Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (10 page)

Bye-bye my little Spelling Bee.

Be safe, keep on spelling and buzz, buzz away.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy, how can I assist?”

“Hello, I’m just calling for shits and giggles. I’ve got a complex question for you, since you’re supposedly a tech whiz.”

“That I am not, but go ahead, what is your complex question sir?”

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

I consider this briefly and pose this question to Mr. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Well sir, if you did not have sexual intercourse with your wife and she’s pregnant, did she have an extramarital affair or is she just the Virgin Mary?”

Click!

We’re in Janis’ basement and as usual, Karsynn and I are glued to the tube, watching the MTV Movie awards with a mixture of titillation and boredom.

I know. We live pretty sad, pathetic lives.

In my defense, Zac Efron is at the awards show, so really, that should explain everything.

Jon Hamm struts on stage to present the next award.

Karsynn swoons. “He is simply bootylicious.”

“Quit talking like Beyonce. By the way
bootylicious
and
booh-tay
are not real words.”
 

Karsynn blanches. “For your info, Beyonce is now known as Sasha Fierce. She can sing, act
and
dance. That sista is a triple threat! And by the way,” she adds. “Booty
is
a real word, it’s in the dictionary.”

“Which one?” I challenge.

“The urban dictionary,” she states matter-of-factly.

“The urban dictionary doesn’t count,” I counter. “You can’t use it in Scrabble.”

“Hah! But I’m pretty sure that in Webster’s dictionary, booty means pirate treasure or prize. So it
is
a real word,” says Kars triumphantly. Then out of nowhere, she lets one rip.

It is mammoth!

Unlike her usual Mount Saint Helen eruptions, this one is a Krakatoan explosion. In fact, it is so massive that the aftershock tremors resonate through the lumpy sofa cushions.

“Your farts stink!” I choke through the fume of flatulence. “It smells like something crawled up your ass and died.”

She looks at me with an expression that says she’s
inordinately pleased with herself. “What? Yours
don’t
stink?”

“Nope! Mine’s all air and packs no punch. But yours, yours are silent killers.” I shudder. “And I even
felt
it,” I add, cringing with disgust.

KAPOW! She swats me with a pillow. “
Feel
this
!”

“OW!” I squawk, half laughing. “You really outdid yourself this time; that one tipped the Richter scale. It was a magnitude of 20.0.”

While I’m no stranger to breaking wind,
Kars actually
trumps me in this sport. We’re in such a comfort zone that whenever I let one loose, Kars will let one rip and announce smugly, “Mine was better.” I’m always happy to concede.

But tonight’s fart episode has got me thinking…maybe we’re getting a little
too
close for comfort. Maybe we need some space.

Maybe it’s time I move out.

Janis and Kars have been nothing but kind and generous, giving me shelter and feeding me for two months. They’ve offered me unlimited hospitality, making it very clear that I can stay for as long as I want. And the last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome.

“Kars,” I say in all-seriousness. “I think it’s time. Time for me to get a place of my own.”

Her face contorts. “You want to move out?”

I nibble my lips. “Umm-hmm.”

Karsynn looks crestfallen. But her state of distress is short lived. “I have an idea!” Her face lights up. “Why don’t we move out
together
and get a two bedroom apartment?”

I pause to allow myself to digest this. Now why didn’t I think of that? I’ll have my own place, I’ll still have my best friend
and
I’ll save on rent money.

“Sure, why not?” I hear myself saying.

“Yes! My mom will be
so
glad to be finally rid of me.”

I fervently shake my head. “Are you kidding me? Kars, your mom will miss you like crazy.”

Honestly, Janis and Kars are joined at the hip, and I envy the strong bond they share. When Kars breaks the news to Janis, I just
know
she’ll be sad to see her baby go.

Hmm, I wonder if
my
mom even misses me.

I doubt it. She’s far too busy with work to even notice I’m gone. My mom is an OBGYN. And if you scramble the letters and use a little imagination, OBGYN sort of resembles G’BYE.

As a kid, that’s exactly what I called her—the
G’BYE
doctor; and quite aptly so as she was always bidding me adieu, rushing off to help deliver some stranger’s baby.

After we lost my dad, things got worse. My mom completely checked out. I
never
saw her. I felt alone, I felt raw, I felt angry, and I would’ve surely gone off the deep end had it not been for my dad’s parting words. He said, “Maddy my love… always stay drunk on writing.”

Whenever I felt down, whenever I missed him, whenever I felt upset, whenever I felt alone, he told me to pick up a pen and just start writing. Anything. My feelings, my dreams, my hopes, my stories. And so I wrote and wrote to blot out the tears, to blot out the hurt, to blot out the pain, to blot out the world.

I wrote until my fingers blistered and bled. Eventually, they hardened and calloused. But it was cathartic, helping me heal in more ways than one. And it solidified my aspirations of becoming a writer.

Just like my dad.

But things don’t always go as planned. Sometimes life throws you curve balls, and you either learn to swerve them, or hit them like there’s no tomorrow.

At this point in my life, I’m just swerving.

I breathe out a heavy sigh. Resigning myself, I pick up my cell and call my mom. It’s been over two months since I’ve left home, yet it never occurred to me to call her sooner.

One summer, I went away to Young Writers Camp.

Oh I know. I was a nerd with a capital N, and that camp was nerd proof
.

When I arrived home, my mom was oblivious to the fact that I had been gone for an entire month; the whole time I was away at nerd camp, she assumed that school was still in session and that she just
happened
to miss me at home. For a month. Go figure.

It’s not like her head was in the clouds or anything like that; she was simply married to her job. While her practice flourished, our relationship wilted.

The only time we spent together was in her Audi, since she chauffeured me to school every morning. During those brief moments, I could chat with her, tell her about my day, ask her about hers…just
be
with her.

But all that changed when I turned fourteen. She dragged me to the DMV, signed me up for a hardship license, and that was the end of that.

Our time together—
finito
. Our relationship—
kaput-o
.

Although my mom’s still around, I feel like I’ve lost her. It’s as if I’ve lost both my parents. What can I say? I’m an orphan, so to speak. Little orphan Annie.

I press the phone to my ear and after a couple of rings, my mom answers, “Hi, dear!” Before I can get a word in edgewise, she launches off, “Honey, you won’t believe this! I’m dating now, he’s an Ob-Gyn. Vince works at the UC Medical Center and I’ve only been seeing him for a month, but I think he’s prefect and—”
 

I cut her off. “Wait. Did you just say he’s an Ob-Gyn?” I ask, feeling somewhat disturbed by this. “Mom, please don’t tell me you’re dating a Vagina Doctor.”

“Oh, Madison!” she scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with male Ob-Gyns.”

“Err, yeah there is. Mom, any man who chooses a profession that involves shoving his hand down a woman’s
pickachu
on a daily basis is seriously a pervo. It’s legalized, medical rape!”

“It’s called a pap smear,” she scolds. “And when was the last time you had one?”

I sigh dramatically. “Mom, I really don’t want some stranger scraping my
pikachu
.”

“I’ll do it,” she insists. “Make an appointment with my clinic.”

“Mom,
stop
. Let’s discuss Vince again. What is he like?”

“
Ahh,
Vince is a wonderful man; a divorcee, no kids. Anyway honey, I’m sorry I’ve missed you at home these past few weeks. I’ve just been
so
caught up with work—and with Vince of course,” she adds impishly.

See, she doesn’t even realize I’m still in The Valley of Potatoes.

“Mom, I’m still in Idaho visiting Kars, remember? And guess what?” I pause for effect. “I’ve got a job here!”

“Well that’s great news honey,” she trills with pleasure. “At a newspaper?”

I clear my throat. “No. At a call center.”

“Honey, the line is fuzzy. All I got was
call
something.” Then she emits a tinkling laugh. “Madison, please don’t tell me you’re a call girl. I raised you better than that.”

“Ha-ha mom. Very funny.
No. I am
not
a prostitute. I work at a call center.” After a beat, I add, “As a customer service rep.”

There is an excruciating pause, a silence bordering on
awkward.
Sheesh!
I’m beginning to think she’d be happier if I
were
a call girl. After all, hookers aren’t reviled as much as
call center reps, even though both professions offer the same service.

Oral service. Sorry, but it begged to be said!

Her voice drips with disappointment. “But Madison,
why
?”

“Well, it’s a job, albeit a thankless one. But a job nonetheless, and I needed one. I was tired of sitting around doing nothing. Plus, it’s not that bad. Really. I’ve even learned a lot,” I gab, trying to remain upbeat and positive for my sake and
hers
.

She perks up. “So tell me, what have you learned?”

“Patience. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve learned to control my tongue.”

This elicits a sardonic
harrumph
from her. “What about the people who work there? What are they like?”

I decide to give her what she expects to hear. “Well where I sit, to the left of me is a beached whale. Three rows in front of me is another beached whale. Four cubicles across, you’ll never guess, another beached whale,” I ramble in a monotone.

I’ve actually gotten to know one of these whales. He’s a five hundred pound Samoan, and his nickname happens to be Tiny.

Now don’t get me wrong; having curves or being curvaceous is good thing but there is ‘
curvy
’ and there is ‘
coronary,
’ and Tiny is a walking heart attack.

Here lies the shocker—Tiny acquired that name because he is actually the
smallest
of all his siblings.

Meanwhile, all I can hear is static on the line.

“What did you say again honey?” Her voice crackles.

“Um, nothing...”

A beat. Another beat.

“Well, if you’re sure about that job, then I guess it’s okay,” she says disconcertedly. After a pause, she adds, “
Really
, there are plenty of
other
jobs out there you know.”

She’s obviously out of touch with reality. “Mom no,
not really
. There are
no
jobs out there. And—”

She cuts me off, “Look sweetie, I must dash! Vincent is taking me to the opera tonight, but you take care of yourself. If you need money, let me know and I’ll wire you some right away. ‘K, love?”

I sigh out loud as she clicks off.

Money will be the last thing I ask of her.

Seven

“
K
AR-SYNN,” I holler with a sense of urgency.

Her head pops out of her cubicle. “What?”

“Get over here,” I command. “NOW!”

Kars races to my cube and I seize her by the shoulders. “You will
not
believe this, but I am talking to a Miss Fuck-a-Lot.”

She stares at me bug-eyed for several minutes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“No I’m not, and yes I
am
talking to a Miss Fuck-a-Lot.”

“No—you—are—NOT,” she says severely.

“Look! Check out her name.” I point at my screen.

Kars peers at my monitor and spells the caller’s name out loud, “F-A-U-G-H-A-L-A-T-T-E.”

“She’s French,” I explain succinctly. “She says it’s pronounced Fuck-a-Lot.”