Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Six





Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed. This is Maddy, how can I help?” I ask on autopilot.

And then the strangest thing happens. The customer actually starts spelling.

“M-y n-a-m-e i-s B-e-n W-r-i-g-h-t,” he spells. Spells!!!

W-T-F ?!?

“I w-a-n-t t-o s-p-e-a-k t-o t-h-e C-E-O,” he orders, and yes, he is still spelling.

Yeah, they all want to speak to our CEO, Siegfried Miles, like Siegfried sits around all day twiddling his thumbs, just waiting to speak to fuming customers. Siegfried has a company to run for Pete’s sake.

I give the speller the standard spiel. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wright, our CEO is unavailable to take calls, but you can write a letter and mail it to his office if you’d like.”

Not surprisingly, the speller doesn’t take this kindly.

He flips out and starts spelling again, this time an octave higher. “N-O! N-O! N-O!”

Oh my God. This guy is such a hoot!

Oddly enough, all this spelling is infectious.

On impulse, I start spelling myself, “Y-E-S Y-E-S Y-E-S.”

“M-A-N-A-G-E-R!” he yells and spells.

Uh oh, I guess he isn’t amused.

“O-K,” I say politely, not wanting to antagonize him further.

Drats! That’s too bad. I was enjoying the call and I wanted to spell some more with Mr. Wright. We were just about to get into a spelling spar and he had to go and end it.

What a buzzkill.

Oh well, hopefully I’ll get him next time. He sure broke up the monotony of my calls. How refreshing! A speller!

Time to go get The Führer.

I stride over to her cubicle and stand there until she notices me. It doesn’t take long.

“Yessssssssss?” she hisses.

“Um, I have a caller who wants to speak to a manager. And he’s very upset.”

Hillary shoots me a terse look. “For future reference, I would prefer that you phrase it like this: I have an escalation, and the caller is irate,” she snaps. “You work at a call center and I expect you to speak call center lingo!”

I stare at her, unblinking. She’s obviously barking mad.

“So tell me, what’s going on now?” Hillary’s voice is laced with irritation. “Why is the caller irate?”

I’m quite taken by the Spelling Bee, and I find myself feeling slightly protective over him. “Well, he’s actually really nice. But I think he may have some sort of speech impediment. So...um, he spells.” I cast a lopsided grin.

The Führer says nothing.

And so I carry on explaining, “At first, he wanted to speak to the CEO. I gave him the standard spiel, but he didn’t like it and spelled for a manager.”

She gnashes her teeth. “Transfer him to me. Extension 4444.”

My poor little Spelling Bee. Little does he realize what he is in for. The Führer will chew him up and spit him out like the tobacco she chews.

Sigh. He should have just stuck with me. We could’ve gone places. I just know that we could’ve formed a meaningful kinship and spelled the night away.

Reluctantly, I release the Hold button and conference the call.

“Mr. Wright, thank you for holding. I have Hillary on the line now. She’s my supervisor and she’ll be assisting you from here,” I say with a deep sadness in my voice, and drop off the line.

Bye-bye my little Spelling Bee.

Be safe, keep on spelling and buzz, buzz away.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy, how can I assist?”

“Hello, I’m just calling for shits and giggles. I’ve got a complex question for you, since you’re supposedly a tech whiz.”

“That I am not, but go ahead, what is your complex question sir?”

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

I consider this briefly and pose this question to Mr. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Well sir, if you did not have sexual intercourse with your wife and she’s pregnant, did she have an extramarital affair or is she just the Virgin Mary?”

Click!





We’re in Janis’ basement and as usual, Karsynn and I are glued to the tube, watching the MTV Movie awards with a mixture of titillation and boredom.

I know. We live pretty sad, pathetic lives.

In my defense, Zac Efron is at the awards show, so really, that should explain everything.

Jon Hamm struts on stage to present the next award.

Karsynn swoons. “He is simply bootylicious.”

“Quit talking like Beyonce. By the way bootylicious and booh-tay are not real words.”

Karsynn blanches. “For your info, Beyonce is now known as Sasha Fierce. She can sing, act and dance. That sista is a triple threat! And by the way,” she adds. “Booty is a real word, it’s in the dictionary.”

“Which one?” I challenge.

“The urban dictionary,” she states matter-of-factly.

“The urban dictionary doesn’t count,” I counter. “You can’t use it in Scrabble.”

“Hah! But I’m pretty sure that in Webster’s dictionary, booty means pirate treasure or prize. So it is a real word,” says Kars triumphantly. Then out of nowhere, she lets one rip.

It is mammoth!

Unlike her usual Mount Saint Helen eruptions, this one is a Krakatoan explosion. In fact, it is so massive that the aftershock tremors resonate through the lumpy sofa cushions.

“Your farts stink!” I choke through the fume of flatulence. “It smells like something crawled up your ass and died.”

She looks at me with an expression that says she’s inordinately pleased with herself. “What? Yours don’t stink?”

“Nope! Mine’s all air and packs no punch. But yours, yours are silent killers.” I shudder. “And I even felt it,” I add, cringing with disgust.

KAPOW! She swats me with a pillow. “Feel this!”

“OW!” I squawk, half laughing. “You really outdid yourself this time; that one tipped the Richter scale. It was a magnitude of 20.0.”

While I’m no stranger to breaking wind, Kars actually trumps me in this sport. We’re in such a comfort zone that whenever I let one loose, Kars will let one rip and announce smugly, “Mine was better.” I’m always happy to concede.

But tonight’s fart episode has got me thinking…maybe we’re getting a little too close for comfort. Maybe we need some space.

Maybe it’s time I move out.

Janis and Kars have been nothing but kind and generous, giving me shelter and feeding me for two months. They’ve offered me unlimited hospitality, making it very clear that I can stay for as long as I want. And the last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome.

“Kars,” I say in all-seriousness. “I think it’s time. Time for me to get a place of my own.”

Her face contorts. “You want to move out?”

I nibble my lips. “Umm-hmm.”

Karsynn looks crestfallen. But her state of distress is short lived. “I have an idea!” Her face lights up. “Why don’t we move out together and get a two bedroom apartment?”

I pause to allow myself to digest this. Now why didn’t I think of that? I’ll have my own place, I’ll still have my best friend and I’ll save on rent money.

“Sure, why not?” I hear myself saying.

“Yes! My mom will be so glad to be finally rid of me.”

I fervently shake my head. “Are you kidding me? Kars, your mom will miss you like crazy.”

Honestly, Janis and Kars are joined at the hip, and I envy the strong bond they share. When Kars breaks the news to Janis, I just know she’ll be sad to see her baby go.

Hmm, I wonder if my mom even misses me.

I doubt it. She’s far too busy with work to even notice I’m gone. My mom is an OBGYN. And if you scramble the letters and use a little imagination, OBGYN sort of resembles G’BYE.

As a kid, that’s exactly what I called her—the G’BYE doctor; and quite aptly so as she was always bidding me adieu, rushing off to help deliver some stranger’s baby.

After we lost my dad, things got worse. My mom completely checked out. I never saw her. I felt alone, I felt raw, I felt angry, and I would’ve surely gone off the deep end had it not been for my dad’s parting words. He said, “Maddy my love… always stay drunk on writing.”

Whenever I felt down, whenever I missed him, whenever I felt upset, whenever I felt alone, he told me to pick up a pen and just start writing. Anything. My feelings, my dreams, my hopes, my stories. And so I wrote and wrote to blot out the tears, to blot out the hurt, to blot out the pain, to blot out the world.

I wrote until my fingers blistered and bled. Eventually, they hardened and calloused. But it was cathartic, helping me heal in more ways than one. And it solidified my aspirations of becoming a writer.

Just like my dad.

But things don’t always go as planned. Sometimes life throws you curve balls, and you either learn to swerve them, or hit them like there’s no tomorrow.

At this point in my life, I’m just swerving.

I breathe out a heavy sigh. Resigning myself, I pick up my cell and call my mom. It’s been over two months since I’ve left home, yet it never occurred to me to call her sooner.

One summer, I went away to Young Writers Camp.

Oh I know. I was a nerd with a capital N, and that camp was nerd proof.

When I arrived home, my mom was oblivious to the fact that I had been gone for an entire month; the whole time I was away at nerd camp, she assumed that school was still in session and that she just happened to miss me at home. For a month. Go figure.

It’s not like her head was in the clouds or anything like that; she was simply married to her job. While her practice flourished, our relationship wilted.

The only time we spent together was in her Audi, since she chauffeured me to school every morning. During those brief moments, I could chat with her, tell her about my day, ask her about hers…just be with her.

But all that changed when I turned fourteen. She dragged me to the DMV, signed me up for a hardship license, and that was the end of that.

Our time together—finito. Our relationship—kaput-o.

Although my mom’s still around, I feel like I’ve lost her. It’s as if I’ve lost both my parents. What can I say? I’m an orphan, so to speak. Little orphan Annie.

I press the phone to my ear and after a couple of rings, my mom answers, “Hi, dear!” Before I can get a word in edgewise, she launches off, “Honey, you won’t believe this! I’m dating now, he’s an Ob-Gyn. Vince works at the UC Medical Center and I’ve only been seeing him for a month, but I think he’s prefect and—”

I cut her off. “Wait. Did you just say he’s an Ob-Gyn?” I ask, feeling somewhat disturbed by this. “Mom, please don’t tell me you’re dating a Vagina Doctor.”

“Oh, Madison!” she scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with male Ob-Gyns.”

“Err, yeah there is. Mom, any man who chooses a profession that involves shoving his hand down a woman’s pickachu on a daily basis is seriously a pervo. It’s legalized, medical rape!”

“It’s called a pap smear,” she scolds. “And when was the last time you had one?”

I sigh dramatically. “Mom, I really don’t want some stranger scraping my pikachu.”

“I’ll do it,” she insists. “Make an appointment with my clinic.”

“Mom, stop. Let’s discuss Vince again. What is he like?”

“Ahh, Vince is a wonderful man; a divorcee, no kids. Anyway honey, I’m sorry I’ve missed you at home these past few weeks. I’ve just been so caught up with work—and with Vince of course,” she adds impishly.

See, she doesn’t even realize I’m still in The Valley of Potatoes.

“Mom, I’m still in Idaho visiting Kars, remember? And guess what?” I pause for effect. “I’ve got a job here!”

“Well that’s great news honey,” she trills with pleasure. “At a newspaper?”

I clear my throat. “No. At a call center.”

“Honey, the line is fuzzy. All I got was call something.” Then she emits a tinkling laugh. “Madison, please don’t tell me you’re a call girl. I raised you better than that.”

“Ha-ha mom. Very funny. No. I am not a prostitute. I work at a call center.” After a beat, I add, “As a customer service rep.”

There is an excruciating pause, a silence bordering on awkward. Sheesh! I’m beginning to think she’d be happier if I were a call girl. After all, hookers aren’t reviled as much as call center reps, even though both professions offer the same service.

Oral service. Sorry, but it begged to be said!

Her voice drips with disappointment. “But Madison, why?”

“Well, it’s a job, albeit a thankless one. But a job nonetheless, and I needed one. I was tired of sitting around doing nothing. Plus, it’s not that bad. Really. I’ve even learned a lot,” I gab, trying to remain upbeat and positive for my sake and hers.

She perks up. “So tell me, what have you learned?”

“Patience. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve learned to control my tongue.”

This elicits a sardonic harrumph from her. “What about the people who work there? What are they like?”

I decide to give her what she expects to hear. “Well where I sit, to the left of me is a beached whale. Three rows in front of me is another beached whale. Four cubicles across, you’ll never guess, another beached whale,” I ramble in a monotone.

I’ve actually gotten to know one of these whales. He’s a five hundred pound Samoan, and his nickname happens to be Tiny.

Now don’t get me wrong; having curves or being curvaceous is good thing but there is ‘curvy’ and there is ‘coronary,’ and Tiny is a walking heart attack.

Here lies the shocker—Tiny acquired that name because he is actually the smallest of all his siblings.

Meanwhile, all I can hear is static on the line.

“What did you say again honey?” Her voice crackles.

“Um, nothing...”

A beat. Another beat.

“Well, if you’re sure about that job, then I guess it’s okay,” she says disconcertedly. After a pause, she adds, “Really, there are plenty of other jobs out there you know.”

She’s obviously out of touch with reality. “Mom no, not really. There are no jobs out there. And—”

She cuts me off, “Look sweetie, I must dash! Vincent is taking me to the opera tonight, but you take care of yourself. If you need money, let me know and I’ll wire you some right away. ‘K, love?”

I sigh out loud as she clicks off.

Money will be the last thing I ask of her.