Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (23 page)

To celebrate Christmas, Karsynn and I shared three bottles of Fat Bastard right before coming into work, so we’re undeniably a little buzzed now. But we didn’t drink and drive. Being the responsible citizens that we are, we took a cab to work as a Christmas present to ourselves.

Mika appears to be the only sober one around. Striding over, he grins at us with frank amusement. “You girls are hammered; I can smell the alcohol from a mile away.”

It doesn’t take long for Mika to notice my choice of attire. And when he does, he stands stock still with a deer-in-the-headlights sort of look. “Nice sweater, Maddy,” he says in an unnatural and stilted voice. Then he turns to Kars and manages an uneven smile. “Um, you too, Kars.”

And the more Mika stares, the more his face contorts. I watch it go through several alarming transformations. Eventually, he turns to me, as if hoping I’d offer some sort of explanation for this colossal calamity.

“It’s Ugly Christmas Sweater Day,” I announce gaily.

And much to my surprise, tracking down an ugly Christmas sweater proved to be a challenging task. Goodwill and Salvation Army were completely sold out! They’ve become such a popular fad that they’re selling on eBay for fifty bucks a pop. And I refuse to pay more than five dollars for an ugly Christmas sweater.

Luckily for us, Karsynn’s grandma Dottie keeps a closet full of ugly Christmas sweaters. Dottie happens to be quintessentially quirky, but I find her absolutely adorable.
  

Last Sunday, we dropped by Dottie’s condo and found her curled up on the sofa, numbing herself with a bottle of Southern Comfort. And she was snugly swathed in a Snuggie, looking like she was wearing a robe backwards.

The
Snuggie
is quite possibly the dumbest invention ever, yet at the same time, super ingenious! Hell, I wish I came up with the Snuggie. It’s a commercial hit and I’d be laughing all the way to the bank.

Dottie was simply over the moon to see us. And while I tactfully
avoided any reference to her Snuggie, Kars blurted, “Granny, what’s up with that big cape you’re wearing? You look like Darth Vader.”

And without missing a beat, Dottie said in a deep baritone-d James Earl Jones voice, “Luke, I am your father.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Ninety year old Dottie was a Stars Wars buff.

Then Kars burbled, “You look like a member of an evil cult.”

At that, Dottie became visibly affronted. Apparently Dottie was a devout Catholic, and she fully resented the ‘cult’ reference.

I shot Kars a quelling look, but she bungled on, “Do you have any ugly Christmas sweaters we can borrow?”

Dottie placed one hand over her bosom and bristled crossly, “I happen to love my Snuggie. And young lady, if a sweater looked ugly to me, I would
never
buy it.”

I immediately jumped in, attempting to defuse the situation.
“Dottie, pay no attention to Kars. That Snuggie looks so cute on you. You err...look like you’re in a church choir. And I’m sure nothing you own is ugly, but would you happen to have any festive holiday sweaters we could borrow?” I beamed beatifically.

“Why of course I do, sugar,” cooed Dottie, her ruffled feathers soothed. “Upsy daisy, here I go.” She struggled to her feet. “Stay right here girls. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

When Dottie was out of earshot, I raised my chin at Kars and said smugly, “See! That’s how it’s done!”

And that’s how we scored our ugly Christmas sweaters, the ones we’re proudly sporting right this very minute.

Still a bit shell-shocked, Mika looks like he has no idea what to make out of our Christmas montage of holiday hideousness.

“Mika, you be the judge. Who has the uglier sweater, me or Kars?” I strike a pretty pose in my garish cable knit sweater, featuring a purplish Santa of questionable ethnicity.

Hmm, maybe he is more of a mulberry magenta.

Not to be outdone, Karsynn’s sweater actually plays music. If you squeeze Rudolph’s nose hard enough, it lights up and plays a garbled tune,
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
of course, and it probably sounds garbled from being thrown in the washer one time too many.

To showcase her sweater, Kars honks Rudolph’s nose a few times for good measure.

Mika doubles over. “I’ll have to go with Karsynn’s.”

It has been almost an hour now, and I have yet to receive a call; that is the beauty of working during the holidays—most people think we’re closed! And anyone who does call in on Christmas day is a
friggin
’ Scrooge.

Beep!

Speak of the devil.

“Thanks for calling—” I pause in my semi-drunk state, trying hard to remember what I should be saying. Oh yes! “Lightning Speed Communications. Now how can I help you this Christmas day?” I slur sentimentally.

“I need you to update my billing address,” says the caller.

“Oh-kay.” I hiccup. “I can help with that. Let me just ask you a few questions to verify you.”

After the caller has passed verification, I ask blearily, “Um… what did you say you needed help with again?”

“Updating my address,” he says patiently.

“Right,” I say fuzzily.

Jeez louise, Maddy. Pace yourself and pull yourself together! You’ve only had some wine. Although, I think it was the comedian Jo Koy who once said that wine is real classy...until you drink a few bottles, then it’s just booze.

Right. Focus. Everything is a blur.

I squint, hunting and pecking at my keyboard while he rattles off his new address. Midway through the call, his voice falters and cracks. Seconds later, I hear a muffled sob of despair.

“Um…are you okay sir?” I ask tentatively.

“Sorry to call you today, but-but I just feel so alone. My wife just left me and she took the kids.
Sobs.
And I just lost my job.
Sniffles.
And I know it’s only a matter of time before my home’s foreclosed on,” he wails piteously.
 

“Oh no,” I say empathically. “I’m
so
sorry
to hear that.”

Then I run out of things to say. Bugger! I have no idea how to comfort him. Meanwhile, he’s having a good cry over the phone. An infinite sadness tugs at my heart. I even feel a bit tearful. It hurts to hear a grown man weep.

“Sir, why don’t I give you two months of service—for free!” I exclaim in hopes of cheering him up.
‘Tis
the season of giving, and it is the only thing I can give him right now.

“O-okay,” he stammers. “I just really appreciate you being there to take my call.”

“Well that’s what I am here for sir. Now you can talk all you want. I am listening,” I say with a tenderness that surprises me.

He proceeds to tell me his whole life story.

When the call ends two hours later, I feel so utterly down and depressed. To liven things up, I start giving all my callers two months of free service, and it feels so good to give. I feel a thrill compounded by kindness and generosity, at the thought that I could be helping someone out in some small way, that perhaps I’ve made a tiny footprint in their lives.

A little bit of kindness goes a long way. Jill Robinson, founder and director of the Animals Asia Foundation, has brought about huge changes in the attitudes toward animal welfare throughout Asia, and her tireless plight all started with rescuing one Moon Bear.

Someday, when I am old and gray, I hope to emulate her and set up my very own charity foundation. I’ll name it The Mika and Maddy Harket foundation, you know, like The Bill and Melinda Gates foundation. I’ve got to start somewhere, so why not here? Why not now? There is no time like the present.

With the trickle of calls that filter in, most of the customers are pleasant enough, and I repay them with my generosity.

But one of the callers is so darn nasty that I am convinced he is the Grinch that Stole Christmas.

“I WANT MY INTERNET UP AND RUNNING NOW,” he explodes, rupturing my eardrums.

“Sir,” I slosh, “I am stho sthorry. But the sthevere winter sthorm has cut one nof our lines inth yer area. Unforsthunately, we won’th be able tho get our stcehnicians outh sthere sthill sthomorrow.”

“THERE’S NO EXCUSE FOR THIS BULLSHIT! AND DON’T GO TELLING ME IT’S ‘COZ IT’S CHRISTMAS. I DON’T CELEBRATE THIS BLASTED DAY SO I COULD CARE LESS.”

“Oh,” I say in a relaxed and fluid voice, still abuzz from the wine. “Stho what holiday do you selethbrate sir?”

“NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMN BUSINESS.”

“Um, okay sir. Well, is sthere anything else sthat I can help you with?” I ask blearily. MUTE.
Burp.

“WELL NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, THERE IS!”

Great! I’ve just cracked open a can of worms. I hate that we’re forced to ask our callers that asinine question:
Is there
anything else
? Even if there is
nothing
else, it forces them to think of
something
.

The floodgates open, or rather, the Hoover Dam breaks, and The Grinch barrages me with problem after problem, fires off complaint after complaint, and harangues me with rant after rant. Sweet baby Jesus, save his miserable soul!

After spending an hour assisting him with his never ending needs, I’ve
had
it with his sour attitude. Before The Grinch can launch into another tirade, I kindly cut him off, “Well, if that is everything sir, thanks for calling and have a Merry Christmas,” I say in a jolly ol’ fashioned way and promptly disconnect the call.

Whooooopsie! I was supposed to say Happy Holidays.

Oh well, hopefully that call won’t get monitored.

And I did
not
give The Grumpy Grinch two months of free service.

Bah-Humbug to him!

Without even taking a breather, I take thirty calls in a row. Now I am starting to feel slightly aggravated.

“Why in the name of the donkeys in Bethlehem are all these people calling us on Christmas?” I groan.

Kars looks just as annoyed. “I know, what the hell? Don’t they have better things to do?”

We’re both so fed up that we jam our Not Ready keys to stop the flow of calls and saunter to the Ladies room.

Aha! This time I have come prepared.

After locking the door behind me, I rip off a piece of Post-it Note and stick it right on the eye of the toilet sensor. There!

Demurely, I set my bum down and wait.

And wait.

Nothing happens.

“HA! I HAVE OUTWITTED YOU!” I shout triumphantly at the toilet bowl. No more nasty water spraying up my bum.

I rise ceremoniously to my feet and peel off the strip of sticky paper. And sure enough, the toilet flushes.

Genius
. I am so proud of myself.

Standing in front of the faucet, I am washing my hands with a gratifying smile, feeling incredibly smug.

Kars narrows her eyes at me. “Maddy, I think you should hold off on the Fat Bastard. I just heard you talking to the toilet.”

By the time that Kars and I hop back on the
bleepin
’ phones, the calls have died down.

“WOOT! WOOT!” I whoop in a celebratory mood.

A head pops out of the cubicle in front of me.

“Greetings,” I announce grandiosely. “Merry Christmas!
Feliz navidad! Mele Kaliki Maka!”

An equestrian looking woman glares at me.

“Mele Kaliki Maka is the thing to say, on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day,” I carol gaily. “C’mon, sing with me.”

But Horse Lady does not sing back. In fact, her whole face is molded in a permanent scowl.

“I’m Maddy,” I say in a gracious manner and extend the olive branch. “And you are?”

“Tori,” she says frostily and scrunches up her face, looking like a horse that just ate a lemon.

I offer the sour horse a kind smile. “
Tori
, nice to meet you,” I say merrily. After all, poor Tori looks like a horse that just ate a lemon, so that warrants some kindness on my part.

“Keep your voices down,” she says tersely. “You’re creating a ruckus in here. You and that other girl.” She points at Kars.

“Sorry.”

“And I do
not
celebrate Christmas!” she hisses.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you celebrate Tori?”

“Birthdays!” She flashes her horse teeth, displaying more gum than teeth.

I find myself staring at her mouth, slightly mesmerized by her out of whack tooth-to-gum ratio. “Well doesn’t it suck that we’re forced to work today?” I say with strained politeness.

Tori shoots me a filthy look. “I volunteered!”

My mouth falls open, forming the capital letter O.

Since it’s Christmas, I decide to take the moral high ground and play nice. “Do you have any kids?” I ask amiably. Kids are a safe topic and serve as an excellent conversation warmer.