Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (17 page)

“Of course!” I say firmly. I mean, how hard can it be? Whenever I’m hungry, I’ll just crack open a can of Ensure.

Janis shakes her head and ushers me into the foyer. “Kars is upstairs in my bedroom watching TV. Go on up, I’ll put these away.”

Obediently, I start for the stairs.

I’d normally insist on helping Janis, but I’m pressed for time. I have to leave for work in exactly thirty five minutes.

The door to Janis’ bedroom is ajar and I spy Karsynn through the opening, propped up
on a La-Z Boy. The TV screen is flickering, but she’s
staring off into space with a faraway look in her eyes. As I stand there observing her, tears begin to well up.

Her entire face is swollen; and her pearly, alabaster skin is now gaunt and sanguine.

Karsynn angles her head slightly and spots me. Instantly, her eyes come to life. “Hey you,” she mumbles, and with her attempt to say those two words, her nose starts bleeding uncontrollably.

“Kars!” I cry in alarm. “Don’t try to talk!”

Oh God. Blood continues gushing out of her nose. In a panic, I grab several wads of tissue and stuff them into her hands.

I tut and fuss about her. “You need anything else?”

She shakes her head and jams tissue up her nostrils.

“I’ll talk. You just listen, okay?”

She nods and fervently points to her iPhone.

I hand it to her and watch as she deftly thumbs in a text.
Within seconds, my phone blares with Springsteen crooning
Born in the USA
. Springsteen’s hit is set as my ring tone and I blame the call center for this travesty. All the callers have me convinced that I’m born in India. Every time I inform them that I’m in Idaho, and
not
India, they flat out refuse to believe me.

Whipping out my BlackBerry, I read Karsynn’s text:

Don’t feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for u, having 2 go in 2 work & get on d bleepin’ phones.

“Oh, Kars,” I gush. “You are one broken jawed trooper.”

In response, she gives me two thumbs up. Then she picks up her iPhone and rapidly texts away. Once again, my BlackBerry blares with Springsteen’s raspy voice.

My cheeks look like a chipmunk preparing 4 winter.

“No they don’t!” I protest, but Kars doesn’t appear to be the least bit convinced.

I watch her nimble and dexterous thumbs work in tandem; then I hear The Boss croon for the third time.

It’s much much worse than I ever imagined :-(

When I look up, I can see the pain in her eyes. I plant my hands on her trembling shoulders, searching her eyes through the flood of tears.

“You’ll be okay,” I soothe.

She
remains inconsolable. Heaving and choking, tears continue splashing down her swollen cheeks.

“You’ll be okay, Kars,” I repeat.

Stifling a sob, she
nods slightly.

I gather her into my arms, and she hugs me back hard.

Eleven

D
i
ng
!

I have a new email in my Outlook inbox.

Usually, I’m inundated with mindless emails that I can’t be bothered to read. But this particular one is a splendid treat. It’s an email from our site director Richard ‘Just-Call-Me-Dick’ Jones. Every time I read his emails, I’m simply appalled by all the spelling errors made by someone in upper management.

C’mon already, you cannot rely on the spell checker. It is not foolproof. And just because you spell a word correctly, it does not mean that it is the correct word.

I skim his email for all the errors.

Cha-Ching! This one is a gold mine.

To: All employees

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Congratulations Alicia Sparks

Please join me in welcoming Alicia Sparks who has just excepted the managerial position for the graveyard shift. This is a very impotent position and I’m vary confident that Alicia will succeed in fool filling all the golds we have set fourth. Alicia brings with her a welt of experience. She holes a degree in unclear physics and she has worked in a call center for moor then fifteen years. Further moor, Alicia has held a position as a teem lead for too years. Were very happy two have her on bored.

Dick Jones,

Site Director, Pocatello ID

“Truong, have you read the email from Dick Jones?”

“No,” he replies absently.

“Read it!” I say gleefully. “It’s littered with spelling errors.”

Truong clicks it open. “Let’s see, what have we got here...um,
unclear
physics? Well, I’ve never understood physics myself.” He snorts. “And why would someone with a degree in nuclear physics want to work in this dump?”

“Who knows?” I shrug. “Hopefully she can spell.”

Truong catches another error. “Impotent?
D’oh
, did he mean
important?
”

“I know.” I snigger. “I wonder if it’s a Freudian slip.”

“Too bad Dick didn’t try to spell
public,
” he smirks and plugs away at his keyboard. Moments later, Truong jabs his mouse pad with a flourish. “I just sent you an email.”

I click it open.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
mis
-spellers

Edumacation is vary impotent four you. Stay in pubic skool.

p/s—I cunt except people who cunt spell. Day rally irrigate me.

pp/s—Two Bee Ore Knot Two Bee, that is the question my fwend.

I roll with laughter. Dick sure out-dicked himself today. I’m sure
nothing
can top that email, but I am in for a pleasant surprise when Outlook alerts me to a new email from none other than Dick Jones. Still exhilarated by Dick’s first email, I proceed to read his second one.

From:
[email protected]

To: All employees

Subject: Clarify Stimulator

We have just launched Clarify Stimulator, which is a fantastic tulle that will help you with you’re call handle thymes. So please keep in mine to use the Stimulator, if your not already doing so.

Dick Jones,

Site Director, Pocatello ID

“Truong, check your email. He sent another one!”

Silence as Truong reads. Seconds later, he falls off his chair, convulsing with laughter.

Tsk-tsk
. Dear Dick Jones…
Sim
ulator and
Stim
ulator mean two very different things.

The Blue Balls Café is pretty empty today. Truong, Mika and I pick a table by a window overlooking an algae choked pond.

Truong has the hawts for Mika, and he has been
bugging me nonstop to hook him up. So here we are in the cafeteria, the three of us, on a lunch date.

Truong is convinced that Mika is gay. The problem with Truong is he thinks
every
cute guy is gay. Over the past couple months my gaydar has vastly improved, thanks to Truong.
But Mika is
not
gay. He is the epitome of straightness.

Truong of course, begs to differ.

Mika bites into his burger and smiles feebly at Truong, who won’t stop making googly-gooey eyes at him. Christ almighty, Truong needs to get a grip on himself.

“Oh, Mika,” he purrs. “You’re such a
cutie patootie
. Where do men like you come from?”

“I’m from Brussels,” says Mika in between chewing.

“Blussels!” echoes Truong. “I just
love
Blussels
splouts
.”

I stare at Truong in blank astonishment. Huh? What can Brussels sprouts the
vegetable
possibly have in common with Brussels the
country
?

Mika appears just as puzzled, but he offers Truong a polite smile. “That’s um, healthy.”

Truong giggles like a giddy, starstruck tween in the presence of Justin Bieber. “I
am a huge fan of
splouts; there’s a Vietnamese noodle dish called Phở and it is served with bean splouts. Have you tried it?”

Mika takes a sip of his Coke. “I like Asian food, but I’ve never had Vietnamese before.”

Truong gasps, “You haven’t? Then you must try Phở noodles! My Aunt Dung’s restaurant specializes in Phở. And let me tell you, her place serves
the
best noodles in town. Would you like to go there some time?”

“Sure,” says Mika. “What is the name of her restaurant?”

“It is called Phở Hoa,” Truong enunciates, suddenly sounding a lot more Vietnamese.

Mika leans back. “Do they mainly serve noodles?”

“Well, they also serve some good lice dishes, but Phở noodles are their specialty. You
must
try it,” he insists.

“I will,” says Mika. “And how do you say Phở
?”

“You say it like this: ‘
fuuuuuuuuuuuh’
,” fuhs Truong.

“
Phuuuuuuuuuuuh
,” mimics Mika.

“No,” corrects Truong. “It’s
fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh
.”

Humph! When Truong first introduced me to Phở noodles, I
was super adventurous. Most first-timers play it safe and order the beginner’s Phở. Not me. Bold and brave, I delved head first into my Phở initiation, ordering the Phở with all the bells and whistles. It came with beef tendons, beef steak, beef tripe, beef flank, beef balls, the whole shebang! Truong was so proud of me.

The next day, he gifted me a T-shirt imprinted with the words ‘Phở King’ and I accepted it with immense reverence. I consider Truong a Phở ambassador, so I embraced the shirt like
it was a gift from Kofi Anan, and even fancied myself a Phở
aficionada, a connoisseur of sorts.

N
ow I realize the joke was on me.

“Truong,” I say sulkily. “You can have your
fuuuuuuuuuuuuh
king T-shirt back.”

He laughs gregariously. “It’s still a cool shirt. No?”

I fix him with a Medusa glare. Unfazed by my paralyzing glare and snake hair, he continues coaching Mika, who still happens to be butchering the Phở word.

Fart. I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.

“Mika,” I cut into their annoying speech lesson, “what do you miss most about your country?”

“My family and the food,” he says without missing a beat.

Truong gushes, “Oh. What’s your favorite food from home?”

Mika’s eyes crinkle. “Belgian
trippe
sausage.”

“Is it a beef or a pork sausage?” I ask with interest.

“It’s made from pork and cabbage. Back home, the sausage is made out of the choicest pork from a recently butchered hog.”

“Ugh,” I groan, feeling slightly squeamish, an image of a pitiful pig popping into my head. It’s fattened up and ready to be slaughtered. Oh no. I hear the distinct high pitched screech of a pig squealing for its dear life.

“
Ooooooooh Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-kaaaaaaaaaaaa
,” shrills Truong.

For a split second there, Truong sounded like a squealing pig.

“Yeah?” says Mika apprehensively.

Truong rests his chin on his dainty wrists. “Have you tried Vietnamese
trippe
sausage?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

Eyeing Mika with a come-hither expression, Truong picks up a french fry and points it to his nether region, an area I prefer not to mention. “Ahem…well, I’ve got one right here.” He grins wolfishly.

Without meaning to, I burst out laughing. But I quickly clap my hand over my mouth when I catch the look on Mika’s face, which has turned several shades of red by now.

“Truong!” I chide. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Thankfully, Mika quickly recovers. Instead of crimson red, his cheeks are now tinged a light pink and he’s smiling, taking it in stride. “Sorry, Truong, I’ll have to decline your offer,” he says good-naturedly.