Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (21 page)

When I listen to Johnson’s drifting chords, the strum of his ukulele and his laidback acoustics, I’m magically transported to a paradisal beach in the Maldives where coconut trees sway lazily in the wind, and I inhale the salty island breeze.

Needless to say, it’s nothing like the Panjabi Hit Squad. But bhangra is pretty catchy. Sinking back onto the worn out leather seat, I chill to the music for the rest of the ride.

Papa’s Pizzeria is empty for a Friday night. Tiny tables and chairs are crammed into a minuscule space.

Holy Ravioli! This place is a dive. It’s a hole in the wall. In fact, it’s so small that it’s a hole
in
the hole in the wall.

A rat hole, to be precise.

Mika instantly reads my mind. “Don’t worry, Maddy. This is the town’s best kept secret. They make
the
best pizzas.”

At the register, Mika turns to me. “So, should we get a whole pizza or just individual slices?”

“A whole one!”

“A whole pizza it is,” he declares. “What kind?”

“Is ham and pineapple okay with you?”

He approves. “Drink?”

“7 Up with lots of ice.”

“My treat,” he insists and shoos me off.

I pick a dimly lit booth, remove my coat and slide in.

My ears perk up when I hear Mika conversing with an elderly man behind the register—in French!

Minutes later, Mika strides over and carefully sets our drinks on the table. “Our pizza should be ready in about ten minutes.”

“Sweet,” I say airily and remove the plastic lid from my cup.

He shrugs off his navy bomber jacket. “You hungry?”

I spoon an ice cube into my mouth. “Ravenous!”

“Good!” he exclaims and scoots into the booth. “You won’t be disappointed. The owner of this pizzeria, Giuseppe, he’s Italian; his family immigrated to France twelve years ago and they just moved to Pocatello last year. Giuseppe was just telling me that he finally got his green card today.”

I crunch on an ice cube. “I heard you speaking to him in French. Is that what most Belgians speak?”

He pokes a straw through the plastic lid. “Well in the north, the Flemish or the Flanders speak Dutch. And in the south, the Walloons speak French. In Brussels, they speak both languages.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “Near the German border, some speak German; and most of the younger crowd can speak English.” Half-smiling, he adds, “Some people make fun of us; they say we can speak three languages, but none of them intelligibly.” He laughs. “Of course I don’t agree with that.”

“So are you Flemish or are you a Walloonian?” I ask cheekily.

I can’t help it; but every time I hear that word, an unpleasant image of a chesty cough comes to mind. An image of phlegm. Flemish phlegm, to be precise.

And Walloon? Is that a wandering tribe of baboons?

Mika chuckles heartily. “I’m a Wallonie.”

“Oh.
Parlez Vous
Francais
?
”

“
Oui
.
I’m
what
you’d
call a Francophone.”

I rest my chin on my hands. “Say something in French.”

Just then, our pizza arrives at the table.

“
Jambon et ananas pizza
,” he says with a flourish.

“What does that mean?” I ask breathlessly.

“It means ham and pineapple pizza.”

I snicker. “Say something else.”

“
S'il vous plaît permet de manger.
”

Ah
, it all sounds so romantic. In fact, I think anything said in French sounds dreamy, lovely and complimentary. You can say you want to murder someone in French, saw his neck off with a blunt pocket knife and scalp the skin off his head, and it’d still sound romantic...like waxing poetic in my ear.

Actually, French
is
considered a Romance language because it is derived from Roman, and deeply rooted in Latin (which was the primary language used by the Romans), so it sounds romantic because it
is
a Romance language after all.

I release a dreamy sigh. “Oooh, what did you just say?”

His mouth twitches. “It means ‘please, let’s eat’.”

“Bon Appétit!” I exclaim Julia Child-style.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, sharing in the growing comfort of warm dough and mozzarella cheese filling our empty stomachs.

Mika reaches for another slice. “So, are you going back home for Christmas?”

“No, I’m forced to work.”

“Me too,” he groans. “By the way, where’s home for you?”

“Me? I grew up in Lake Forest. It’s near Chicago.”

He leans back. “So, is Chicago a lot like Pocatello?”

I laugh. “Pocatello is much smaller than Chicago, by like
two million people
.”

Mika chuckles. “I’ve never been to Chicago.” After a pause, he says ruefully, “I haven’t traveled much around the States.”

“You mean you’ve never left Pocatello?” I cry aghast.

“Well, I’ve been to Boise,” he says defensively. “And I’ve even been to Paris.”

I blink. “Paris, France?”

He shakes his head.
“Paris, Idaho.”
 

“Mika!” I gasp.
“That is not acceptable! You need to get away from here and breathe a different air. Go to Yellowstone and see the bears and bison. Go to Vegas and catch Celine Dion’s show! Next time I go home, you’re coming with me,” I say adamantly.

“Okay,” he says, unaware of a stringy piece of mozzarella that’s sticking to his bottom lip.

I have this sudden impulse to wipe it away, but I resist.

That would feel too intimate.

“Oh and by the way,” he adds with a wry smile, “of course I’ve been to Paris, France. Belgium borders France, and Paris is only a hundred and sixty miles from Brussels.”

“Well, I’ve never been.” I sigh wistfully. “Someday, I’d love to go to Europe.”

Mika reaches for a napkin and wipes his mouth. “Come back home with me sometime.”

“For real?” I ask, surprised.
 

“Of course,” he says. “I’d love to show you around.”

“I can’t wait to see the famous Pissing Boy Statue.”

He laughs. “You mean the Manneken Pis?”

“Yeah, and isn’t he dressed in different costumes each week?”

He nods. “Why would you want to see the Manneken Pis?”

“Why not?” I huff. “It’s one of the most famous landmarks in Brussels.”

He smiles. “It’s not fair. You guys have the Statue of Liberty and we’ve got the Pissing Boy Statue.”

“Sounds fair to me.” I grin. “So, when will you be going back?”

“Well after I graduate, I’m going back for good.”

“Oh…” I trail off and stare at my cup of soda.

Lifting the cup to my lips, I sip in silence. His words seem to settle like rocks and boulders in my chest.
  

He breaks the silence. “When will you be going home?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“You have a slight accent.” He wrinkles his brows. “Is that a Chicagoan accent?”

“I do? I didn’t realize it. Speaking of accents, people from MinnesoooOooooota and WisConsin have a much stronger one. It sounds like a whole different language.”

“I know what you mean.” He smiles. “Darren’s from Wisconsin and whenever he offers me a soda, he calls it ‘pop’.”

I giggle helplessly. “You mean
pahp
.”

Mika continues, “And he calls the water fountain a bubbler. Yesterday, he asked me where the bubbler was, and I thought he was looking for a ground geyser.”

“You gotta love Wisconsin accents.”

“So...” He pauses for a beat. “Do you know Darren?”

I bob my head. “Yeah, he’s the guy who sits next to you.”

“Well…” he hesitates. “Darren’s been asking me about you; he wanted to know if you’re seeing anyone.”

I gulp down my soda. “What’d you tell him?”

He makes a conscious effort to avoid my eye. “I, err…told him that you think dating someone at work is like dumping on your own doorstep.”

I choke on my 7 Up.

“You okay?” he asks with concern.

I nod, trying to find my voice. I take another healthy swallow, and this time it goes down the right pipe. Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, you really told Darren that?”

“Yes.” His dark eyes probe mine. “Is that how you really feel? About dating a co-worker?”

Before I can respond, Mika quickly adds, “If not, I can easily clear things up with Darren.”

I open my mouth and clamp it shut. If I tell Mika that I am not opposed to dating a co-worker, he’ll assume that I fancy Darren. Arrgh! What I really want to say is that I fancy him.
You, Mika.

Suddenly, Springsteen croons
Born in the USA
and I’m saved by The Boss. Bolting upright, I retrieve my cell. “Wassup!” I answer. “Yeah, I’m with Mika. We’re at Papa’s Pizzeria.” Short pause while I listen. “Uh-huh, sure no problem.” I hang up.

“Kars wants me to pick up a pesto pizza.”

“How is she doing?”

“Better now that she can eat solid food.” I stand up and reach for my purse. “I’ll go place that order for her.”

Mika pulls out a tenner. “Here, let me get it.”

“No,” I protest.

“I want to,” he insists. “You’ve been tutoring me every week; it’s the least I can do.” He stuffs the ten dollar bill in my hand.

“Okay,” I relent, “but on one condition…”

“What’s that?” he asks with a tilt of his chin.

“If you ever thank me for tutoring you again, I’ll make you eat a tenner.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says with a wave of his hand, indicating gracious dismissal of the matter.

Heading for the register, I’m suddenly halted by Mika’s voice and throw a backward glance over my shoulder.

“Keep the change,” he says, not trying to hide a smile.

The door bells chime as we duck out of the pizzeria. Waddling along at a brisk pace, I nudge Mika playfully. “Hey, can you speak Gaelic?”

He just looks at me with a slightly crooked smile and shakes his head.

I hug my coat tightly around me. That’s too bad. If Mika could speak Gaelic, I’d get down on bended knee right now and say, “I want to marry you and bear your children.”

“So...” he interrupts my moony fantasies, “are we still on for my tutoring session tomorrow?”

I tuck my frosty fingertips in my pockets. “I am if you are.”

“I sure am. Same place?”

“Well, instead of the library, why don’t you come over to my place?” I ask on a whim.

“Your place it is,” he says with an easy smile.

Fourteen

W
hat
the hell was I thinking? My place is a
mess
.

Despite our best efforts, Kars and I are hopeless at cleaning. Sporadically, we leave our crap lying all around the apartment, and things just end up staying wherever they land. Sometimes I tidy up and other times Kars will, and the only time our messy apartment becomes an issue is when we have guests over.

Like today.

Newspapers, books and bras are strewn everywhere. Yes—
bras
. Our living space is littered with bras. Demi cups, full coverage, wireless, T-shirt bras, strapless, convertibles, racer-backs, multi-ways, shelf bras, built in bras, peepholes, push-ups, front closures, water bras, sports bras (even though neither of us play any sports).

But I can explain. When Karsynn watches TV, she insists on going bra-less. It’s her firm belief that the brassiere underwires restrict her blood circulation.

Karsynn’s
bijongas
are rather small—
34AA
, or poached eggs as she calls them—and she is certain that if she goes braless, her Berthas will start sprouting again. And that’s not all. She claims that going braless lowers her breast cancer risk.

When I scoffed at that idea, Kars whipped out some medical study and paraded it in my face in mock reproof. So now I am a born again braless believer, and will admit to going braless on occasion, usually in the privacy of my own apartment.

Karsynn shimmies by and performs her magical bra maneuver trick. She reaches under the back of her shirt, unhooks her bra, wriggles down the straps, yanks it out of one sleeve and yells, “
Presto!”
all with
one
hand.

After performing her Harry Houdini trick, she carefully sets her bra on the arm of the sofa, and that is where it shall stay for months on end, or until it’s laundry time.