Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel

by Lisa Lim

  Mika laughs and ruffles my hair.

  I rise to my feet. “Sorry, but I can’t watch this.”

  He tugs me back to the sofa and gathers me firmly onto his lap. “I can watch this some other time.” He pinches my nose. “I can think of better ways to be entertained.”

  “Yeah?” I murmur.

  Standing up, he scoops me into his arms. “Urrrrggh,” he grunts, showing off his brute strength.

  I slide my arms around his neck. “Am I too heavy for you?”

  “Uh-huh, must be from eating all those cinnamon rolls,” he says in a teasing voice.

  “Will you still love me if I turn into a chubby Cinnabon?”

  “I’ll love you more!” He drops a kiss on my lips. “You could use some more meat on your bones.” Heading for the bedroom, he carries me over the threshold like it’s our honeymoon night and kicks the door shut. Then he plops me on the bed and jogs to the bathroom.

  “Be right back, babes,” he hollers over his shoulder.

  I drape myself seductively across the damask duvet. Taking a deep breath, I fluff my hair and wait, jittery with anticipation.

  Moments later, Mika emerges from the bathroom.

  Holding out my arms, I bedazzle and bewitch him with my Jezebel charms, wearing a come-hither, sex-kittenish expression.

  To my surprise, instead of sliding under the sheets with me, Mika hops onto his Stud Bar.

  Heaving a big sigh, I resign myself and wait. It’ll be another thirty minutes before he comes to bed.

  Months ago, when Mika had mentioned in passing that he loved his Stud Bar, I’d assumed he frequented some seedy bar, and that thought didn’t really sit well with me since the Mika I’d come to know and love just did not seem like the barfly type. Just to be certain, I’d googled ‘Stud Bar’ and a website popped up for a gay bar in Montreal. It was described as being one of the most virile establishments in town.

  For obvious reasons, I was flummoxed beyond words.

  Not only was it a bar, but um, it was also a gay bar?

  In Montreal?

  Now, after living together, I’d finally discovered that his much beloved Stud Bar is a steel, pull-up bar that mounts to the studs in the ceiling.

  And every night before retiring, he is up on that Stud Bar, doing thirty pull-ups followed by thirty chin-ups.

  Just like tonight.

  By the time my Stud Muffin is ready for bed, I am nodding off to sleep. “Mika…” I mutter drowsily into my pillow. “If you buff yourself up too much, your head will shrink way out of proportion to the rest of your body.”

  Slipping into bed beside me, he wraps the duvet around us and nuzzles me lovingly. Smothered in darkness, I can feel the strength of his wanting, and he proves that his other head is not in the least bit affected.

  Ahhhhhh. Bliss. And double bliss. After some mind-blasting love making, Mika spoons me from behind and whispers a Scottish folk song in my ear. It’s my favorite love song and I’d only mentioned it in passing once, yet he’d took it upon himself to memorize most of the lyrics.

  Resting his chin on my shoulder, he sings in a hushed and sleepy voice…

  My love is like a red, red rose,

  That’s newly sprung in June;

  My love is like the melody,

  That’s sweetly played in tune.

  So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in love am I;

  And I will love thee still, my dear,

  ‘Til all the seas gang dry.

  ‘Til all the seas gang dry, my dear,

  And the rocks melt with the sun,

  And I will love thee still, my dear,

  While the sands of Life shall run...

  Phwoar! It’s not Gaelic. But it’s pretty damn close!

  “Maddy,” he adds huskily, “mo chridhe.”

  Gasp. Mo chridhe is Scottish Gaelic for my heart.

  I think I may have just died and gone to Heaven. Thrice.

  The weekend rolls by and Mika, my MacGyver, spends all his time in the garage, tinkering with my Subaru. And I’ve noticed that he’s been putting gas in my car. It’s such a small gesture, yet I’m touched. Being taken care of for a change, well it sort of feels...nice.

  Before I know it, it is officially my last day at the Lightning Speed Call Center. Mika kindly took the day off from his work to share this momentous occasion with me. All I need to do is go in, sign some papers, gather my things and leave.

  “You ready?” His face glows with elation.

  “What are you so excited about?” I ask, grinning myself.

  “Well, I’ll be driving you to that place for the last time and you’ll finally get to see what I’ve done to your car. C’mon, let’s check it out.”

  “Wait,” I say in a panic. “Have you seen my sunglasses?”

  His mouth twitches. “It wasn’t my turn to watch them, babes.”

  “I’m not amused.”

  Taking charge, he puts one hand under my elbow, steers me out the door and leads me to my car.

  “Check out your new muffler,” he gestures, pink with pride.

  I stand frozen at the revelation. “Good Grief! Those suckers are gargantuous.”

  This is not a regular muffler. No. This is a rice burner muffler slash exhaust system.

  Meanwhile, Mika is looking exceedingly pleased with himself. “Doesn’t it look awesome?”

  “Err, I guess.” I manage a tepid smile.

  Seriously, I could have bolted on a sewer pipe in lieu of that monstrosity of a muffler, and it probably would have looked the same. Actually, it would have looked better.

  “Thanks, but um, it’s not a stock muffler like I’d wanted.”

  “Why buy stock when you can buy aftermarket accessories for a better price?” he states matter-of-factly.

  I am laughing inside. Oh my God. Mika has ordered me a fart can muffler. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed, I drive a Subaru not a Honda Civic.”

  “This is a Magnaflow,” he intones with a grandiose sweep of his arm.

  As if I’d know the difference.

  “This is not a ricer. Ricers are modified cars with all show and no go. This my dear, is a tuner. Magnaflow mufflers have a much deeper and richer sound. It’s a lot more muscular. Let’s take it for a spin. You’ll see,” he says reassuringly.

  We slide into my car and snap on our seatbelts. As I rev up the engine, I hear the ferocious roar of my new muffler coming to life.

  On impulse, I floor it and soon we’re flying down the freeway like fugitives in my souped up Subaru. Hahaha. I’m surprised to find myself enjoying every minute of it.

  Blaarrrrrgggggghhhhhh blares my new muffler.

  “Now all I need are some fat rims and lowering springs,” I shout over the loud racket.

  “Really? I’ll order ‘em for you,” says Mika in all seriousness.

  “No, don’t!” I say at once and jab him in the ribs. “I was just kidding. Mika, you’re my boyfriend, not my mechanic.”

  His lips curve into a thin smile. “I can be both.”

  We exit off the highway and my Subaru rolls to a stop at the lights. Abruptly, I hear an arrogant rev of an engine. Turning my head, I come face to face with a real ricer. The Honda Civic has a wing attached to the back.

  I suppress a snort. The wing looks like a park bench.

  Arrogantly, the young punk jerks his head at me and revs up his engine.

  Mika nudges me. “I believe he wants to race you.”

  I regard the driver with frank amusement.

  VROOOM, VROOOM, VROOOOM! He taps his gas pedal.

  The light turns green and the ricer screeches off, leaving skid marks all over the road. Languidly, I gently ease off the brakes; and to prove a point, I drive like Little Miss Daisy.

  Mika balks, “Maddy! We need to do an engine swap so we can smoke the shit out of ricers like him.”

  “Shut up, Mika. You’re not coming near my car ever again.”

  He laughs and tousles my
hair.

  Sigh. My hair is permanently flattened, and I have a fart can muffler affixed to my car.

  Twenty minutes later, I swing my car into the Lightning Speed parking lot and stall the engine. Mika tells me he’ll wait for me outside. Taking a deep breath, I start for the building and feel a sudden thrill compounded by happiness, relief and trepidation.

  Sailing into the office, I waltz by Truong’s cubicle for the very last time. He throttles me from behind and jams me in a headlock. “Hey, we’re still celebrating your farewell at Phở Hoa tonight aren’t we?”

  “Phở-king right we are!” I laugh, breaking free from his puny grasp.

  Glancing briefly to the left, I catch Ingeborg looking distressed.

  “Arch and I vill be there. Maddy, ve vill miss ya so much. It vill neveh be de same here vithout you,” she chokes with emotion and bursts into tears.

  “Oh, Ingeborg,” I soothe. “I’ll miss you guys more than you’ll ever know, but we’ll still be in touch.”

  She sniffles. “Yah, ve vill. Facebook me and Twitter me, okay?”

  Karsynn barges into our intimate gathering. “We’re going to party it up at that Vietnamese noodle house tonight!”

  “Yes we are.” I link my arm with hers. “And you can come, just as long as you don’t bring your porn star friends with you.”

  Kars pulls a face. “Humph! Just so you know, Pamela is not my best friend. We’re already fighting over the remote. If I have to watch one more episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, I will shoot myself.”

  Truong snorts with laughter. “Stop pretending! We know how much you just love your new airhead friends. Speaking of which, let’s line them up in a row and create a wind tunnel.”

  “Okay, Kars,” I smirk. “I’ve changed my mind. You can bring Pamela Pornero tonight.”

  “I don’t want to,” she harrumphs. “Pamela wouldn’t get any of the subtleties of a Vietnamese noodle house. She actually thinks the Vietnam War is still going on, and she thinks Vietnam is in Africa!”

  Abruptly, Hilary pokes her head out of her watch tower and gives us the look. “What’s with all this ruckus? You people have calls to take! GET BACK TO WORK NOW OR ELSE YOU WILL ALL BE WRITTEN UP!”

  The fiery Führer does not make idle threats, and so the crowd quickly disperses.

  “Madison!” Hillary growls and beckons me with a whip of her head. “Get over here.”

  Cautiously, I make my way to her desk. “Yeah?”

  “I hear you’re leaving us,” she states with some hesitation and I give a slight nod. “Well, good luck,” she mutters grudgingly.

  I force a smile. “Um…thanks,” I say stiffly.

  “And if they’re ever hiring managers at Ajon, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know,” she remarks in a perfunctory fashion.

  I jerk my head up in surprise. “I will.”

  Rising ceremoniously to her feet, she looks me squarely in the eye. “Sometimes, it’s not easy being a manager here.”

  At once, I feel a flicker of hope. Hope for Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi. This whole time, I’d vilified, demonized and ogre-rized her so much that I’d lost sight of the fact that she too might be suffering alongside us, that she too might be under pressure from her bosses at the top.

  She’ll always be as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue, but this is a good start.

  Before her hard-won pork chop exterior cracks any further, Hillary promptly dismisses me. “You’d best get going now. I know Douglas is in his office waiting for you to sign your dismissal papers.” She holds out her hand and I shake it firmly.

  “Don’t come back to this place, Maddy.”

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  Half an hour later, my dismissal papers signed, I hoist the cardboard box into my arms, ready to walk out of this place for good. For some inexplicable reason, I find myself stalling.

  Spinning around, I gaze out at the infinite sea of cubicles. The ocean of calls will continue to flow and flow. And flow. The tide may ebb, but it never dissipates. For twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

  I am profoundly humbled by my experience here, and I harbor a deep respect for everyone that works in this call center. They come from all walks of life: mothers who work to supplement their family income, college students who support themselves, fathers who juggle two jobs, grandparents who can’t survive on social security alone, military men and women on reserve (even a couple of marines and Navy Seal officers), veterans, farmers who no longer find farming a lucrative business, an anesthesiologist who lost his license, small business owners who filed for bankruptcy. They’re folks like you and me, just trying to make a living.

  Oh sure, there’s the occasional child molester and crazy meth addict. Pocatello is the meth capital of Idaho, after all. But for the most part, they’re good, honest, hardworking people.

  And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time here is that there’s humanity in this place. We’re not machines. Most of us have good intentions and genuinely want to help our callers.

  Despite our best efforts, all too often callers forget that we’re human. They say things over the phone that I’m positive they’d never consider saying face to face. And if a caller said half of that crap to my face, there’d be two decks—me decking the caller, and the caller hitting the deck.

  Or is it two hits? Me hitting the caller, and the caller hitting the ground.

  Either way, it’d be an aftermath of blood and guts.

  Out of my peripheral vision, I spot a group of new hires in ‘nesting.’ And I find myself smiling in spite of myself. Little do they realize what they have signed up for. They are probably just treading water at this point, but soon they will be flailing away in shark infested waters. The waters I’d swam in for over a year.

  And without a doubt in my mind, I know that some of them will drown. The turnover rate here is exponentially high. This job is clearly not for everyone.

  It’s a dirty job, even worse than scrubbing toilets.

  A toilet doesn’t talk back. But the callers do. And they throw feces at you. Okay, no more ‘bodily function’ metaphors.

  Metaphors aside, when callers are being verbally abusive, dropping F bombs and threats, and we’re on the receiving end of a constant bombardment of complaints, rants, and negativity, it somehow affects us after a while.

  Trust me, I’ve seen my co-workers break down in tears and suffer from nervous breakdowns. But I guess I can sort of see both sides of the equation. Oftentimes the customers’ complaints and frustrations aren’t without merit. They don’t call us when they’re happy or satisfied; they only call when there’s a problem and they’re pissed off. And Lightning Speed only adds more fuel to their raging fire by forcing them to go through a barrage of prompts: If you need help with your password, press 1. If you need help getting online, press 2. If you need help with your cell phone, press 3. If it is a billing issue, press 4. And it goes all the way up to prompt number 12.

  The highly annoying automated attendant harasses the callers with a dizzying tree of numbers. Not surprisingly, some callers get confused and punch their way into oblivion. And then when you add on the interminable hold times—Sheesh! By the time the callers get to me, their blood pressure is skyrocketing through the roofs; they’re ticking time bombs ready to explode!

  The callers unleashed their rage on me when they were upset with Lightning Speed, and yes, I was forced to swallow the brunt of the blame and take the flack because I’d represented the company. But I wish I could’ve said, “Yes! I agree with you! This company sucks! And it’s not me. It’s them. I’m handcuffed by this demented system! Screw Lightning Speed. Leave. Don’t give them your business!”

  On top of that, management never stopped breathing down my neck to get my calls wrapped up in two minutes or less, because the shorter my calls were, the more calls I could take. And the more calls I could take, meant the more I could sell!
r />   It’s sick.

  I was stressed and pressured from all sides—from the callers, from management and from the QA bastards. It is no wonder call center jobs rank among the most stressful in America, on par with firefighters, cops and paramedics.

  Squaring my shoulders, I start for the elevator. As I turn the corner, I walk by the Quality Assurance Assholes for the very last time, the brainless KGB squad who delighted in chipping away at our humanity.

  Making my way down the narrow hallway, the blinding lights from the Sales Dashboard flash at me like a neon banner at a used car dealership.

  Every single call that filters through this center is treated as a sales prospect.

  Sadly, I’d become a part of this ugly machine, pushing products and services that the customers didn’t want or need. Forced to swear allegiance to the Sales Flag, I’d swallowed the bitter pill of dissent for fear of being arrested by the KGB and sent off to the firing squad.

  For some, this job is permanent. Absurdly enough, there is a minority here who actually like this job. To say these folks are patient is an understatement. But they insist that they love what they do. From what I’ve observed, they tend to be religious and immensely forgiving. Or maybe they’re just doused on a ton of alcohol and drugs to numb the pain.

  And then there are others who keep on working here, some for over thirty years, despite the fact that they’re miserable as hell. In my opinion, there’s only one explanation for this sort of behavior: battered wife syndrome. In denial about the abuse they suffer, they have come to accept their dismal fates; they feel hopeless, trapped, like they have no other choices, no other options.

  I want to seize them by the shoulders, shake them hard and say, “Leave your bastard husband. Oops, leave your bastard job! You’re strong enough. You can do it. You can find a better job! You can leave this blasted place. At one time, I too considered staying. But it’s not worth it. If you love yourself, leave!”

  For others, this is merely an in-between job before something better comes along. For me, this experience has been a myriad of things. A stepping stone, a small but steady paycheck, a whole lot of stress and diabolically fun.