Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (7 page)

“FIX MY FUCKIN PROBLEM FIRST AND THEN WE’LL SEE YOUNG LADY!”

“Oh-kay sir,” I say in a constricted voice. “First off, let me ask you a few questions to authenticate you.”

The verification process is excruciatingly painful as he is less than cooperative; it’s literally like getting a root canal without anesthesia.

By
some miraculous fluke, I manage to get him authenticated.

“Sir, do you mind if I place you on hold for a few minutes while I do some research?”

“YES! I DO FUCKIN MIND BEING ON HOLD. BUT GO THE FUCK AHEAD! YOU FUCKIN IGNORAMUS NIMROD.”

Welcome to the world of Customer Service.

Now that the A-hole is on hold, I check the intranet site to see if there are any known issues.

I scroll down the list and
Bingo!

There is an outage in Arizona, due to severe thunderstorms late last night that damaged some of our OC3 lines.

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 b
usiness 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 instantly; 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.