Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel
Page 22
And they want us to drop it down to 2 minutes?
Are they loco?
“Truong! What will they do? Fire everybody?”
“I don’t know.” He fidgets with his scarf. “I don’t want to lose my job. Heck, it’s a full blown recession now.”
“Hell, if I lose mine, it’ll be a depression.”
A shadow of a frown touches his forehead. “They have to lower the handle time.”
“They won’t,” I say glumly. “I heard this rumor that they can’t lower it. In that stupid ad campaign, the caption says we service all calls in two minutes or less. So they can’t retract the ad now; it’s too late! They’ve already spent way too much money.”
Truong shakes his head at the company’s sheer idiocy. “Well, they’ll have to do something.”
And then it happened.
On Tuesday morning, the server crashed. All our systems are down. Kaput. I cannot log in to a single app. Not one!
It is complete bedlam and utter chaos in here. Armageddon.
All the supervisors and leads are running around in circles like the sky is falling, screaming out orders, “Use down scripts! Use down scripts!”
Beep!
“Thank you for calling Lightning Speed. I’m so sorry, but our systems are currently down. Is there a general question that I can help you with?”
“Nope,” says the caller and promptly hangs up.
Beep!
And on and on and on it goes.
I use ‘Down Scripts’ on every single call, while simultaneously reading The Da Vinci Code. This is fantastic! I don’t even have to use one ounce of my brain to think and troubleshoot.
I can just read my novel and repeat the same sentence over and over again, like a broken tape recorder.
Sometimes, just for shits and giggles, I make sure I sound extra robotic so the callers think they’re talking to an automated attendant and hang up. This is too good to be true.
Suddenly, Hillary barks over my shoulder, “You cannot say that our systems are down, you are supposed to say that our systems are UNAVAILABLE. That is the mandatory script.”
I blink.
She continues frenetically, “If you say that our systems are down, it causes undue panic. Like if there is a bomb on the plane, the pilot does not tell the passengers that there is a bomb on board. He merely informs them that there is ‘a situation’. Same thing here! Our systems are NOT DOWN! And if you tell the callers that our systems are down, you will get a big fat zero on your quality scores!”
“Got it. The systems are unavailable,” I say to placate her.
She forges on, “And if the callers ask when our systems will be back up, let them know that we do not have an ETA.”
I smile and nod obediently.
Beep!
“Thank you for calling Lightning Speed. I’m so sorry but our systems are currently unavailable. Is there a general question I can help you with?”
“So your systems are down,” states the caller.
“Um, no sir. Our systems are unavailable.”
“Yeah, so they’re down,” insists the caller.
“No,” I protest. “They’re unavailable.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“It means our systems are not available.”
He makes an exasperated sound. “When will it be back up?”
“Sorry sir, we don’t have an ETA.”
“Now what does that mean?” he huffs.
“It’s an abbreviation for Estimated Time of Arrival.”
Sheesh. Now we’re supposed to talk like air traffic controllers.
Hmm, shouldn’t it be ETR? Estimated Time of Repair?
Click!
Aside from that snafu, it has been a rather swell day at work; and by the end of my shift, I’ve finished reading the entire novel.
Before logging off, I check my stats report.
Holy Sacred Indian Cow! My Average Handle Time for today is eight seconds! And that bumps up my overall handle time to two minutes!
“Truong!” I cry excitedly. “Have you checked your stats yet?”
“Sure have, darling. I love it when the server goes down; makes my stats look fab.”
My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Do you think they rigged it?”
Truong stares at me in blank astonishment. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I say in a hushed voice, “I think they planned this! They made the server crash on purpose to help improve our handle time.”
How sneaky! I am amazed by their shrewdness.
This is so surreal. And what a brilliant idea!
“It’s a conspiracy,” I hiss.
“Maddy,” he says mildly, “quit reading those silly Dan Brown novels.”
Twenty One
This week, Lightning Speed launched Security Questions, and all day long, I’ve been fielding calls from customers who either do not recall setting up their questions, or do not recall the answers to the questions that they themselves picked.
Go figure. I’m convinced that half the population suffers from acute Alzheimer’s and dementia.
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”
“My name is Rajeeswari Veerakukatanarasimharajuvaripeta and these Security Questions are so annoying. I don’t remember setting them up, and now I’m locked out of my account.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that Mister, um, Venkaqruisi, err...piqua,” I fumble, “but these are questions that you at one time chose and answered.”
“I said that I did NOT set them up!” he blasts. “I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAVE!”
“Sir, if you can answer one of your Security Questions over the phone, I can get you back online.”
“Go ahead!” he growls. “Ask me the damn question!”
“Okay. Where did you go on your first date?”
“I picked that question?” he spits haughtily.
“Yes sir, you did,” I inform him evenly.
“Shhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiit, I don’t know. My bedroom?”
I gag. Some date.
After typing in his answer, my app tells me it’s a no-go. “Sorry sir. That’s incorrect. Would you like to go to the next question?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, highly agitated at this point.
“Question number two: What is your dream occupation?”
Long pause.
“Bus driver?” he manages at last.
“Sorry sir, but that is the wrong answer. Would you like to go to the next question?”
“How can that be wrong?” he demands, huffing and puffing.
“Um, because that was not the answer you originally gave?” I say in a neutral tone.
“This is complete BULLSHIT! Next question!”
“Okay, question number three: What song did you dance to on your wedding night?”
“Which one? I’ve been married four times.”
“Sir, once again, you picked these questions. So you tell me.”
He scoffs with rage, “HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?”
I forge on, “All right, here is the last question: What was the model year of your first car?”
“Well I bought my car in 2008,” he says grumpily.
I rub my temples. “Sir, the model year refers to the year your car was built, not the year you bought it.”
“Oh! 2002 Chrysler!”
“Thank you. That was the right answer.” Phew.
I unlock his account and he’s able to get back online.
Cough. And he swore on his mother’s grave that he never set up his Security Questions. Shame on Mister whatshisname.
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed, this is Maddy,” I say listlessly. “What can I do for you today?”
“These Security Questions are driving me crazy. I need help setting them up.”
“I can help, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”
“Now tell me, what are the questions you’re choosing?”
“Well, the first one is: What’s your oldest sibling’s birthday?”
“Ma’am, can you please make sure that your answer is in the right format?”
A beat. Another beat. Still no answer.
“Um, what format is it specifying?” I persist.
“It says MMDD. But I’ve entered my sister’s birthday and it won’t accept it!”
“Well, what answer did you give?”
“0581978.”
“So, is her birthday on May eighth?”
“Yes,” she concurs, flustered at this point.
“Then you need to enter 0508.”
“Oh!” she cries like it’s a revelation. “Since I have you on the line, can you please stay with me until I complete this?”
“Of course I can,” I say graciously.
“Here’s the next question that I’m choosing: What is your favorite book? And I’m typing in the Bible for my answer.”
“Um ma’am, that is pretty easy to guess. According to polls, that is what forty percent of users list as their favorite book and any hacker could easily figure that out. It would be more secure if your answer is a bit harder for someone to guess.”
“Then I won’t remember it,” she says with an aggrieved air.
I breathe out a heavy sigh. These stinking Security Questions are far from being foolproof. Some of the answers she provides could be posted on her Facebook page. Any teenager high on pot could easily access her info with just a few mouse clicks.
Eventually, she concedes. “I’ve typed in a different answer. I put down The Book of Mormon. And here is the next question I’m selecting: What is the name of the hospital in which you were born? And I am typing in Saint Jude.”
“Now that is a tricky one ma’am. Keep in mind that you need to remember exactly how you spell it. For instance, saint can be spelled St, or Saint, or St followed by a period.”
“The crap I have to remember,” she gripes. “I’ve already got over fifty passwords, and if I have to remember one more password or security question, my head will crack open!”
“I know.” My voice drips with empathy. “We’ve got so many passwords to keep track of these days.”
“You got that right. Shoot. I’ll probably be calling you again.”
I shake my head. I’m sure she will be.
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy, how can I assist?”
“My Security Questions are locked. This is frustrating, man. It used to be so much easier. Why did y’all have to go and change the dang thing?”
“I’m sorry sir, it’s a new security procedure; but I can get you back online if you can answer one of your Security Questions over the phone.”
He groans with displeasure. “Ask me the question.”
“Okay. When you first flew in an airplane, what was your destination?”
“I believe it was Chicago, Illinois,” he says.
“Sir, when you originally answered this question, did you type Chicago, or Chicago space Illinois, or Chicago comma Illinois, or Chicago IL? I have to key in your answer and if the spelling is not an exact match, my system will tell me it’s wrong.”
“Gotcha! I think I put down Chicago comma Illinois.”
I submit his answer and wait. “Sorry sir, it’s incorrect.”
“This is ridiculous!” he hisses and I don’t disagree.
But since day one of working here, I’ve learned to never ever give the callers the benefit of the doubt.
So I probe, “Sir, can you please tell me how you would have spelled Chicago, Illinois?”
He emits a loud exaggerated snort, taking slight offense to my question. “Humph, just like how it’s supposed to be spelled—C-h-i-c-a-h-g-o I-l-l-a-n-o-i-s-e.”
I stifle a giggle. “Okay, let me try that.”
I submit his answer and wait for my system to verify it.
“That is the right answer.”
“See!” he says in an accusatory tone. “Why don’t you learn how to spell next time!”
I close my eyes briefly and reset his Security Questions. Some battles are just not worth fighting.
I’m just glad that he didn’t have to spell Mississippi or Massachusetts.
Beep!
Before I can rattle off my usual greeting, the caller ruptures my eardrums, “DO I HAVE TO ANSWER THESE BLASTED SECURITY QUESTIONS?”
“Yes sir, you do,” I say patiently.
“WHY?” He huffs and heaves, like he’s about to suffer a coronary.
“It’s for your protection sir,” I inform him kindly.
“I DO NOT WANT THE EXTRA PROTECTION!”
“I’m so sorry sir, but if you want to use our service, then you don’t have a choice,” I say in my most apologetic voice.
“FINE THEN! I’LL JUST ANSWER ‘DON’T KNOW’ FOR EVERY SINGLE QUESTION!”
Click!
I was about to inform him that if he enters the same answer more than once, our system will reject it. But he didn’t give me a chance. Oh well, he’ll just have to discover that on his own.
Or, he’ll be calling us back.
After taking more than a hundred Security Questions-related calls, I am frazzled to bits.
I hate Security Questions as much as the callers do.
And I hate this job.
Midway through assisting another caller with, you guessed it—her Security Questions, I hear the high pitched, screeching noise of the fire alarm going off.
YESSSSSSS!!! IT’S A FIRE DRILL!!!
“I’m sorry ma’am, but you’ll have to call back in about an hour ‘cause the fire alarm just went off,” I say with a big, fat smile on my face and promptly jam the Log Out button.
I scan the floor for my buddies. But they’re nowhere in sight.
Hmm. They must have already bolted.
Traipsing happily toward the exit stairwell, I merge into the mass exodus.
Karsynn is sitting on a patch of brown grass, basking in the sunlight. “Isn’t this great?” she trills.
“Sure is,” I enthuse, watching a fire truck swing by the curb.
Minutes later, Truong, Mika, Ingeborg and Archie join us on our private oasis, and for the next fifty-five minutes, we lounge under an azure blue sky, enjoying fresh air and good company.
“I sure wish we had fire drills every day,” I murmur lazily, glorifying in the feel of the sun on my cheeks, its lulling warmth making my eyelids drowsy.
Truong sticks a blade of grass in his mouth. “My wish is for that building to burn down to the ground.” He quickly adds, “When nobody is inside it, of course. Now wouldn’t that be nice?”
Everyone echoes his sentiments.
Sigh. I guess you know you really hate your job when you’re wishing for disaster and destruction to strike just so you don’t have to go into work.
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I assist?”
“I need help with QuickBooks,” demands the caller. “I can’t get QuickBooks to connect to the internet.”
I probe for more, “Can you connect to any websites when you use your browser?”
“Yes.” His voice is laced with irritation.
“In that case, it’s a QuickBooks issue. The QuickBooks.exe file is blocked from accessing the internet, so you’ll need to contact Intuit or QuickBooks for support. Or it could very well be your firewall blocking you, in which case you’ll need to contact Norton or McAfee.”
“I don’t mean to take it out on you but I DID NOT EXPECT TO BE TRANSFERRED ALL OVER THE PLACE FOR HALF A FOCKIN HOUR JUST SO YOU CAN TELL ME THIS! THIS IS COMPLETE BULLSHIT!”
Now why do you say that you don’t mean to take it out on me? Why? What for? You say that, and then you turn around and take a mega shit on me.
“I�
�m so sorry sir, but QuickBooks is a third party software which we do not support. As much as I’d like to help you, I can’t; so you’ll need to contact QuickBooks directly.”
“THANKS FOR NOTHING!” he blasts.
“Um, before you go sir, is it okay if I mention a product or a service that may be beneficial to you?” I ask meekly; my voice is strangled to say the least.
But I have to say the dreaded TSR script. Otherwise, I’ll be on a formal warning if the KGB spies are listening.
I hold my breath. I can hear his heavy breathing on the line.
“WHATEVER!” he barks.
“Um, is that a Yes or is that a No?” I swallow hard.
“Let me get this straight young lady. You haven’t even helped me with my issue, and here you’re trying to sell me something? ARE YOU TRYING TO ANTAGONIZE ME?”
“Yes, um, I mean n-no,” I stammer. “What I’m trying to say is yes, I am trying to sell you something but no, I’m not trying to antagonize you. But if I don’t read you the sales script, and if I don’t probe you for more when your answer is ‘whatever,’ then I’ll be docked down by Quality Assurance if this call is monitored.”
He goes ape shit. “THAT IS THE STUPIDEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD. TELL YOUR QUALITY ASSURANCE PEOPLE TO GO FUCK THEMSELVES!”
“Sir...I…err, can definitely submit a customer feedback for you. That is, um, if you’d like me to,” I say, consumed with hope.
“DO THAT. And capitalize the word FUCK!”
Click!
Wow! I feel like I’ve just hit the jack pot.
I’ve been waiting to tell the Quality Assurance Assholes to go fuck themselves since day one.
And now, I can—on a customer’s behalf!
With glee and utmost pleasure, I click the Customer Feedback link located on our internal website and begin feverishly tapping away at my keyboard.
Department: Quality Assurance
Subject: Customer Feedback
Notes: Customer is very upset with our policy Re: Selling on every single call. Sometimes it is simply not appropriate. Per the customer, you people (meaning the Quality Assurance group) need to go FUCK yourselves.