Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (11 page)

There is an instant palpable hush.

Kars stares at me deadpan.

Seconds later, we explode into a spasm of giggles.

“Hello? Anybody there?” An agitated voice crackles in my ear.

My laughter instantly evaporates. Whoopsie! I forgot Miss Fuck-a-Lot is still on MUTE.

Remorse washes over me. I feel terribly awful for neglecting her.

Shoot! I have no idea what she’s been harping about for the past five minutes. As soon as she said her name, I pushed MUTE so she couldn’t hear my gales of laughter and screamed for Kars.

“
Merde,
I have to get back to her,” I say wistfully.
“
Mais c'est chouette, les name est magnifique.
”

Kars tuts, “
Sacré bleu
! Zut Alors! Au revoir
Mademoiselle
Fuck-a-Lot.
”
Then she shimmies over to Ingeborg’s cubicle.

Keeping half an ear turned to their conversation, I catch some snippets, something about French people having the best names
au contraire
, followed by Karsynn’s wild and infectious laughter echoing through the maze of cubicles.

Poor Miss Fuck-a-Lot. Oh to be cursed with such a name.

After composing myself, I release the MUTE key. “I’m
so
sorry Miss Fuck-a-Lot, but we have a
really
bad connection. You were breaking up there for bit,” I say in my most apologetic voice and proceed to give her my full and undivided attention.

Moments later, I’m still assisting Miss Fuck-a-Lot when I hear Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi’s ear-shattering scream.

Uh oh, her meeting must be over now.

“Karsynn! You’ve been in NOT READY for over ten minutes. GET BACK ON THE PHONES RIGHT NOW!” The
Führer blasts, sending shock waves throughout the entire center
.

Karsynn stiffens, collects herself and scuttles like a cockroach to her cubicle.

When we’re not slaving away in Hell, we’re apartment hunting, which ends up consuming our entire weekend.

Pocatello Plaza is the eighth apartment complex we’ve looked at so far, and eight is certainly the charm.

“This is
the
one!” Karsynn cheers while doing a cartwheel in the middle of the living room.

I shake my head, marveling at her boundless energy; she’s the Energizer Bunny on speed.

As I pace the floor, going back and forth between the kitchen and living room, one word keeps repeating in my head—Love!

It even features vaulted ceilings!
Ahhh
. A warm and virtuous glow envelops me. I’m standing in the Sistine Chapel. Now all I need is a Michelangelo mural on the ceiling.

Gazing out the lofty bay windows, I gasp with joyful wonder; it bestows upon me a picturesque view of the Rocky Mountains.

I’m sold!

Satisfied with our decision, we sign on the dotted line.

Rent will be $950, plus we’ll have to fork over another $900 for the security deposit. Well, that just about wipes out most of my earnings. But, it’s worth it. My heart is bursting with joy.

“I feel like a grown-up now,” I say jubilantly, as we leave our future pad behind.

Kars flashes a full-wattage grin. “Amen sista. We’ll have our very own place.”

Moving day arrives before we know it. Mika offered to help us move, and his offer was snapped up without a moment’s hesitation. We need all the muscles around to lift our bulky stuff, and so our Man-with-the-Muscles Mika is on site, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, raring to go.

Kars puts him to work right away. Upon discovering that the elevator was kaput, Kars conveniently placed herself in charge, appointing herself Directress of Project Move.

Mika rubs his palms together. “Where is this sofa going?”

“Way up to the top,” says Kars, not trying to hide a smirk.

I smile at him sheepishly. “Sorry, Mika, we’re on the top floor and that makes it twelve flights of stairs.”

“Hey, it’s not a problem for me. But will you be okay, Maddy?”

“Me? Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I mutter somewhat dubiously, fully aware of the insurmountable task ahead.

Kars wastes no time in cracking her whip. “Maddy! Mika! Ready, Set, HEAVE!”

Mika lifts one end of the sofa while I grasp the other end. Like Sherpa carriers, we begin our ascent of Katmandu.

“Urnnggh,” I grunt, using every inch of my body, every ounce of strength to lift and mount the steps.

This sofa, donated to us courtesy of Janis, weighs a ton.

Janis treated herself to a brand spanking new Pottery Barn slip-covered sofa, on the assumption that she’ll be rolling in the Benjamins for getting us the jobs.

Apparently, referral money is big money.
     

While I’m struggling under the weight of the sofa, Mika seems to be doing just fine. He lugs the sofa with ease, while I’m sweating from the sheer exertion, wheezing and panting, trying to keep up. But that’s totally fine with me because right this very minute, I have the best aerial view in Pocatello.

Each time Mika flexes his toned forearms, his T-shirt hitches up a few inches. And the sight of his sun bronzed, chiseled body unsettles me. My liquid eyes linger on his washboard abs; beads of sweat accumulate on his pecs, glistening in the afternoon sun.

Phew.
I wipe my brow. It’s getting hot in here.

I find myself entranced by his taut skin, and the tiny trail of fine hair that leads down, down, down to his…
Gulp.

I’m hiking down the Treasure Trail.
Sexy music playing in the background.
I’m wandering down the Happy Trail.

“To the left,” Kars yells like a drill sergeant and I’m thrown off the Happy Trail.

Sweat pouring down my face, I glower at her belligerently. She’s taking her job a little
too
seriously, barking out orders with a ruthless ferocity as Mika and I clumsily navigate the sofa up the narrow stairs. She has zero compassion for her Sherpa carriers.

“Maddy! Move! Keep MOOOVING!” Kars screams in my ear.

In between ragged breaths, I manage, “Just in case you’ve forgotten Kars, I’m Maddy your BFF, (
WHEEZE)
not Maddy the Mule.”

Mika’s eyes flash with concern. “You want to take a break?”

“Nurrggghh,” I grunt, wearing a determined expression, but I seriously doubt I’m fooling anyone. “I’m fine. Let’s...nurgh...keep go-ingggg.”

Karsynn booms, “THAT’S RIGHT, KEEP GOING! YOU’VE GOT TEN MORE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS TO GO!”

In retrospect, we could’ve picked an apartment unit on the first floor. But Kars insisted that we live on the top floor.

I had
some initial qualms, but after my eyes were treated to the spectacular view from the top, I knew I just
had
to be up high,
scraping the skies.

Now that I’m lugging this bulky sofa up these endless flights of stairs, I think that was quite possibly the
stoooopidest
decision ever.

What the hell were we thinking?

After mountaineering the sofa up to the very peak, we tackle two queen sized mattresses, two box springs, our fifty inch LCD TV, two headboards, the dining table, the side tables, the lamps, loads and loads of boxes filled with clothes, cooking utensils and all our mindless crap.

By the time we’re done carting everything up to Unit 12 B, I’m about ready to pass out.

“I-I think my back is broken.” I collapse onto the floor and spread my arms and legs out eagle-style.

Even Mika is slightly out of breath. “You okay, Maddy?”

I whimper, “I think I’m going to
die
.”

Karsynn surveys the damaged goods (Mika and I) with both hands on hips. “You two did a great job.”

I glare at her with an expression of an axe murderer.

All she did was scream, “A little to the left, a little to the right.”

In a futile attempt to redeem herself, Kars begins handing out bottles of Fiji water. “You two take it easy. I’ll be arranging the furniture.”

“Go right ahead.” I lie lifeless on the floor, while Kars shuffles a coffee table around me.

Mika hauls himself off the countertop. “I’ll help you out,” he offers and gets right to work.

I refuse to budge. My joints have swelled up so much it looks like I’m suffering from elephantiasis.

And when I move my knees, I hear a “Snap, Crackle, and Pop” sound.

I’ll surely need to see a chiropractor after this debacle.

On a positive note, this whole experience has given me a newfound respect for
Two Men and a Truck Co. and Starving Students Moving Company.

Fully exhausted after the Big Move, we gather in the kitchen to replenish our fluids.

“Mika, we want to treat you to a nice meal for helping us. Pick a restaurant,” I say, crossing my arms.

Mika mimics me. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his sexy, sweaty body against the refrigerator.

“Nah, you girls don’t have to buy me dinner. It was nothing.”

Kars grumbles, “Just tell us where you want to go eat! We’re
friggin
’ starving here.”

“In that case, what about IHOP?” he suggests.

“IHOP? You want pancakes for dinner?” I ask, just to be sure and he nods. “Mika,” I say mildly, “I love breakfast any time of the day, but we want to take you to a
nice
restaurant, somewhere slightly more upscale. I’m sorry, but the International House of Pancakes is
not
a restaurant. It’s a diner. And we can make you pancakes any day.”

“Yeah! Now hurry up and pick a nice restaurant.” Kars taps her foot impatiently.

“How about Red Lobster? Ingeborg’s working there tonight, and I have to pick her up after her shift ends.”

“Red Lobster it is.” I slide off the kitchen countertop.

Mika looks from me to Kars. “Do I have time to go home and take a shower?”

“NO!” we holler in unison.

Red Lobster is an absolute madhouse and the flustered hostess informs us it’ll be a forty minute wait. Figures; it’s a Saturday night. So we sit and wait like hungry wolves.

I spot Ingeborg at the bar and nudge Mika, gesturing in her direction. But he already sees her.

Gak! My mind has a hard time parsing the sequence of events that follow. Ingeborg is flirting with some old geezer. Now, geriatric geezers can be vaguely attractive, especially if they resemble silver haired foxes the likes of Richard Gere, Liam Neeson, Colin Firth, Rufus Sewell, Eric Bana and Clooney. Heck, I’ll even lump centenarian Clint Eastwood into that category.
  

But this particular geezer isn’t a silver haired fox. In fact, he’s a hairless Sharpei, and his splotchy paws are mauling the fair Ingeborg.

Sharpei leans forward and whispers something in Ingeborg’s ear. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she spills onto his lap.

The Sharpei morphs into a massage monster, squeezing and kneading her flesh like dough. And sweet Ingeborg seems to be enjoying it in a very uninhibited way.

I stare agog.

Kars is gawking.

Mika’s face is ashen.

At once, he springs to his feet and advances on them.

“Uh oh,” I groan.

Mika stands rigidly behind Ingeborg and the Sharpei, his jaw clenched and his fists balled.

“Yeah! You go get him, Mika! Deck him! Pummel and pumice him to a pulp! Rearrange his face!” Karsynn riles.

I shush her. “Kars! This isn’t funny!”

Mika’s face tightens as they continue with their shenanigans.

I can’t believe it! Ingeborg and Sharpei are so enamored with each other that they’re totally oblivious to Mika.

After an excruciatingly painful minute, he taps Ingeborg on her shoulder. She cranes her neck and nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Busted,” blurts Kars.

“She’s got Mika,” I say, clearly stupefied. “What is she doing with some dude who looks like a cross between an old dyke and a Sharpei?”

“Who knows? If she wanted to date an aging, bitchy
lezzie
, she could’ve just hooked up with Hillary.”

Mika and Ingeborg appear to be in a heated argument.

I strain my ears to listen, but can barely make out a word.

Seeing his opening for escape, Sharpei scampers off with his tail tucked between his legs. How cowardly!

Meanwhile, Ingeborg and Mika are still squabbling like a pair of seagulls. Suddenly, Ingeborg spins on her heels and darts into the kitchen, and poor Mika just stands there, looking positively crushed. Eventually, he makes his way back to us.