Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (13 page)

“One moment please,” I sing-song sweetly.

Sure thing you filthy, foul mouthed bloke!
Swearing every two seconds just showcases your limited vocabulary. But I do find it mildly amusing when Brits use the word ‘sod.’ Although I am fully aware of its intended meaning, it always reminds me of a chunk of lawn.

I jab the HOLD button and saunter to The Führer’s lair.

She’s not there, and so I wander through the maze of cubicles, trying to track her down. It doesn’t take long, since she is Hillary the GIANT Not Ready Nazi after all.

I spot her chatting with another supervisor.

Standing ten feet away, I linger and lurk.

When two supervisors are in the middle of a conversation, you don’t interrupt, you just lurk in the background. Just as I’m doing now.

Lurking.

Oh brother!
Tuning in to their conversation, I discover it’s the same topic I’ve heard over a gazillion times. Hillary is regaling stories of her glory days, competing in the Beijing Olympics on the U.S. Volleyball team.

Oh God. Here we go again.
Hillary continues to brag, brag and brag, while the other
supervisor,
Stalin, tries unsuccessfully to ingratiate himself into the conversation.

Poor Stalin can’t seem to get a word in edgewise.

Ten minutes later, the brag session is finally over and Hillary turns her attention to me. “What’s going on?” she asks frostily.
 

“I’ve got an escalation.”

“What’s it about?” she asks with a significant lift of her brow.

Every time I see her caterpillar unibrow, I have the strongest urge to pluck it out. “I tried verifying him, but he won’t let me; he’s pretty irate and hostile and, um...he loves dropping the F bomb.”

Hillary seethes with rage. She absolutely loathes it when the callers curse and she hates it even more when they refuse to let us verify them. After all, security is paramount and we have nothing but their best interests at heart.
COUGH.

Hillary elbows me aside and bulldozes back to her desk while I scurry behind.

Whoa! Look out! Hillary looks totally riled, like a raging bull ready to charge at a flapping red cloth. From my cubicle, I watch the bull in action as she jams on her headset, pounds the keyboard with fervor, glares at the monitor and signals for me to transfer the call.

With the utmost pleasure, I do just that. “Sir, thank you so much for holding. I’m sorry for that long wait, but I do have my supervisor on the line now, her name is Hillary, and she’ll take very good care of you from here.”

As I release the call, I catch this fiery glint in Hillary’s eyes.

It’s going to be a
slaughterfest
.

Yeah! You go get him Hell-raiser Hillary!

Trample him! Go for the kill!

Eat him alive and spit him back across the pond!

In times like these, I’m actually glad Hillary is my supervisor. When it’s time to go into battle and engage in enemy warfare, she’s a formidable opponent, and someone I’m very thankful is on my side.

Eight

G
asp
!
The rumors are true.

My head is spinning as I stare at my best friend in disbelief.

“Kars—you
cannot
go out with him,” I implore. “He’s
married for God’s sake.”

She stares at the ground and takes a drag off her cigarette.

“You’re Karsynn for crying out loud.
Kar-synn
. With a K and a Y. You’re supposed to fall for guys named Kayson, River, Leaf or Joaquin. Not—” I break off. “Not Bob the Builder who looks like Joe the
friggin
’ plumber.”

She crosses her arms. “Stop talking like Sarah Palin!”

“It was McCain the Maverick,” I correct.

“What?” Her voice rises in irritation.

“John McCain was the one who brought up Joe the Plumber.”

“It wasn’t him,” she rebuffs huffily. “It was Palin.”

“Oh who cares! Quit changing the subject. We’re discussing Bob now. BOB—Bob the Builder,” I say, barely suppressing a snort.

Kars rolls her eyes and takes another drag from her Marlboro Light.

“Besides, you’re into the B guys—big, burly, beefcakes with bulging biceps,” I remind her. “You can’t turn around and date a P guy.”

Kars sputters, “What the heck is a P guy?”

“A P guy,” I repeat succinctly, “pudgy, porky, paunchy, potato head.”

“Bob is not a potato head!”

“Oh yeah he is,” I say with gumption and proffer, “and, here’s more Ps for you—he’s a pig-headed player who’s putrid, puerile, pathetic, and makes me want to puke!”

“Well you know what? At least Bob is circumcised,” she fires back with a vindictive smirk.

I blink. What the hell is she talking about?

Then the penny finally drops.

“First of all, I am
not
sleeping with Mika. How dare you even insinuate that? And don’t you bring Mika into this when I’m not even dating him.” After a pause, I add, “And what makes you think that
all
European men aren’t cut?”

Karsynn blows cigarette smoke out of her nose.

Humph. Little does she realize how ridiculous she looks when smoke is only coming out through
one
of her nostrils.

“Kars, that was a pretty low blow. You—you home wrecker!”

“Bob doesn’t have any kids,” she snaps. “So there’s no home to wreck!”

My voice drops to a solemn whisper. “The sanctimony of their marriage...of their love…is...
was
...their home. And you took that away.” I swallow hard.

“Quit being so pious and melodramatic! There was never any love on his part; he told me so! He doesn’t love her!”

I cannot believe she’s fallen for his line of bull crap. “Kars, if he cheats on his wife, what’s to say that he won’t cheat on you?” I beseech. “He’ll never leave his wife and even if he—”

“He will,” she interjects with surprising force and conviction.

Well, she certainly has some Pollyanna notions regarding this whole farce. I smile in an exhausted way. “Okay, let’s just say he does. Then what? You will always have trust issues. When Bob is out late and you’re at home all alone, you’ll always wonder if he’s with
another
woman.”

A beat of silence ensues.

“He’ll change,” she manages at last.

“Yeah right he’ll change,” I scoff theatrically. “When pigs fly.”

Karsynn chucks her ciggy to the ground and grinds it under her foot. “Well maybe I’m his Angelina.”

I guffaw and almost choke on my own saliva. “
Puh
-lease
, Bob
Seely
is no Brad Pitt. And don’t you even
go
there.”

This topic has always been a hotbed of controversy between us. While my loyalties lie with Team Anniston, Kars has always been a staunch supporter of the Jolie-Pitt camp, and we have never seen eye to eye on this one.

I abhor men who cheat on their wives and despise women who sleep with married men, and now I’m torn because my best friend is one of
those
women.

Even worse, she’s in total denial.

In denial + stubborn + date a cheater = doormat.

I want to shake her until she sees sense. If I can help it, I will not allow my best friend to become some scumbag’s doormat. Or anyone’s doormat for that matter.

Try as I may, convincing Kars this is all wrong is turning out to be much harder than I had thought it would be.

Time to shift gears. Digging in my heels, I plead in a serious, no-nonsense tone, “Kars, please don’t violate
women code.
”

“Women code?” she huffs haughtily.

“Yes. Women code,” I repeat. “And cardinal rule number one of women code—you do not steal another woman’s husband!” I say tersely. “Some men behave like farm animals, and women owe it to one another to practice restraint. We must stick together. You know,
Solidarity to the Sisterhood
and all that. We need to look out for one another and abide by women code!”

“I didn’t
steal
her husband. Bob loves
me.
”

“Well then make sure you head over to Petco,” I say wearily.

“The pet store? For what?”

“To buy your boyfriend a leash.”

In one last ditch effort, I say, “Look, Kars, the fact that he’s married aside, dating a co-worker is just plain stupid, okay? It’s like eating and taking a
shadoobie
at the same place. You just don’t
do
that!”

“Quit badgering me! If I want to date Bob, it’s my business,
not yours
!” she says sharply.

I flinch and recoil like I’ve been slapped. Kars has never lashed out at me like that.

“Our lunch is up. We should go back inside now,” she mutters in a dismissive tone. “And leave me the hell alone!” Spinning on her heels, she stalks off in a fury.

“Karsynn!” I call out to her retreating back. But she just picks up her pace. For some inexplicable reason, I find myself racing to catch up with her. In no time, I’m hot on her heels and my stride matches hers, but we walk back to our cubicles in dead silence.

I don’t know what to say to my best friend anymore.

It has been almost a week now, and we’re
still
not speaking. I’m a complete wreck, and it hurts that a snake-in-the-grass like Bob Seely has come between us.

Truong instantly knows something’s amiss and tries his best to cheer me up with heap loads of food. His family owns a Japanese restaurant, even though they’re Vietnamese (there’s more money to be made in Japanese food, he once explained), and every day, Truong waltzes into work bearing a bounty of sushi rolls—California rolls, Caterpillar rolls, Spider rolls, Spicy Tuna rolls, Maki rolls. A whole smorgasbord of sushi rolls!

Usually, I’m always happy to indulge. But today, I’m feeling out of sorts. Gingerly, Truong slides a paper plate on my desk, stacked high with Caterpillar rolls and Spider rolls.

Bless his heart. He knows the critter rolls are my favorite.

“Eat something,” he cajoles.

“Thanks, Truong,” I mutter despondently.

Unfazed by my misery, he says, “I blought something extla for you.” He lifts the lid off a Styrofoam container. “Would you like some flied lice?”

Truong still can’t pronounce the letter ‘r’ no matter how hard I coach him. In his defense, he’s only lived in the States for five years, and so he still struggles with the language. But it’s mainly with the pronunciations; his vocabulary is vast and spectacular.

I shake my head. “No thanks, Truong, I’m not in the mood for some fried parasite. But thanks.”

One hour later, Truong and I log off our phones. It so happens that we’re scheduled for our breaks at the same time, and we decide to just chill at our cubicles. I don’t hang out with Karsynn on my breaks anymore. That’s a thing of the past. She’s far too busy canoodling with Bob and I’m shocked by her abrasiveness. Cavorting openly with a married man?

It just ain’t right.

Consequently, our friendship has become strained, and we’ve been avoiding each other, which is a difficult thing for me to do when we’ve never gone so much as a day without talking.

Plus, I haven’t even seen much of Mika lately, or Ingeborg for that matter. Not after their heated spat at the Red Lobster.

Lately, I’ve been navigating Mika’s moods, and his forecast has been stormy, gray and cloudy; his demeanor tells me he wants to be left alone, and so I keep my distance.

Whenever our paths cross, we wave, say Hi, put on a happy facade. Although outwardly friendly, our exchanges are more a strained politeness.

Ingeborg keeps mostly to herself, Mika is in his own gloomy world and Kars is hiking the Appalachian Trail, violating
women code
.

But that’s okay, I have Truong. I watch him attack his food with wanton abandon. Sniffing deeply, I am rewarded with the sweet aroma of fried rice.

Ahh
, nothing beats fried rice from a restaurant.

No matter how hard I try, I simply can’t duplicate this dish at home. I firmly believe that you need the scorching fire from a gas stove to heat up the wok to insanely high temperatures. One afternoon, after watching Iron Chef Chen Kenichi whip up a dish of fluffy fried rice, I became inspired. I puttered around my kitchen trying to mimic it. It was disastrous! Cooking fried rice on my electric stove, in the absence of high heat, was crippling.

My mouth waters at the sight of Truong’s fluffy fried rice.

He wags his wooden chopsticks. “Changed your mind?”