Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (24 page)

Tori’s face softens a micrometer. “I do. I have a daughter. And she just turned thirteen yesterday.”

“Ah, she’s a teenager now,” I say brightly. “What did you get her for her birthday?”

“I paid for her boob job and nose job,” she says this like it’s no big deal, like she just bought her daughter a sweater from Old Navy and a scarf from Abercrombie.

My smile wavers slightly. “Oh, how nice...”

Now, I have nothing against people getting ‘work’ done if it makes them feel better about themselves, you know…whatever floats your plastic boat. But I
do
think that thirteen is a little
too
young to be going under the knife.

Karsynn gives me one of her classic Karsynn looks, and I know she’s thinking the exact same thing. But I remain placid and civil.
 

Who knows? Tori may strike me as odd, but in her daughter’s eyes, she could very well be Mother of the Year.

Blatantly, Tori fixes her patronizing eyes on me, looking me up and down with an air of spiteful evaluation. Her sharp gaze stops at my chest. Then she turns her critical eye on Karsynn’s chest. “You girls have lovely
little
blinkers,” she smirks, adding, “and
those
are some of the ugliest sweaters I have ever seen.”

Her sarcasm is not lost on me. I am barely a B cup and Kars is a
36AAA
. Not to mention, our ugly Christmas sweaters have completely obliterated our barely-there-bijongas. But still, that is no excuse for Tori to be bitchy and disrespectful. Poor Kars is already convinced her bijongas look like poached eggs. I dart Kars a worried glance, and I can tell by the look on her face that she’s smarting from the insult.

Tori has been malicious and mean-spirited all night, and she has worn down all my tolerance for her nastiness. And as for our ugly Christmas sweaters, well
d’oh
! That is the whole point of it.

But I do not deign to tell her so. She just wouldn’t
get
it.

I never set out to provoke Tori, and I was poised to exit the conversation, but that was before her undeserved attack.

Okay
,
Tori
wants to play dirty.
Fine.
I can play dirty too, I can do passive aggressive. With my lips set in an angry line, I give Tori a taste of her own medicine. Casting a disdainful eye her way, I see that her acrylic sweater is completely covered with pet hair and dander. Aha! Horse Lady must own a horse after all, or at least a dog or a cat. And her bijongas are definitely fake. They resemble gigantic, rock hard cantaloupes, and those dingle bobbers point at me like rocket propelled grenades.

“At least ours are real,” I say demurely. “And what we lack in size, we more than make up in sweetness.”

“Well that’s debatable,” sneers Tori.

Karsynn bolts up. “Well if you weren’t such a miserable horse, maybe you’d see our sweet side.”

Tori’s oversized horse nostrils flare up.
Neiiigggh!!!

Karsynn’s claws are out now.
Hissssssss!!!
“And you know what, Tori? We didn’t purchase our bijongas, so we’ll never suffer from buyer’s remorse.”

Touché
. And
burn
. I believe Kars has just struck a nerve.

Tori looks absolutely stricken. “You-you,” she sputters.

“What?” Kars lifts her chin coolly, feigning innocence.

“You girls are nothing but jealous little bitches!” Tori arches her back, overtly displaying her cantaloupes. “And just so you know who you’re talking to, I was Miss Idaho 1990.”

Karsynn emits a loud, exaggerated snort. “So you were a pageant queen? Well how
lovely
. Perhaps along with your boob implants, you should’ve gotten a brain implant too.”

Tori huffs and puffs and grabs her things. “You know what? Thankfully for me, my shift ends right now. And I am
so
glad. I simply cannot
stand
to be in the same vicinity as the two of you!”

“Likewise,” I say eloquently.

“It’s too bad you girls are stuck here on Christmas!” Tori rubs salt into our open wounds, then storms off in a fury, leaving a cloud of horse hair in her wake.

“Bye bye, Seabiscuit! See you at the Kentucky Derby!” Kars hollers after her. “That horse sure poisoned our peaceful night.”

The plume of horse hair travels my way. “Ah-ah-CHOoooo!” I sneeze, clearly allergic to it. “Hasn’t she heard of a lint remover?”

Kars crosses her arms. “My Christmas wish is for something large and heavy to fall on her airbags and deflate ‘em.”

“Hear, hear,” I grunt in approval, raising my Snapple bottle filled with cheap red wine.

“Amen to that,” affirms Ingeborg, lifting her Hello Kitty water bottle filled with vodka.

Seeing my near empty bottle, Ingeborg totters over and tops it off. “Here, have some vadka.”

I give a gracious nod at her generosity.

And so begins the bijonga discussion: Real vs. Fake.

Kars muses out loud, “I wouldn’t mind getting implants if they’d actually look natural. Heck, I don’t want to end up looking like I’ve got David and Goliath for chesticles.”

“No, don’t do it!” cries Ingeborg. “You are beautiful just de vay you are. I had a breast veduction; they hurt my back too much.”

Waving my bottle in the air, I claim their attention. “All right, here are the cons so far—they look fake and they hurt your back. What about the pros? Other than the obvious of course.” I take a swig. “Holy shit!” I gag and hack. “This shit is strong!”

Blargh.
This vodka has killed just about every germ in my body. Hell, maybe even a couple of my organs. I’m pretty sure my GI tract is blitzed into oblivion.

“What the hell is this?”
I splutter.

“Balkan 176. It iz 176 proof.” Ingeborg grins impishly.
“It iz a Bulgarian vadka, and it iz dee varld’s strongest.”

I stare at her for what seems like several minutes. “Ingeborg, I don’t think this vodka is meant to be consumed neat.”

Ingeborg simply knocks back another belt of her vodka.

“Give me some of that!” Kars orders. “I’ll drink it straight.”

Obligingly, Ingeborg tops off her bottle. “Dar ya go.”

“
Merci mille fois
,” Kars tinkles gaily, and for a little while she looks thoughtful as she nurses her potent drink. Suddenly, she bursts, “Oh! I’ve got it!”

“Got vhat?” slurs Ingeborg.

“Another reason to get airbags—for identification!” Kars cackles derisively. “It’s like a fingerprint!”

I shoot her a puzzled look.

Kars explains, “Didn’t you guys hear about that murder case in the news? This poor chick was murdered by her ex-husband. He mutilated her face, cut off her fingers and yanked out all her teeth so the cops had no way of identifying her. But guess what? They did!”

“How?” I ask, befuddled yet riveted.

“By the serial number on her boob implants!” Kars practically yells, all hyped up about this CSI-like case.

I take a swig of my turpentine.

Yech.
It tastes like shoe polish, but I gulp it down anyway.

“Now that could be a pro, but it could also be a con,” I say objectively. “Say your murderer
knew
about this, you know what’ll happen? When the cops find your dead body, you’ll have
no face, no fingers, no teeth
and
no baby feeders!”

“Yikes!” Karsynn’s eyes pop open in a horrified sort of way. “That
would be awful.”

“Zimply terrible,” seconds Ingeborg.

For the next several minutes, we lapse into a deep silence and remain poignant. The mood is morbid and macabre to say the least.
“Enough about murders and mutilations!” I slap my thigh forcefully.
“It’s Christmas guys.
Christmas.
”
 

To lighten the mood, I flick on my radio.

“Yessssss,” I cheer as my favorite Christmas song plays on the airwaves. My whole face is animated as I listen to
Baby It’s Cold Outside
. I’m being extra cheesy, snapping my fingers like Sinatra, grooving to the tune, swaying to the melody—

Karsynn butts into my reverie, “You do know, don’tcha, that this is a
date rape
song.”

“Quit ragging on my song,” I cry huffily. “I do
not
need you psychoanalyzing it.”

*DA* *DA* *DA* *DUM* *DA* *DA* *DUM* *DUM* DUM*

The wavy, synthesizing hum of a digital keyboard emanates from my radio.

“Ack!” shrieks Ingeborg. “
Last Christmas
. I love dis song!”

“We
love
this song too!” Kars and I squeal with delight.

Last Christmas
is Wham!’s best hit ever, a
lthough,
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go
trails closely behind. Kars and I watch a lot of VH-1’s
I Love the Eighties
, and we are huge fans of eighties bands with kooky names. Names like A-Ha, Duran Duran, Pet Shop Boys and of course Wham!

We know
all
of the words to this song, and so does Ingeborg. Together, we sway drunkenly, belting out the chorus. Mika saunters over, clutching his sides. Surprisingly, he joins in on the chorus; and soon all four of us are singing and slurring sentimentally off key.

The Gods must be smiling down upon us. There are no calls in queue. Nada.

“Okay everyone.” Kars claps her hands. “Time to exchange prezzies!”

This year, all four of us agreed to do a Secret Santa. But it is no secret since we just couldn’t keep our mouths shut.
Mika is my Secret Santa, I’m Karsynn’s Secret Santa,
Kars is Ingeborg’s Secret Santa. And so, by natural deduction, Ingeborg is Mika’s Secret Santa.

“I want to go first.” Without wasting any time, Karsynn rips into the wrapping paper. “
Aww,
” she gushes. “A basil seed kit for my Aerogarden.”

“Look,” I point out, “It touts seven types of basil: Napolitano basil, Italian basil, Thai basil, Globe basil, French basil, Lemon basil and Red Rubin basil.”

“Maddy, this is the best gift ever!” Kars hugs me tightly. After we peel apart, she turns to Ingeborg. “You go next.”

Kars and I brainstormed on Ingeborg’s gift all weekend, and I’ll have to admit, what we came up with is simply brilliant.

And I even chipped in on it.

Ingeborg rips open the envelope. “A hundred dollar gift zertivicate to um, Glamour Shots?” She casts us a dubious glance.

Kars rushes to explain, “It is from me
and
Maddy. We think you need to get some professional photos taken so you can hook up with a modeling agency. It can be a start to your portfolio!”

“Ingeborg, you’re wasting your beauty here,” I admonish. “You should be gracing the covers of magazines.”

Self-effacingly, Ingeborg waves off the compliment.

I barrel on, “Now check this out. Your Glamour Shot session
includes a personal consultation with a professional makeup
artist
and
hair stylist to help you look your best for your portraits.”

Gosh. I really am selling it. Guess I
do
have it in me to sell as long as I believe in what I’m selling.

Kars prances about in a happy clamor. “Ingeborg, don’t forget us when you’re gracing the covers of
Maxim
. You could even be the
face
of Victoria’s Secret,” she says with glowing rapture.

“Um, thanks girls.” Ingeborg smiles at us sweetly, then jerks her head at Mika. “Your zurn now.”

“Here I go.” He slits open the envelope. “A gift card to iTunes! Thanks Ingeborg.” He smiles warmly, and Ingeborg smiles back, equally warmly.

I am pleased to report that their relationship has weathered the transition to friendship pretty seamlessly. Mika has even become friends with Archibald aka Sean Connery.

“I’m next,” I squeal with delight. After all that waiting, I am bursting with anticipation.

Mika leans forward in his chair. “I think you’ll love it.”
   

Without wasting another second, I tear into the paper with gusto. “Oh. It’s a CD. Bruce Springsteen’s Greatest Hits,” I say in a strangled voice, then catching myself, I quickly paste a smile on my face. “It’s awesome!” I add with false cheer.

Mika’s green eyes are dancing. “I
knew
you’d love it. You have Springsteen on your ring tone and I assume you already have him on your iPod. But being that you’re an old fashioned sort of gal, I thought surely you’d appreciate him on CD.”

I amp up the volume of my fake smile. “Thanks!” I say stiffly.

Moments later, after all the wrapping paper has been stuffed into the trash can, I glance up at the display board.
Ah
, I am delighted to see that there are still no calls in queue. And for the rest of the night, not a single call comes through. Snow is falling outside and we are having a whale of a time inside, chatting, chilling, grooving to Christmas tunes, munching on microwave popcorn and guzzling more vodka. And I come to the satisfying realization that Christmas at a call center is not so bad after all.