The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

The phone rang.

  Simon Wester yawned and ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair. The air smelled sterile and stale, having been circulated through too many PC fans, and fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His tie felt too tight against his throat, and his chair was making his back hurt.

  The phone rang again.

  Simon groaned, slid his book under the keyboard, and hit the connect button on his phone. “Good afternoon, you’ve reached Marchson Appliances Customer Service. How can I help you?”

  A shrill voice buzzed in his headset. “What?”

  Simon stifled a wince. “This is Marchson Appliances Customer Service. How can I help you?” There was a long pause. “Ma’am?”

  “Is this Customer Service?” The woman sounded angry. “I’ve been trying to get Customer Service all day.”

  Simon glanced over his shoulder at the other service reps in their phone stations. If he strained, he could almost see out the window. “Yes, ma’am, this is Customer Service. How can I help you?”

  “I’ve been on hold all day!”

  Simon scratched his chin and looked at the clock. Thirty-seven minutes until lunch. “Ah…I just picked up your call, ma’am.” He checked the call log on his computer screen. “I think this is the first time you’ve called today.”

  “It isn’t!” said the woman. Simon managed not to sigh. With luck, he could get her off the line before lunch started. “I’ve tried calling five times and was on hold every time! You people are incompetent!”

  A headache flared behind Simon’s eyes. “We’re dedicated to serving customers, ma’am. How can I help you?”

  “I have a problem with my blender,” said the woman.

  Simon opened a ticket on his computer and started typing. “Yes, ma’am. Ah…do you know the model number?”

  The woman sounded suspicious. “It’s a blender. It doesn’t have a model number.”

  “Actually, it does,” said Simon. His headache thrummed. “It should be on the bottom…”

  “Blenders do not have model numbers!” said the woman. “I have a college degree, and I know better than some high-school dropout…”

  Simon’s overstressed temper flared. “I have a BA from Loyola and a Master’s from the University of Constantina. Don’t lecture to me.” His voice rose, and people from nearby cubicles glanced over.

  Not good. Simon forced himself to calm down.

  “Look at the blender,” Simon said. “What does it say?”

  The woman sounded miffed. “It says…a General Electric…”

  Simon smirked. “Sorry, ma’am, you have the wrong company. Try General Electric’s customer service line. Have a pleasant day.” He broke the connection, tried and failed to find a comfortable position in his chair, and looked at the clock. Thirty-five minutes until lunch.

  “Rough one, Wester?”

  Rich, the occupant of the next cubicle, peered over the wall. Balding, overweight, and middle-aged, he unfailingly reminded Simon of a mustached toad.

  “You have no idea,” said Simon. “You have no idea.”

  “You impress her with the Master’s from Constantina?” said Rich, smirking.

  Simon rolled his eyes. “I really impressed her. She was so impressed that she realized her blender was from General Electric, not Marchson.”

  Rich snorted. “I hate those.” He scratched his mustache. “Still, I suppose they taught you how to deal with that in grad school?”

  Simon glared. “Would you just lay off it for once?”

  “Gentlemen!” Mr. Vanderhan lumbered to a stop in front of Simon’s cubicle, glaring over his glasses. His gut bulged against his cheap suit, and as always, he wore his Customer Service Supervisor badge on a lanyard over his tie. “Marchson Appliances is not paying you to snipe at each other. Answer your calls.”

  Rich disappeared into his tiny cubicle.

  Simon nodded and waited until Vanderhan returned to his office. Then he retrieved his book, a copy of the Roman historian Tacitus in the original Latin, and got back to reading. Simon intended to write his own translation one day, when he found a job that gave him time for research. He looked at the clock and sighed. Thirty-one minutes until lunch.

  Simon’s phone rang again. “Good afternoon, you’ve reached Marchson Appliances Customer Service, how can I help you?”

  An enraged female voice drilled into his ears. “I’m suing you bastards!”

  Simon winced. “Ma’am, if you’ll just calm down…”

  “Your toaster set my kitchen on fire!” Simon turned the volume down on his headset. “It burned my curtains and melted a hole in the wall.”

  Simon blinked. “Melted? How did…”

  “I live in a trailer, dumbass.”

  Simon bit back the first response that came to mind. “Thank you for clarifying. Do you know what caused the toaster to start on fire?”

  “How the hell should I know? All I know is that I’m going to sue you people for every dime you’ve got! I’ll get millions, I’m going to go on Judge Judy and put you people out of business. You bastards! I just bought new curtains.”

  Simon’s headache pounded. “Ma’am, how did the toaster start on fire?”

  “You think I’m some sort of electrician? Goddamn it…”

  “Ma’am,” said Simon, his voice hardening. A suspicion grew in his mind. “A Marchson Appliances toaster will only start on fire if someone holds down the lever while something is in the slots. Was someone holding down the lever?”

  “You burned…”

  “Ma’am, did someone hold down the lever?”

  “My son,” said the woman, her voice dripping with acid.

  He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice and failed. “And just what was in the toaster at the time?”

  There was another pause. “A…pair of Barbie dolls.”

  “So,” said Simon. “Your son was holding down the lever while a pair of Barbie dolls were in the slots? Just why do you think the toaster started on fire? But don’t think too hard about it. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

  “Don’t talk back to me!” said the woman. “A toaster shouldn’t start on fire! I’m going to sue you personally!”

  Simon’s temper snapped. “You people are idiots! What did you think was going to happen?” His voice rose to a shout. “Next time, don’t put Barbie dolls in the toaster!” He slapped the disconnect button.

  Twenty-four minutes until he could take lunch.

  He leaned back in his chair and noticed that half the office was staring at him. “What?”

  “Wester.”

  Simon looked over his shoulder. Mr. Vanderhan stood behind him, hands on his meaty hips. “What do…”

  The back of Simon’s chair broke. He fell back with a shout, his rump hitting the floor, his legs tangling around the remainder of the chair. The other service representatives burst out laughing.

  Mr. Vanderhan did not offer him a hand. “See me in the hall. Right now.”

  Simon glared at his retreating back.

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