Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (27 page)

I’m encircled in his strapping arms and he’s whispering sweet Gaelic in my ear...

Gaol ise gaol i, Gaol ise gaol i,

E o hao-o hao o,

Ro-ho i o hi o,

Hao ri ri o hu o

Gaol ise gaol i, Gaol ise gaol i.

Morning arrives much too soon. My throat feels scratchy, my joints ache and I am running a fever so high that my brain is scalding. With Herculean effort, I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom.

I inspect my appearance in the mirror only to groan with displeasure at the reflection staring back at me. God. I am one hot mess. I look like shit and feel like shit.

Pssh!
I can’t go into work like this. No way in hell.

I stagger out of the bathroom and rifle through my purse, in search of my PTO calendar.

PTO stands for Paid Time Off. In short, my vacation time
and
sick time are lumped together in what call center lingo refers to as PTO days. Ultimately, what it all boils down to is this: when I call in sick, I am sacrificing a day of vacation.

Fuck that
. All of my vacation for next year has already been prescheduled. Two weeks in the summer, and another week for Thanksgiving. So that leaves me with zero PTO time for sick days. The reality of the situation slowly begins to sink in.

I
have
to go into work. I bury my head in my hands and make a muffled cry of despair, “Noooooooooooo!”

Hours later, looking bedraggled, like something an alley cat just dragged in for supper, I blunder to my cubicle and collapse into my chair with a weary sigh, as though all the strength has been leached from my body.

“Oh, Maddy.
My, my, my,
you look like shit,” Truong remarks with a satisfied smirk.

“You just shut yer swine face,” I snap.

Summoning up all my energy, I hunch over my keyboard and sluggishly log in to all my apps.

Dammit! What the hell is my password again? They make us change it so many
friggin
’ times that I can never keep track.

I type ZacLevi88

Your password is incorrect.

Zac8Zac8Zac8

Your password is incorrect.

Efron888

You are now locked out.

Just great! I breathe in hard through my clogged up nose and cough up a hail storm.
Hack, Hack, Kak, Hack.
CrAcK.

OWWWwwww! I think I’ve just cracked a rib.

Like a cripple, I press one palm over my rib cage and hobble to The Führer’s desk. “Hillary?” I croak.

Her eyes flash with irritation. “What?”

“My password is locked. Can you submit a ticket?”

She harrumphs. “I’ll get it taken care of in five minutes.”

“Thanks,” I mutter and let out a whooping cough.

“You’re sick too?” Her tone is angry, almost accusatory.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Isn’t everybody?”

“I’m not sick,” she points out. “Only weak people get sick.”

I muster a feeble smile and limp back to my desk.

Sinking into my chair, I cover my forehead with both hands to quell the throbbing ache and skyrocketing temperature. For the rest of the day, I take calls in that exact catatonic position.

It sure is a good thing that we don’t meet clients face to face. Truong is hunkered over his desk, arms sprawled out, taking calls with his head deeply burrowed in his scarf.

Ingeborg is rolled up into a ball, both eyes tightly shut, but I know she’s not asleep because her lips are still moving.

Tiny is slumped miserably in his chair, chin resting on his chest, a fuzzy blanket draped over his shoulders. Still, he’s shivering and quivering, like he’s about to go into labor.

Lord help us, we’re a pretty darn pitiful, pathetic lot.

When our shift finally ends, Truong stares at me with his sunken eyes and says in all-seriousness, “Next time you’re sick, Maddy, do me a favor and stay at home like you’re supposed to.”

But Truong is incapable of keeping a straight face for longer than two seconds. He suppresses a loud snort, which triggers an intense hack fest.

Swaying with exhaustion, I choke with laughter, hacking and hiccupping along. Eventually, I manage to stop coughing long enough to say, “And waste a day of vacation?
Hells
no!”

He pats my arm and croaks hoarsely, “C’mon,
Maddy
, let’s go grab some coffee and Cinnabons.”

Seventeen

N
ew Year’s Eve was another anticlimactic day, and January flew by in a frantic whir, by far the busiest month of the year. We were slammed with call after call, and February couldn’t creep in soon enough. And before I could even say, “Look out!” Valentine’s Day rears its ugly head.

Someday, I need to do my civic duty and petition for Congress to have Valentine’s Day expunged from the calendar. Love Sucks Day is what they should call it. This dreadful and emotionally damaging day strikes me with fear...fear of being alone, fear of discovering that nobody loves me.

Thinking back, I used to look forward to Valentine’s Day. My dad always had red roses and Godiva chocolates delivered to my classroom. His sweet gesture made all the other kids green with envy. The enclosed hand written card always said: “From your secret admirer,” but I recognized my dad’s spidery handwriting.

Every Valentine morning, I have fond memories of waking up to the sound of his chipper voice singing this beautiful song:

There is beauty all around, when there’s love at home;

There is joy in ev’ry sound, when there’s love at home,

Peace and plenty here abide, smiling sweet on ev’ry side;

Time doth softly, sweetly glide, when there’s love at home.

There was plenty of love in my home. But that was then. Now I’m just a miserable cow on V Day.

As I drag myself into work, I pass by a repulsive bouquet of blood red roses at the front desk, waiting to be picked up by some lucky gal.

I exhale sharply as I pass by one heart shaped balloon after another. Finally, I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh.

Oh! What’s this?

A red gift box is sitting on my desk.

Who could this be from?

I glance furtively around.

Very carefully, I untie the pretty sash and lift the lid open.

Be still my beating heart...lying inside is
the
most romantic gift ever.
Gush.
I find myself gazing adoringly at a heart shaped cinnamon roll.

There’s a card inside too. As I slide it out of the red envelope, a smile touches my lips. A cute little cinnamon stick waves at me with a gloved hand. I gently flip the card open and see Mika’s neat, cursive handwriting:

A sweet treat for my sweet friend

Yours, Mika

Truong pops his head out of his cubicle. “Is that from my Mikquisha?” He points to the box and I nod.

“You bitch!” he squeals, feigning outrage. But I can tell that he’s happy for me from the twinkle in his eye.

I babble happily, “He signed the card ‘Yours, Mika’.”

I know it’s silly. But I ascribe all sorts of meaning to it. Jason Mraz’s
I’m Yours
anthem replays in my lovesick head. I’m so elated that everything seems so rosy, so blissful.

In a hazy love trance, I log in to my phone.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy. How can I help?” I ask jubilantly.

Tra La La.
Valentine’s Day is such a wonderful day.

I even remember to use the Telemarketing Sales Rule script, which is the Permission to Sell Script, or the PiSS script, as I call it. Quite honestly, I often forget to mention that dreaded script, even though they drill it into my head to Sell, Sell, Sell!

At first, the mere act of pitching a sales offer was terrifyingly painful. But over time...well, let’s just say I’m numb to the pain now. It’s
do
or
die
.

So I
do
.

Half the time at least, just enough so I don’t get myself fired.

The caller informs me that she’s having problems accessing the internet.

“Ma’am, I’d be happy to assist you with that. Now, while I’m pulling up your information, if I see a product or a service that may be beneficial to you, is it okay if I mention it at the end of the call?” I ask, cringing at the same time.

Her response comes in a puzzled tone. “Whad’ya mean?”

“Exactly what I just said,” I say, keeping poised. “If I see a product or a service that may be beneficial to you, is it okay if I mention it at the end of the call?”

“Oh dear,” she apologizes, guilt co-mingling with frustration creeping into her voice. “Sugar, I still haven’t the slightest idea whatcha harping aboot.”

I repeat the TSR script for the third time, but this time around, I word it a teeny bit differently
. “Ma’am, if there is a product or a service that may help you save time and money, is it all right if I tell you about it later on?”

“I’m
sooo sooo
sorry.” She releases a nervous laugh. “I
still
don’t understand whatcha going on aboot!”

Something inside me becomes unhinged. “I WANT TO SELL YOU SOMETHING. DO I HAVE YOUR PERMISSION?”

Gosh. I don’t mean to spell it out for her. It just sounds so
crass
when put like that.

“Oh me goodnees-eh. Well why didn’tcha just say so in da first place? Sure, sure,” she tweets.

As it turns out, the caller, Marlene Dushek, is a really sweet old lady and I immediately detect her Wisconsin accent.

“So,” my voice softens like it always does when I’m confronted with sweet old ladies; they tend to bring out the best in me. “Are you from Wisconsin, Miss Dushek?” I ask amiably.

She chuckles heartily. “You betcha! I’m a cheese head
through and through. And a Packer fan too, don’t-cha-know?”

“Go Packers!” I cheer. “And which part of Wisconsin?”

“Oconomowoc,” she says in a heavy Wisconsinite accent. “It’s a varrry nice place up narth. And I’ve lived here for over seventy years.”

I stifle a laugh.
To most Wisconsinites, everything is ‘up north.’ I spent many muggy summers in Green Bay with my Aunt Sally, and whenever I asked her where we were going, her reply was always, “Up narth.”
No matter if we were headed just down the street, or to the south, east or west, her compass only pointed one direction—North.

“Miss Dushek,” I say, veering it back to business, “what can I help you with today?”

“Yah. I’ve been stuck on yer website furrr weee hours. And I can’t get on tuh any ooother sites.”

I decide to try the oldest trick in the book. “Miss Dushek, can you please reboot your computer?”

“Oh-kie doh-kie,” she chirrups. “If you don’t mind eh, I’ll just do some dishes while my komputarrr boots up.”

“Sure go right ahead,” I say with a smile in my voice.

I hear the faucet cranking, followed by the sound of gushing water, and in the background, I hear the rollicking rhythms and heavy accordion sounds of polka music. This polka song sounds like an upbeat mariachi band at a wedding.

Absently, I pick up my pen and doodle on my notepad.

I heart Mika
     
I heart Mika
      
I heart Mika

Then I draw swirly flowers and creeping vines all around it. After filling up a page chock full of fancy swirls, squiggly lines and doodles, all proclaiming my love for Mika, I check in with Miss Dushek. “Has your computer booted up ma’am?”

“Oh yeah! It did. I’m
sooooo
varrry sorry, I fergahht that you were still on hold,” she chirrups, amidst the sound of ceramic dishes clanking about.

“And did that fix the problem?”
 

“You bet-cha! Thank you so much. You did good. And thank you for being so patient with me. Now dearie, I’d simply love to send you some of my famous homemade salsa.”

“Trust me Miss Dushek, I’d love to try your salsa. But I’m clear out in Idaho and even if I did live in Wisconsin, it’s against company policy to accept gifts.”