Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (2 page)

I draw a blank, barely able to form a coherent thought.
Feeling numb, disconnected, and at a complete loss, I find
myself on the verge of hyperventilating.

Just keep breathing, Maddy
, I coach myself. In. Out. In. Out.
Come on Maddy, think.
Think
.

After racking my brain, I say, “There was this one time—”
 

Victor nods and gives me a tentative smile.

Encouraged, I continue, “Well, I was babysitting my grandma’s poodle, Fifi, when all of a sudden Fifi went into a violent seizure. She was frothing at the mouth and thrashing wildly all over the place.” After a brief pause, I add, “It was really traumatizing.”

Victor’s expression is unreadable and he’s madly scribbling away in his binder.

I venture, “Immediately, I dialed 911 and when the operator explained, in no uncertain terms, that they don’t respond to
animal emergencies, I did not panic. I remained calm and asked if she could kindly give me the phone number to the nearest EV.”

Victor looks up from his binder and stares at me blankly.

“Um, that’s short for Emergency Vet...err, just in case you were wondering.”

He motions for me to continue.

“And so I called the clinic, got directions, threw Fifi into my car and drove like a mad woman to the EV,” I gab, hearing the hysteria in my own voice.

Catching myself, I quickly backpedal. “But, I should point out that I
did
drive responsibly.
Yesireee
I did. No reckless driving or speeding on my part. When I said I drove like a mad woman, it was merely a figure of speech.” I let out a shrill laugh.

In reality, it was pedal to the metal. I floored the gas all the way to the EV while Fifi lay comatose in the back seat.

Victor doesn’t laugh. His eyes are hard as he stares at me deadpan.

The seconds tick by. Oh God! I’m completely losing it.

Taking a deep breath, I press on, “Once we arrived at the EV,
Fifi was immediately whisked off and put on some anti-seizure medication.”

Victor is still mute and madly scribbling in his binder. “And what was the outcome?” he asks without looking up.

“Well, they were able to stabilize Fifi for an hour, in time for my grandma to arrive. But…but,” I break off, bite my inner lip and swallow hard.

“But what?” he asks in a cold voice.

“Fifi...um...she eventually died that same night,” I mutter softly, ridiculously close to tears.

Victor stops writing and looks up. “I’m sorry for yours and your grandmother’s loss.”

I nod meaningfully at him. Alas, he has a heart.

Alas not!

Snapping back into business mode, he attacks me with a rapid-fire barrage of outlandish questions:

“Give me an example of a time when you had to deal with a difficult co-worker or fellow student on a project. How did you handle the situation? What were the outcomes?”

“Tell me about a time when you had to persuade someone to see your point of view. What tactics did you use? What were the outcomes? What did you learn?”

“Describe a time when you were assigned a task but were provided little direction on how to complete the task. What steps did you take to complete the task? What was the outcome?”

My brain is aching.

No, scratch that. My brain is
hemorrhaging
as I try to come up with answers that make sense. But Victor doesn’t stop and the questions keep whizzing at me like poisoned arrows.

Feeling woozy, I place a clammy hand to my forehead to quell the throbbing ache.

I struggle and fumble through it all while Victor just keeps on writing everything down in his stupid binder.

My scrambled brain is screaming, “Enough!”

One hour later—though it feels more like eons later to me—the appalling interrogation is finally over.

Phew.
I sag with relief.

“We’ll call you in about a week after your background check goes through,” he informs me in a brisk voice.

I nod with my head hunched down.

Defeated, battered and bruised, I wobble out of the war zone, my
jelloid
legs barely holding me up.

Kars is in my face all at once. “How’d it go?”

Frazzled to bits and a complete basket case at this point, I say dazedly, “I think I bombed it.”

“Gak!” she blurts in a panic. “I think I’m next.”

That very second, the door creeks open and General Petraeus’ square head pops out. “Miss Karsynn Higginbotham?”

I shoot her a look of doom and she shoots me back a look of gloom as she’s marched into Guantanamo Bay.

Two

I
don’t mean to toot my own horn, but TOOT!!! TOOT!!!

We got the jobs! And Lord only knows how. Either Karsynn and I aced our interviews, or Lightning Communications are just really desperate. Whatever the case, I’m not complaining.
   

Kars fiddles with her iPod and soon ABBA’s
Dancing Queen
is blaring from the speakers. Bouncing up and down, we pound our jubilant fists in the air and break into our signature celebratory dance. It involves a shimmy, a jiggle, a wiggle, and a smack on the tush.

Today, we celebrate and tomorrow we start our first day of a six-week long training. I know.
Six weeks!

Apparently, there’s a
lot
to learn.

Kars and I have no sense of direction. Although we arrive at the call center fifteen minutes early, it takes us an eternity to locate the training room. We flounce around like two headless chickens, dodging through hallways, trying to orient ourselves, and half an hour later, we find it!

Wheezing and panting, we creep into class. I’m stumbling across the training room when this dreamy looking guy catches my eye.

He’s smolderingly gorgeous. He’s so incredibly hot that clouds seem to part, and he radiates from within like Helios the Sun God. I guess Greek mythology serves a purpose after all. I even hear a choir of angels singing. And a string quartet playing, with several harps strumming fluidly in the background.

Miraculously, despite the fact that I’m lost in my own ancient Grecian musical odyssey, and
in my own thoughts of the Sun God, I somehow manage to make my way to the
back of the classroom, straight into the empty seat right next to
him
. Score!
 

Kars plops down next to me, oblivious to his beauty. She only fancies men with all the B’s—big, butch, burly, buffed, and with bulging biceps aka beefcakes extraordinaire.

I prefer my men lean and tall, with sculpted features. Kars calls them pretty boys, but I beg to differ. They’re just more evolved and look less like apes.

“Class,” a petite, pasty blond guy calls our attention. “I think everyone is here now. I’ll be passing out this sheet of paper. Please write your name down so I know you’re present. My name is Glenn Bland and I’ll be your trainer for the next six weeks.”

I have no idea what transpires after that as all my energy is focused on that piece of paper. I watch it pass from hand to hand, and finally into the hands of the Greek God.

After scribbling down his name, he turns to me. “Here,” he says, arm outstretched.

“Thanks.” I reach for the sheet of paper.

For a brief second, our eyes lock and I feel myself going weak in the knees.

Swoon
. He’s even better looking up close.

He has gorgeous green eyes, as green as the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day. Before signing my name, I scan the paper for his...Mika Harket.

Hmm
, sounds foreign. I wonder where he’s from
.

Kars nudges me. “Pay attention. Be a sponge. Soak it in.”

She’s right. I don’t want to be thrown into shark
infested waters only to flail away and drown. I need to learn how to swim now. Right now, as a matter of fact.

So for the first hour, I listen intently to Glenn, hanging raptly onto his every word as he drones about T1 and
T3
lines, optical carriers—
OC12
,
OC3
, routers, networks, internet protocols, error messages, covering every mundane detail under the sun.

I find myself yawning appallingly, trying hard to cover my gaping mouth. Glenn’s voice is soothing; hush and velvety, like a lullaby. By the second hour, I’m dozing off and Kars is miles away in snooze land, leaning against me. Her mouth hangs open and drool seeps out, sopping my hair.

Gently, I extricate myself from the drool monster and rub my temples. Oh God. How the hell am I supposed to survive through six grueling weeks of this mind numbing crap?

Then out of nowhere, Glenn clears his throat. “Now if you’ll
get together in groups of four, we’re going to do some fun
exercises to wake you guys up.”

I jolt Kars awake from her siesta. She yawns and stretches out like a Siamese cat. “What’s going on?” she asks groggily.

“Groups, we need to get into groups.”

Mika turns to me. “Can we join you guys?”

“Sure!” I flash him a bright smile.

Our team huddles in a circle, and I notice the
other
girl for the first time. She’s a gorgeous, willowy, blond überbabe, oozing the sex appeal of a Victoria’s Secret model.

Wait. I think they’re called Victoria’s Secret
Angels
.

We make our introductions.

Kars just grunts her name and I say coolly, “I’m Maddy.”

“Mika,” he says with a casual nod.

And in a girly, high pitched ring, the Victoria’s Secret Angel chimes, “My name iz Ingeborg.”

Whoa! She sings like a nightingale, but what a name!

Meanwhile, Kars is making a highly unsuccessful attempt to suppress a snort. I studiously ignore her, trying my best to be gracious to our newfound friends.

I decide to make some small talk. “So, Mika, where are you from?”

“Belgium,” he replies with a faint accent.

Kars pipes in with her big mouth, “Hey, you guys make the best chocolates ever!” She pauses for a beat and then adds, “Or is it waffles?” Suddenly she has an epiphany and answers her own dim witted, asinine question, “Oh I know! You guys make the best Belgian chocolate waffles!”

I make an apologetic grimace.

God. Kars can be so embarrassing at times.

I turn to the überbabe. “Where are you from, Ingeborg?”

“I’m from Pazardzhik, vhich iz in zouthvest Bulgaria,” she singsongs sweetly.

Instinctively, I shoot Kars-the-loose-cannon a quelling look.

Uh-oh. I can see the wheels whirring about in her head, but before I can intercept, Kars blurts, “Bulgur wheat!”

Ingeborg
squints and shoots Kars a peculiar look.

Thankfully, Glenn shimmies over and briskly hands out four sheets of paper. “Guys, I want you all to work together and figure out these brain teasers.”

After taking a minute to study it, I glance at my teammates. “Okay, first one—Hamlet Words. Anybody?”

Karsynn yawns and bats her eyelids like she’s not remotely interested. I’m pretty sure she knows the answer but she just can’t be bothered. I, on the other hand, have a man I want to impress. I need to bowl Mika over with my wit and intelligence.

I jerk my head at Ingeborg, but she looks lost in space.

Mika shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t know the answer either.”

“Okay then, how about...a play on words?” I eye my teammates, trying to gauge their responses.

They nod approvingly, and so I jot down the answer.

I move on to the next teaser. “Second one.
Hmm,
there’s just nothing there.”

I get two blank stares and another big yawn from Kars.

“Let’s see, how about...a blank slate? Or
tabula rasa
?” I suggest.

Ingeborg gives me a puzzled look, as if I had just been speaking ancient Sanskrit. “Vhat did you say? Did you speakity Spanish?”

“
Tabula rasa
?” I repeat. “No, it’s Latin for ‘blank slate’.”

Ingeborg shakes her head. “Szorry, I don’t gezt it.”

“It’s the concept of a young mind that hasn’t yet been affected by experience,” I find myself explaining.

“Yep, learned that in my psych class,” Karsynn quips with a scholarly nod. “The whole nurture versus nature thingamajig.”

“Kars,” I say in a teasing voice. “Why thank you for gracing us with your presence.”
 

She ignores my jab and tilts her chin at Ingeborg. “Do you want to hear more about this whole
tabula rasa
theory?”