Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (33 page)

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.

Rubbing my palms together and with a million dollar smile plastered on my face, I click submit.

That felt
sooooooooooo
good.

The Quality Assurance agents in this call center are like the Sicilian Mafioso. They run amok on a
power trip, terrorizing us with failed monitors
and shoddy quality scores. It’s a classic case of an over abuse of power. Instead of helping us perform our jobs, they hinder us.

Seriously, I get marked down for every petty, ridiculous and egregious thing. The Quality Assurance agents go through a long check list:

#1. Did you thank the customer for calling?

#2. Did you say, “Yes, I can help you with that.”

And on and on it goes.

Recently, I got marked down because I said, “Yes, I can look into that matter for you.” Essentially, it’s the
same
as informing the caller, “Yes, I can help you with that.”

But
nooooooo, n
ot to the QA mob and their convoluted logic. They struck me down hard for not using the
exact
and
precise
wording. My failed monitors used to anger me to no end, but now I just find it downright laughable.

The QA Assholes don’t use their brains, instead relying on a stupid and restrictive check list. The check list is merely there to serve as a guideline, and it’s certainly not meant to replace their brains. But in the QA mob’s case, I guess you can’t replace something that you don’t already have.

Truong calls them the KGB, and quite aptly so. They’re the secret police of this fascist regime. Every single word we utter is subject to their scrutiny.

We’re held hostage by the KGB and their crazy cronies; they suppress our voices, our ideological subversion, and worst of all, they suppress who we are as human beings.

Consequently, my calls end up sounding scripted, like a robot with no life, no emotions.

I’ve already been slapped with two failed monitors this month. What’s next?

“Maddy,” growls The
Führer. “Log
out of your phone and come see me at my desk.”

Egad! I spoke too soon.

I march to her cubicle with a sense of foreboding. “You wanted to see me?” I hover anxiously by her side.

“Sit!” Her face hardens and she whips out a black folder.

Cautiously, I take a seat.

She yanks my Performance Review out of the black folder and slams her fist on the desk like a sledgehammer. “Look at this! Just
look
at this will you? You have NOT made your sales quota this month, and you barely scraped through last month!”

A cry of fear escapes my lips.

“On top of that, you’ve had several failed QA monitors. When your stats look bad, I look bad!” She gnashes her teeth. “So far, I’ve been very lenient and merciful in spite of your unacceptable performance. But not anymore!”

I manage a feeble smile. Merciful? Um, if that’s her mercy, I’d hate to see her vengeance.

“Your quality has to be on par too!” She shoots me a vicious look. “Remember, SERVICE OVER SALES!”

I bob my head up and down, obediently playing along.

Riiiiight.
Then how come seventy percent of my Performance Review—which incidentally, is what determines my raise next year—is based entirely on sales? Only ten percent is based on my quality scores.

Service over Sales?
Pssh!
Horseshit!

“And your handle time is way too high! Keep your calls within two minutes! Lower handle time equals more calls. The more calls you take, the more you can sell. Get it?” she shrills.

“Uh-huh,” I squeak.

“And explain all this tardiness!” she barrels on. “How come you logged in from your break one minute late yesterday and two minutes late on Tuesday? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”