium, there’ll be one less person to work the potato farms,” he says in all seriousness.

I give a little laugh. “Do you want to hear a potato joke?”

“Of course, how can I refuse?”

“It’s pretty dumb, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I bite back a smile. “Okay, here goes. Why did the potato go to the beach?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Why?”

“It wanted to get baked!”

He rewards me with a smile. “I’ve got one too. What does a British potato say when it thinks something is fantastic?”

I take a stab at it. “It’s smashing?”

“Close. It’s mashing,” he corrects and we crack up.

Spuds rule! Although I’d never tell a potato joke to a native Idahoan for fear of being potato jacked.

Twenty-five minutes go by really fast. When we notice the time, we scarf down the rest of our lard laden Mexican meals and scurry into a lift that obediently pings open.

Perfect timing.

It zips up to the third floor, the door slides open and we step out. I’m just about to round a corner when Mika taps me lightly on my arm.

At once, I feel goose bumps rise.

He gazes steadily into my eyes. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. I forgot to say thank you.”

“Sure, no problem,” I mutter.

He turns and starts for his cubicle. Abruptly, he stops and does a double take. “You look a little different today.”

I toss my hair this way and that way, as if I were starring in a Garnier Fructis commercial.

Mika continues staring at me, and a slow grin breaks over his face. “You’re wearing your hair down. It looks…nice.”

My cheeks feel hot and I’m positive they’re crimson.

I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and stare after Mika as he strides off.

Ahh. I’m floating on cloud nine.

A gigantic, poufy cloud shaped like a big, fat, Idaho Russet Potato.

Ping! Sounds the lift and my cloud disperses.

The doors swish open. Kars and Ingeborg spill out of the lift and galumph toward me.

“Where’d you guys go?” I ask.

“We went out back by the duck pond for a fag break,” Kars wheezes, looking out of breath.

I shoot her an incredulous look. “But you don’t smoke.”

Kars gives a culpable shrug. “Well Ingeborg smokes and I just started. My mom says all the supervisors, managers and team-leads smoke. So it’s a good way for me to do some networking. You know, instead of golfing, I’m smoking to build up my contacts.”

I blink, completely perplexed by this.

Kars rests one hand on my shoulder. “Look,” she says, very Obama-like, “It’s my plan to get off the bleepin’ phones. Everyone in upper management smokes; if I want to become a supervisor or team-lead someday so I can get off the phones, what better way than to light up with the worst of them?”

I shake my head in disbelief. “So you’re smoking in order to climb the corporate ladder?”

“Exactly!” says Kars, seemingly proud of herself. “Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

I am astounded by her convoluted logic and I am so tempted to smack her silly head. “Kars, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Smoking to get a promotion?”

“Hey, it sure beats sleeping my way to the top,” she quips.

“Um, ever heard of this thing called hard work?” I ask with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Doesn’t work,” she scoffs. “Just ask my mom. She’s a diligent worker—been that way her entire life, and she’s still stuck on the phones.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ingeborg glancing at her watch every two seconds. I ask the dreaded question. “Is it time Ingeborg? To get back on the phones?”

She fervently nods her head.

We split up and scamper back to our respective Hell Holes.





Hours later, it’s finally time to leave.

I am dog tired, so past the point of exhaustion that I can barely speak. I am so drained by the rigors of this job that my whole body aches. Gosh. It feels as if I’ve been doing construction work all day, like my body has been flung on the freeway, and run over a hundred times. By Hummers.

Listlessly, I grab my things and drag my feet up. I’m about to bolt when I see Hillary marching to my desk.

Frozen to the spot, I watch her advance on me with a mixture of suspicion and apprehension.

She stops in front of me and crosses her gorilla arms. “Do you want to work overtime?” she demands huffily. “Service levels are atrocious and we need people to stay back and help out.”

I blink.

Err...does an inmate wish to lengthen her prison sentence?

Smiling kindly at her, I shake my head determinedly and decline the offer. Thanks but no thanks.