by Lisa Lim
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 FUCKIN’ 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 FUCK 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 FUCKIN 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.
“FUCK 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 in
stantly; 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.
Five
Thank GAWD it’s Friday night.
I’m so drained that the only thing I can muster the strength to do is flip on the TV. The Vampire Diaries comes on.
Sheesh! Not another vampire show. After Twilight and True Blood, I’m all vampired out.
I chuck the remote to Kars and she switches the channel to E!.
Yay! Our beloved Chelsea Lately is on. It is hands down the best talk show on TV and Chelsea Handler is a Goddess amongst Goddesses; our Queen Bee.
As you can probably tell, I am a huge fan, and so is Kars.
Watching Chelsea is a blast. She’s funny, witty and we learn so much from her. Just by tuning in to her show, we have vastly expanded our vocabulary. For instance, we incorporate words like shadoobie, coslopus and pickachu into our daily conversations.
In Chelsea-land, shadoobie = poo; Pickachu and coslopus = va jay jay.
So it’s work appropriate and very versatile.
The other day, Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi was walking around with her barn door wide open. Kars yelled, “The Führer’s pickachu is peeking out!”
To which I replied, “Holy Shadoobie! Her coslopus is a jungle.”
And no one caught on to a word we were saying.
After Chelsea Lately, we tune in to the Ross Report on Leno, then we hop over to the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Later on we flip the channel to CBS to catch the Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Love that guy and his bizarre humor. Not to mention, I find his Scottish lilt so incredibly wonky and sexy, even though half the time I’m not even sure I understand a word he’s saying. But let’s face it, Scottish accents are just plain sexy. Slap a Scottish accent on a green ogre and I’ll immediately find him irresistible, case in point—Shrek.
I have an odd propensity for anything Scottish. I’ve always dreamed of living in the Scottish Highlands, speaking nothing but Gaelic, and listening to the sweet, harmonious music of Celtic Thunder.
As much as we love our shows, all we ever do every night is vegetate in front of the tube. We used to have so much more spunk. We’d stay up until two in the morning, chatting about everything and nothing. I kind of miss all that. Since we’ve started working at the call center, we don’t talk anymore. And frankly, after talking on the phones nonstop for eight hours straight, we’re just all talked-out.
