Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel

by Lisa Lim

  Someday, I will look back upon this experience with delirious laughter and absolute horror. Make no mistake, a call center is something to be experienced before you can truly grasp the meaning of a living Hell.

  But it seems as if human beings form the closest bonds when faced with adversity. Call it our natural defense against painful and catastrophic situations.

  Consequently, this call center holds a very special place in my heart. This slum, this bleak and dismal labor camp is where my most memorable friendships have blossomed.

  Truong will always remain one of my very good friends. He’s pursuing a degree in interior design and sticking around until he’s done with college.

  Saint Ingeborg Draganov, bless her heart. I love that girl like a sister. She’s a rare bird; she actually likes this job and plans on working here for the rest of her life.

  I tip my hat to her; she possesses patience and virtue beyond measure.

  And Karsynn, my dear Kars. She and I were buddies before I even set foot in this call center, and we remain the best of friends as I step out. The friendship and bond we share has only grown stronger, not hampered in the least by Pamela Pornero and the rest of the Call Center Termites.

  Kars aims to snag a supervisor position in a year and become a director in five. And I have no doubt in my mind that she’ll succeed. She’s ballsy and determined, plus she’s a pro at playing the demented office politics games.

  Idealistic and optimistic, Kars tells me that when she claws her way to the top, she’ll make some changes. Changes that will help the plight of the people here. Although I hope she’ll follow through, I remain realistic.

  Arriving at the elevator, I jab the button with one finger.

  The elevator door pings open and I step in.

  Whirling around, I glance back one final time and realize that I have no regrets. Working at Lightning Speed Communications has given me the skills to prepare me for future jobs. My skin is now tougher than leather. Correction. Tougher than steel. And I am certain I can handle anything thrown my way.

  All the abuse has only served to make me stronger. I emerge from this call center a new and liberated woman, much like Tina Turner after she walked out on Ike.

  In the past, whenever I’d called Bank of America, FedEx, Delta, Anthropologie or J.Crew, I’d always been the customer, and I’d never thought twice about the person on the other end of the line.

  But I’ve now had a peek behind the Iron curtain.

  I’ve lived in a world that we all experience but seldom bother to understand once we hang up the phone; a world that was at one time foreign to me.

  It became my world.

  I lived and breathed call center.

  And now I know. Now I understand.

  Riding down the elevator alone, all the memories come flooding back. The rare but occasional nice callers who’d brightened up my days, sweet old ladies who were so grateful and thankful for my help that they’d wanted to send me their home-baked cookies and homemade salsa, the tight-knit friendships that I’d built, the evil management that I’d tolerated, the QA bastards who I will forever despise, the calls—the good, the bad and the ghastly, and all the ones I’d tried to find humor in.

  Oddly enough, even a vivid picture of my dingy six-by-six foot cubicle flashes before my eyes. It was my windowless space in this crowded place...and it shall always hold a special place in my heart, much like the people who work here.

  Truong, Kars, Ingeborg and Mika—they were the best part of this job.

  The elevator doors pings open.

  Dazedly, I make my way toward the exit gates and Security Guard Adnan checks my box. I pass inspection.

  “Bye, Missus Lee,” he says jovially.

  I swipe my badge for the final time and hand it to him. “Bye, Adnan. Take care.”

  The automatic glass doors swish open and I shuffle out.

  Outside, I am relieved to see Mika leaning against the front fender of my car, James Dean style.

  Just the sight of him soothes me.

  Upon spotting me, a smile breaks over his face. And with long and quick strides, he is soon beside me. “You ready?” He gently pries the box from my hands.

  My voice catches in my throat. “I’m ready.”

  “I know.” He touches my hair and smoothes it back from my brow. “It’s like leaving a small chunk of your life behind.”

  I nod and swallow hard, not trusting myself to speak.

  It feels as if I’m leaving my second family.

  “Hey...” he soothes, cradling my face between his hands. “Today is an ending, but it’s also a beginning.”

  I rest my burning cheeks against his palms.

  He’s right. I really should embrace both.

  We walk in silence to my car.

  He opens my door and I slide in, still subdued. After shutting the door behind me, he jogs over to the driver’s side and deposits my box onto the back seat.

  Hunched over the steering wheel, he reaches for his keys and shoots me a sidelong glance. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I smile warmly at him, letting him know that I am.

  He switches on the ignition and fiddles with his iPod.

  Seconds later, we zoom off and the music begins playing. It’s First Day of My Life, my favorite number by Bright Eyes.

  Leaning back, I close my eyes, feeling the dampness on my lashes.

  As the song gathers steam, I whisper languidly, “Mika...”

  He squeezes my knee. “Yeah, babes?”

  I lapse in and out of a semi-meditative state as the car bumps along potholes in the road. “I think I’ll write a book. I’ll keep on working at Ajon to help pay the bills, but writing a book is something I’ve always wanted to do.” After a thoughtful pause, I declare, “So I’m going to do it.”

  “Do it,” he says, increasing the pressure on my knee. “Have you thought of a title?”

  My lips fall into a lopsided grin. Prying one eye open, I tell him, “Confessions of a Call Center Gal.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lisa Lim is the proud mom of two little girls and three rescue dogs. Lisa received a B.A. in Journalism from the University of Wisconsin, Madison and she is a former Technical Writer for a software company and Copy Editor for an IT publication.

  Lisa is also an ex-call center gal. And during those Hellish years, she was the proud owner of a wireless headset. She is currently writing a sequel to Confessions.

  If you enjoyed Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel, you might also enjoy My Mormon Crush, My Dog Eats Poo by Lisa Lim and Lucy Liew. My Mormon Crush, My Dog Eats Poo is a fun mix of politically incorrect South Park and Teen Lit. It’s a Young Adult novella that may also appeal to adults with a warped sense of humor.

  “This novella is clever and the characters are fresh and jump off the page. If you enjoy reading Laurie Notaro, Chelsea Handler, or the woman from The Office, Mindy Kaling, you’re going to have fun with My Mormon Crush, My Dog Eats Poo.” ~ Chick Lit Central, Cindy Roesel (author and Emmy Award-Winning Broadcast Journalist)

  “I cannot remember when a book made me laugh this hard. My Mormon Crush, My Dog Eats Poo is politically incorrect and at times blatantly inappropriate, but it is amazing. I’m fairly certain that enjoying this novella as much as I did may send me to hell, but I’d also bet that it was worth it. If you are easily offended, this novella is probably one you’ll want to skip, but I think you’d be missing out.” ~ Booksessed

  I hope you enjoyed Confessions of a Call Center Gal. If you have a moment, please help others enjoy this book too.

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  Please continue reading for an excerpt from My Mormon Crush, My Dog Eats Poo.

  You can also continue reading for an excerpt from Fourteen Days Later, a romantic comedy by Sibel Hodge that was short listed for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. Written in a similar style to Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes, it is My Big Fat Greek Wedding meets Bridget Jones. Fourteen Days Later is available from Amazon.com and all the online retail stores.

  My Mormon Crush, My Dog Eats Poo

  Chapter One

  “All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”

  ~ Tinker Bell

  J.M. Barrie (Peter Pan)

  Well . . . that’s what Tinker Bell said.

  I say, “All of Utah is made of Mormons, arid deserts and seagull poo.”

  Monica and I were leisurely shunting out of the school compound when a seagull swooped down on us. Heroically, I pushed Monica to the ground and yelled, “TAKE COVER! INCOMING! MORMON BOMBER!”

  The Mormon Bomber went Splat Splat Splat, firing its mess all over Monica. Then the pigeon on steroids zoomed off into the cotton clouds.

  I glanced down to assess the damage. Phew! I sagged with relief; I’d gotten off scot-free. Then I checked out how Monica had fared.

  Crapola! She was drenched in seagull poo.

  I snorted loudly. “You’ve got seagull shadoobs all over you,” I pointed out. And then I went, “Bwarhahahahahaha.”

  Graciously, I handed Monica a Kleenex.

  She grabbed it and huffed, “Why the balls is Utah teeming with seagulls when there are no friggin’ oceans nearby? And they’re supposed to bomb the Mormons. Not us!”

  I gave a slight shrug. “I think according to them (ze Mormons), God sent the seagulls to eat up the grasshoppers that were destroying the crops in the 1800s.”

  Monica stared at me as I were an alien from planet Kolob. Um, planet Kolob is where ze Mormons believe God lives.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I squawked. “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”

  A crooked woman with a crooked walk must have caught snippets of our conversation, because she stopped in her tracks and tutted, “Oh yes, those grasshoppers are also known as Mormon Crickets and those bugs terrified the pioneers. And with a lot of prayer, God worked His miracle and sent the seagulls to save us all.”

  Then she handed us a copy of The Book of Mormon and hobbled off with her crooked stick.

  We gaped at her, openmouthed. Dumbfounded.

  Typical.

  I’ll just add this to my bajillion copies of The Book of Mormon.

  Welcome to Salt Lake City, Utah, where the Mormons preach, “Our Jesus is better than your Jesus.” Where you can buy Polygamy Porter, a beer with the infamous slogan: Why have just one?

  Helllllllp! Somebody get me outta here!

  Monica and I were still strolling home from school and the sky was still teeming with seagulls.

  Glug. Glug. I heard Monica’s belly rumble.

  “Dammit!” she cursed under her breath. “I want a pork Barbacoa burrito.”

  “I want to marry a pork Barbacoa burrito,” I moaned.

  “My mom makes the best Barbacoa burritos. I can have her make some next week,” Monica offered, “and I’ll mail it to you!”

  “You mean like a mail order burrito husband?” I tripped over a crack on the sidewalk. “Not from Russia, but from Mexico?”

  “Oh snap! That’s heaven.” Monica released a dreamy sigh. “And he will have Mexican Monterey cheese hair.”

  Half an hour later, we breezed into the best Mexican joint in Utah—Cafe Rio. While scarfing down our Barbacoa burritos, Monica proffered, “Weight Watchers is watching us.”

  I giggled. “Who’s watching Weight Watchers?”

  Monica sipped her Coke and seemed to ponder this for a bit. “Why, Acai Berry, of course.”

  When I got home, I walked into the living room to find my whole family watching the NBA Playoffs on the tube. It was the Utah Jazz versus the L.A. Lakers. Kobe Bryant was at the free throw line and my dad yelled, “RAPIST!” like a hooligan.

  Next, Lamar Odom was at the free throw line and my dad screamed, “SCROTUM!”

  Shaking my head, I grabbed a slice of Papa Murphy’s pizza and retired to my room. Ahh, my room. A place of impregnable safety.

  Away from rapists and scrotums.

  And my ballisticimus dad.

  After my dinner of cold pizza and Coke, I lay in bed with an ice pack balanced precariously on my nose. I can explain. You see, dad listens to NPR and last Friday, I heard on Sci Fri (Science Friday) about the theory of evolution. Apparently, Neanderthals from colder climates are characterized with narrow superior nasal dimensions, where else Neanderthals from warmer climates have broader noses. Don’t ask me why. Something to do with the aspects of airflow dynamics.

  I learn so much from NPR.

  Hmm. In my guesstimation, that’s probably why the Vikings had such regal noses. They lived in cold Scandinavian countries like Norway. Or was it Sweden?

  Oh how I’d DIE for a Swedish nose. A nose like Elin Nordegren’s.

  Humph. This beats going under the knife. Hell, this is even better than non-surgical rhinoplasty. I pressed the ice pack to my nose, gently applying pressure.

  If I wanted Elin Nordegren’s nose, all I had to do was keep this up.

  Thirty minutes into my experiment, my nose went numb.

  Brrrrrrr. It was colder than a witch’s tit. Hauling myself out of bed, I padded down to the kitchen and grabbed a new ice pack. Then I tiptoed up the stairs, climbed into bed, plumped up my pillow and settled back with a fresh ice pack on my nose.

  No pain. No gain.

  Hmm . . . what rhymes with gain?

  This feels like acid rain.

  My heavy eyelids flittered, fluttered and soon drifted shut.

  Chapter Two

  The Messiahs on Bicycles

  Beep! Beep! beeped my alarm clock and I slammed my fist on it like a sledgehammer. Blearily, I glanced at the clock and the display showed: 6:45 a.m. With Herculean effort, I dragged myself out of bed.

  Whoa! I must have climbed the summit of Mt. Everest in my sleep. It felt like I was suffering from a severe case of frostbite and hypothermia.

  Shuffling to the bathroom, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and jumped back in fright.

  Holy Swedish Meatballs! I did not have Elin Nordegren’s le petit nose. I had Cyrano de Bergerac’s schnozzer.

  Hastily, I applied some burn ointment and slapped on a Hello Kitty Band-Aid.

  I felt much better after that.

  Kitty Power! Kitty PO-WAH!

  Squeak Squeak. My Target Merona Zakia rain boots squeaked as I traipsed into the kitchen. I gazed down at my rubber boots, admiring the funky houndstooth vector pattern.

  Mom gasped, “Lili! What happened to your nose?”

  “Don’t ask.” I shot her a morose look.

  My brothers, Norm and Woody, just stared at me as if I were wearing a satellite dish on my head to get better signal reception from the aliens. In other words, they looked at me as if I were Victoria ‘Posh Spice’ Beckham.

  In case you have missed the connection, Mom watched endless Cheers reruns while she was preggos. I thank my lucky stars every day that I only got saddled with Lilith. Mom never ceases to remind me that she almost named me Whoopi.

  “Why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left testicle would you want to name your firstborn child Whoopi?” I’d asked her.

  Her reply? “Once upon a time, some dude named Ted was married to some chick named Whoopi.”

  Pssh! I do not understand grownups. They are seriously bonkerosity. Any person named Whoopi must be off their rocker and a whooping idiot if you ask me.

  In an attempt to make me feel better about my engorged nose, Mom changed the subject. “Nice skinny jeans, honey. Are they new?”

  “Yep, bought them at Abercrombie last weekend.
”

  Dad jogged in, dribbling a basketball. “Skinny jeans. As opposed to what? FAT jeans?”

  Swallowing my annoyance, I forced a laugh. “Whatevs’ dad. And by the way, you have armpit hair sticking out of your sports jersey.”

  “I can dress like this!” he retorted, “I’m a coach.” His scrutinizing gaze travelled down to my footwear. “Did I miss the weather report? Is there a flood somewhere?”

  Mom tutted. “Oh Zachary, that’s just how teenagers dress these days.”

  “What?” Dad snorted. “Like they’re digging for clams? Actually, Lili here looks like a crew member of the Deadliest Catch.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you married to Mom or the Discovery Channel?”

  Dad ignored my jab and tousled my hair. “Big day tomorrow, Liliput.” Then he heaved a big sigh. “My baby girl is growing up. How old will you be again? I forget.”

  I made myself a bowl of cereal—Honey Bunches of Oats. “Old enough to party.”

  Dad did not seem pleased with my answer. So I said with a grave and serious face, “I will be eighteen months and five minutes. For you see, I am what they based The Curious Case of Lilith Button. And each day I grow nearer and nearer to birth . . . Oh! Now it’s sixteen months, twenty days, eighteen hours, five minutes, and two seconds. Soon I will crawl back into Mom’s vagina.”

  Mom just treated me as if I were an inanimate object.

  Woody banged his spoon on the table and howled, “Vagina, vagina, vagina!”

  I gave Woody a crisp nod, for you see, I am primping him for The Vagina Monologues.

  Dad took a sip of coffee, unaffected by Woody’s vagina chant. He reached for The Salt Lake Tribune, flicked the paper, and said pointedly, “Now I understand why some species eat their young.”