Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (20 page)

Oh dear God. This is so racist! I find myself cringing at all the clichéd racist rhetoric; but at the same time, it’s like watching an episode of
The Office
with Steve Carell, only in this case, the acting is horrendous and there appears to be a haze tinting the picture reminiscent of B rated movies.

Although I’m trying so hard to suppress my laughter, a loud snort escapes me.

Linda shoots me a quelling look.

“I have Hispanic blood in me.
I swear
,” I cry defensively.

And I do. My dad’s great granny is part Mexican; so since I am part Latina, that makes it okay. I am allowed to be tickled by a racist Mexican joke, at least by Linda’s accounts.

Slightly vexed, Linda shakes her head.

In the next scene, a guy is watching his co-worker (a curvy woman) devour a Snickers bar. The woman makes an offhanded comment about how she shouldn’t be eating chocolate, since it is so fattening.

To which the guy responds, “As long as your fat stays in the right places, all the men will still be chasing you.”

Kars whispers in my ear, “Bob actually said that to me.”

“What?” I balk. “He is such a douchelord! A deity among douches!”

Linda glares at us, clearly annoyed. “
Sssshhhh
.” Obviously, she’s taking this training
way
too seriously.
  

Two hours later, the Diversity-Sensitivity training is over.

Dammit! Now we have to hop back on the phones.

Before we step out, Linda halts us. “Now, if you’re working on Christmas, please do
not
wish the callers Merry Christmas; instead, say Happy Holidays, okay?”
 

“Okay,” we say brightly, wide-eyed with innocence.

Linda chides, “Girls, remember! Be mindful! We live in a multicultural country. So you don’t want to offend the Jews, the Muslims, the Hindus, the Buddhists—”

“Or the atheists or agnostics,” adds Kars with a faint smirk.

“Or them either,” agrees Linda in all seriousness.

I smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be
very
sensitive. We won’t offend anybody’s religion, race, culture, nationality—”

Kars jumps in, “Language, sexual orientation, disability, size, marital status, beliefs, education, lifestyles, gender or physical appearance.”

I nod fervently. “Rest assured, Linda, I shall not discriminate, segregate or abate.”

Linda’s mouth parts and stays parted. Eventually, she says, “Now girls, you have ten more minutes before you’re scheduled to get back on the phones. All right?”

“
All right-y
,” we chime in unison and sashay to the break room.

Kars nudges me. “Maybe we’ll see some eye candy.”

“Maybe...” I smile coyly.

In the break room, I reach inside the freezer for my popsicles and gasp in horror, “Someone’s been eating my popsicles! There’s only one left and I had six when I stored the box! I feel violated!”

Kars harrumphs. “That’s why I never store any food in the break room. Too many idiots here steal food. Such vermin!”

“So, where exactly
do
you store your food?” I slam the freezer with deliberate force.

“The lactation room,” Kars says simply. “It’s equipped with a mini fridge slash freezer. Nothing’s stored there except for breast milk. And more importantly, no one will steal your food.”

I make a mental note of that. “Here,” I hand Kars the last popsicle. She takes it and I toss the Dreyer’s box into the trash.

I miss.

The box ricochets off the trash can, skates across the linoleum floor and stops in the middle of the break room.

Right that second, Darren and Carlos strut into the break room. Darren bends down and reaches for the Dreyer’s box. Box in hand, he holds it like a ball and shoots it into the trash can like a pro basketball player. NBA, not college level.

Darren Williams is tall and gorgeous, with light olive skin; and he sports a sexy goatee that very few men can pull off—the Orlando Bloom goatee. A faint tache and soul patch combo.

Carlos Martinez is a suave Latino from Venezuela, with the physique and build of a matador.

Kars and I try not to stare...they’re too beautiful for words.

Darren acknowledges us with a lift of his cleft chin.

We
kind of
know him. He sits right next to Mika and whenever we pay Mika a visit, we are very aware of Darren’s
hawtness.

“Hey,” I grunt with casual indifference.

Kars jerks her chin. “Wassup brotha.”

Playing it cool, we swagger out of the break room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Darren and Carlos heading for the foosball table. My eyes gravitate to their solid butts that are nicely shaped by their fitted jeans. I’m so glad that fitted jeans are back in fashion.

That’s one of the reasons why I resent baggy jeans—no bum watching. Bum watching is akin to bird watching. It’s a lifetime activity that can be enjoyed in many parts of the world, transcending language barriers and cultures.

Kars and I continue staring. It’s not every day you get to see such fabu butts when so many men these days are cursed with assless frog butts.

“That Hot Cocoa is one fine specimen,” I say dazedly, tripping over a snag in the carpet.

Kars is in a similar trance. “Hot Cocoa Darren? Nah, I was checking out Carlos, the Hot Tamale.”

HR Linda ambles by, peering through her bifocals, waggling her finger at us admonishingly.

Whoopsie! I guess she must’ve heard us.

Thirteen

T
ick
Tock, I’m watching the clock.
Yesssssssss!
Only six more minutes left, then I’m done for the day! I’m so euphoric that my shift is almost over that I’m humming a happy tune, “Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! It’s home from work I go!”

Ordinarily, I’d jab the Not Ready key five minutes before my shift ends, but not today. I’ve been written up for excessive Not Ready time, so I have no choice but to stay logged in.

Only three minutes left. Two. One minute left.

My index finger hovers over the Log Out button—

Beep!

“F#@!*&!#@!*!” I release a steady stream of profanity.

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, how can I help?”

“This is a relay call. My name is Amy and I’m a California relay service operator. Have you taken a relay call before?”

I bash my head against the keyboard. “Yes I have,” I mutter, struggling to keep the impatience from my voice. I know it’s not this operator’s fault, nor is it the deaf caller’s.

Honestly, I have nothing against the hearing impaired.

The timing is just crap. And relay calls take forever and ever.

Kars perches on my desk. “You ready to roll?”

MUTE. “No, you go on,” I say miserably. “I’ll be stuck on this call for a while. It’s a relay call!” I sob theatrically on her shoulder.

Kars shoots me a sympathetic look.

We carpooled today, like we do on most days. But it’s okay, I won’t have Kars suffer alongside me.

She slides off my desk. “Are you sure?”

I nod despondently.

“Okay, ciao!” she tinkles and sashays off. I watch her disappear down the hallway, headed back to our cozy apartment.

“Now,” instructs the relay operator, “repeat again what you just said, only this time, say it much, much slower so I’m able to type and keep up with you. Go Ahead.”

I slow it down to a snail’s pace. Thank—you—for—calling—Lightning—Speed—Communications—This—is—Maddy—how—can—I—help? Go—ahead.”

Long pause.

All I hear is the operator’s acrylic fingernails clacking away at her keyboard.

Another long pause.

And finally, “My name is Tina Connor and my internet is not working. I can’t pull up any sites. Please help. Go ahead,” relays the operator.

After spending
way
too much time going through the verification process, I ask, “What—browser—do—you—use? Go—ahead.”

More keys tapping. More silence. “The internet. Go ahead,” relays the operator noncommittally.

I bury my face in my hands.

Somebody please put a gun to my head and just
friggin
’ BLOW MY BRAINS OUT!

I silently count to ten and grit my teeth. “Do—you—see—a—blue—E—on—your—desktop? Go—ahead.” I draw in a ragged breath and resign myself to my abysmal fate.

More pause. More waiting.

And then...“What is a desktop? Go ahead,” says the operator, suppressing a snort.

Oh yeah, I’m sure she’s enjoying this. She thinks this is
such
a lark, but I’m not tickled by this. Not in the least! And why does this caller even
own
a computer? It should be downright illegal!

Deep breath. Find my inner peace. Yoga. Chi Kung.

Think tranquil and serene thoughts.

Think Japanese botanical garden.

Think pristine koi pond.

Ohm…Ohm…Ohm…

After my meditative hiatus, I press on, “When—you—boot—up—your—computer—the—very—first—screen—that—comes—up—is—your—desktop—Do—you—see—a—blue—E—on—it?—Go—ahead!”

Sheesh.
I simply
cannot
wait for this call to end, but getting this caller off the line is like trying to pass an Act of Congress.

Fifty minutes go by and I fail to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Not even a flicker.

One hour and thirty-seven minutes later (
oh yeah, I’ve been keeping track
), the call finally comes to an end.

Feeling completely drained, I grab my bag and drag my feet to leave. Spinning around, I spot Mika lounging at an empty cubicle. He’s reading a book, and his forehead is slightly creased from rapt concentration. I bite my lip. He looks so endearing, it hurts.

Glancing up, he catches my eye and smiles.

I tilt my head to the side. “You waited for me?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, like he’s proud of the fact.

My heart skips a beat. “Oh.”

Surreptitiously, he stows the book away. “Kars called my cell and said you might need a ride home.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me; that call took forever. But, um, thanks though...for waiting.”

“No problem,” he shucks. “So, you want to go grab a bite?”

“Sure!” I hoist my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s go!”

As we stroll out into the frosty night, there’s a noticeable spring in my step. I’m quite positive I look like the cat that just ate the canary topped with whipped cream. And this is not even a real date! Kars you sneaky little devil. I owe you one!

Ever the chivalrous one, Mika opens the door to his low rider Impala and I slide in. The first time I rode in Mika’s car, I was pleasantly surprised; it may look like a fishing boat, but it rides like an airplane.

We speed off and I feel buoyant, like I’m floating on a hot air balloon. Riding over speed bumps is like bouncing on clouds.

I steal a glance at him. “What year is this baby of yours?”

“Nineteen sixty-four,” he says, beaming like a proud daddy.

“It’s older than my rust bucket. Mine’s an eighty-four.”

He gives a respectful nod to my relic of a Subaru.

Feeling rather restless, I start rubbing my arms.

“You cold?” he asks at once.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, but he cranks up the heat anyway.

“You feel like pizza tonight?”

“Pizza sounds good,” I say with an easy smile.

“Cool.” He fishes out an iPod from his coat pocket. “I know of a good pizza place.” Expertly, he plugs in his iPod and seconds later, my ears are treated to a brand of music unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It sounds like Indian hip hop music.

But instead of Bollywood, this is Bolly
hood
.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Panjabi Hit Squad; this track is from Desi Beats,” he says in a highly animated voice. “It’s bhangra music.”
 

This particular song has a slight R&B feel to it, and every so often a female’s velvety vocals blend in with the catchy beats.

He darts me a glance. “So, what do you think of bhangra?”
 

Listening raptly, I say, “I think if Mary J Blige were to cut an Indian record, this is what it would sound like.”

This elicits a smile from Mika. “What about you? What do you listen to?”

“I tune in to NPR most of the time. As for music, it’s a hodgepodge, but Jack Johnson is probably my favorite.”