Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (3 page)

“No!” I say a little too quickly. “Let’s get back to the exercise, shall we?” I coax, giving her a tight-lipped smile. If I allow Kars to go on with her psychobabble, we’ll never see the light of day.

Kars was a Psych major, which is pretty ironic since she’s quite possibly the nuttiest girl I know. Her nickname in
college was ‘psycho-bitch,’ which she naively accepted as a
compliment.

She thought it was due to her
mad skills
in psychoanalyzing, but the real reason she got her nickname is that she freely doled out her psych advice to anyone who’d listen. And as her BFF and roommate, I was
forced
to listen.

Seriously, I couldn’t wait for Kars to get her Psych diploma so I could call her a
certified
lunatic.

I steer Karsynn back to the task at hand, and in ten minutes, we’re done! All around us, the other teams are still hard at work.

“Maddy, you’re pretty good at this,” Mika remarks.

I flip my hand in a
oh
-
think-nothing-of-it
gesture, but inside, I’m basking in his praise.

Twenty minutes later, Glenn goes over all the answers with the class, and our team slays the competition.

For the grand prize, we are each awarded a Kit Kat bar.

Mika takes a bite of his candy bar and I catch him watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.

I look away.

After class, Kars confronts me. “All right, Miss Flirty Pants, what’s going on with you and Mr. Belgium?”

“Nothing,” I say innocently.

Kars is too perceptive. “Maddy! Don’t play dumb with me.”

My face twists into a Cheshire cat grin. I find myself bubbling and fizzing with joy.

Just then I spot Mika and Ingeborg holding hands as they make their way across the parking lot. They look intimate. He whispers something in her ear and she laughs, nuzzling against his chest.

POP! The bubbles burst and the smile drains from my face.

“I guess Mr. Belgium is taken,” Kars states the obvious.

I stare forlornly at the beautiful couple. “Guess so. Anyway, who am I kidding? I can never compete with Ingeborg. She’s so
organic-ly
and
rustic-ly
beautiful. Like an Anthro model strolling barefoot through a field of wildflowers. Me? I’m just plain ol’ boring Maddy.”

“You’re cute!” she bleats. “You are. You look like a pretty Dutch milkmaid. In clogs. Milking a cow in a red barn.”

“Thanks Kars,” I say with a hint of sarcasm. “I feel so much better now knowing that I look like a dowdy milkmaid.”

She thumps my back. “Just kidding. Actually, you look a little like
whatsherface
, that chickadee from
500 Days of Summer
.”

“I wish…” I sigh wistfully.

My gaze follows the couple and I catch Mika planting a quick kiss on Ingeborg’s bee-stung lips. “She’s a knockout. Heck, she even puts Gisele
Bündchen
to shame.”

“Well at least you have a prettier name than her. Jeez Louise, Ingeborg? What the hell were her parents thinking? They were naming their
daughter
for Pete’s sake, not an
android.
C’mon, what’d they name her brother? Cyborg?”

“It’s probably a pretty name in
Europe…just lost in translation here.”

Suddenly, Karsynn lowers her voice and her demeanor turns dark and sinister. “Bwah ha ha ha. My name is Igor Draganov, descendant of Ingeborg Draganov and I VILL
BREAK
YOU!” she intones in a heavy Russian accent.

Like mean schoolgirls, we explode into a fit of giggles.

Karsynn drapes her arm around my shoulder. “You know, I’ve always wanted to say that.”
 

We set off down the pavement, tripping merrily over tiny cracks on the sidewalk.
Ah
...thank goodness for best friends.

The next several weeks of training seem to fly by. Kars, Mika, Ingeborg and I continue to sit in the same row, and the four of us have developed an easygoing, relaxed sort of comradeship.

In spite of myself, Ingeborg has quickly grown on me. She can be a tad whiny at times, but I can’t begrudge her.
She’s sugar, spice, and everything nice, with an extra heavy dose of naiveté.

She’s Phoebe from
Friends
, and who wouldn’t want a Phoebe in their circle of friends?

I’ve come to understand why Mika is completely smitten by her. Because I surely am.

And Mika has been a huge help. He picks up all the
training material in a snap, aces the troubleshooting
exercises and blitzes through the exams.

As for me, I barely scrape through. I hate
exams.

I hate the pressure of cramming everything in, and
having to spit it all out at a moment’s notice, so sitting next to Mika has come in handy. Whenever something is too ‘technical,’ all I have to do is turn to Mika, and he graciously obliges.

I’ve learned that Mika is
still
in college. After high school, he took some time off to
backpack round Asia and Europe. And he’s now in his junior year at Idaho State U, p
ursuing an undergrad degree in civil and environmental
engineering.

He’s a green-eyed stud with a green heart.

Every day that I’m in class, I’m keenly aware of his presence, my heart having a tendency to leap whenever I watch him at odd moments of the day. Like right now…

Abruptly, I’m jolted out of my reverie when I hear someone in class calling his name.

Dammit. I’m falling hard for this guy.

But there’s no harm in just
looking
. Right?

Sometime later, my eyes
gravitate back; I find myself studying his prominent, chiseled
cheekbones. I’m being extra discreet, when suddenly he looks up and
catches my eye.

Flustered, I focus all my attention on Glenn.

I need to put a
kibosh
on this. I must stop obsessing over this man.
Pssh!
Who needs men?

They’re just extra baggage, merely placed here on earth to help women procreate.

“I am a woman of substance
,”
I chant in my head.

After class, Mika disarms me with his sexy, boyish grin. “See ya, Maddy.”

“Bye!” I say with feigned indifference, but inside my heart is lurching into somersaults. Team China Olympic acrobatic flips.

Sigh.
I certainly don’t need a man, but I’d be much happier if I had one. Especially one like Mika.

On the last week of training, Glenn the bland trainer drops the stinkin’ S bomb on us. “Class, now as part of your job, you will have to
sell
.” And just in case we aren’t paying attention, he reiterates, “
Sales
is part of your job. I cannot overstate this enough. Don’t just take what I’m saying with a grain of salt, take it with the whole shaker!” he bellows frenetically, causing his entire fragile frame to quiver.

You can hear the low groans and moans sweeping through the class, an infinite tide of dissent the size of a tsunami wave.

Glenn has just given way to infamy.

Unperturbed, he forges on, raising his voice ten decibels so as to be heard over the mounting uproar. “Now, before you offer a product or service, you
must
always use the TSR script. It stands for Telemarketing Sales Rule.” Glenn pauses for effect. “The TSR script is a FTC regulation. Essentially, you are asking the caller’s permission to sell to them.” He stops and surveys the room. “Any questions?”

No one gives him eye contact.

There is a unanimous shaking of heads. My incensed
classmates resemble an ugly mob that’s gearing up to crucify Glenn.

Tank, an ex UFC fighter, lets out a guttural, ominous growl.
Siaosi, the five-hundred pound Samoan slash Sumo wrestler, sits very still with a hungry stare on his face, as though he’d like to roast Glenn on a spit
. It’s just my trite observation, but I’m pretty sure I’m spot on.

Glenn, feeling the heat and hate vibes emanating from the class, clasps his hands together in prayer.
“Class, settle down and pay attention. Listen, this is the TSR script that you are required to say in the course of every call:
If I see a product or a service that may be beneficial to you, is it okay if I mention it later on
? If the caller says NO, then do NOT attempt to sell. But if the caller says YES, then it is your green light to pitch your sales offer and SELL, SELL, SELL!” His chest heaves and his eyes assume a sort of feral look.

There’s something unnerving and unsettling about Glenn as I watch the wildness, the madness in his eyes...almost like he’s possessed. Sweet, docile Glenn has morphed into someone I hardly even recognize. It’s as if aliens have invaded his mind, body and soul.

This, I think cynically, trying to still my rising panic, is
not
good. S
ales is not my
forte
. It makes me feel uneasy and queasy, grimy and greasy, like I’m coated with
‘Car Salesman Slime.’

Over the next several agonizing hours, I learn all about the rainbow of
products offered by Lightning Speed. Products that enhance our callers’ lives (
Riiiight
,
Surrrre
), help them save time and money, and make their lives that much better.
  

Narrowing my eyes at Glenn, I remain skeptical.

It all sounds rosy posy, but it stinks to high heavens.

Um, wasn’t this whole economic collapse caused in part by greedy businesses? By banks and credit card companies that gave out loans, mortgages and credit to folks who could not afford it?

Sell to help enhance the customers’ lives?

Pssh!
More like sell to enhance the deep pockets of the CEOs, the big fat cats and their shareholders. All they care about are BIG dollar signs to line their already stuffed pockets. They don’t give a rat’s ass about the customers.

You can sugarcoat sales just like you can dress up baloney and call it prosciutto. But you know what? It’s
still
baloney.

I grit my teeth, as Glenn is far from finished with his sales lecture. Next on his agenda is ‘bundling’.

Lightning Speed Communications has a binding contract with Skylight Network, a satellite TV company, and somehow we have to convince our callers to include their Skylight services on their DSL and cell phone bills. And, we have to promote (
force it down their throats
) Skylight Network if the callers are not subscribers.

Profiling plays a big role in this sales farce. We’re expected to do some digging around; if the caller is a DSL subscriber and his cell phone is serviced through our competitor, then we must push him
our
cell phone service.

“Anyone have any questions or concerns?” Glenn asks with slight apprehension.

Karsynn’s hand flies up in the air.

He darts her a nervous glance. “Yes, Karsynn?”

“Um, why do we have to sell? Shouldn’t that be the job of the marketing department? We are customer
service
agents; we are NOT
sales
agents,” she huffs and crosses her arms.

“Yeaaaahhh! Um-hmmmm!” Everyone echoes her sentiments.

Glenn responds like a preprogrammed robot, “Selling is still part of your job.”

Tentatively, I raise my hand. “I’m sorry, Glenn, but if a ninety year old grandma has no idea how to use a computer and has no desire to, then I’m not going to push our DSL service on her. I just don’t think it’s right.”

Glenn looks at me plaintively. “If you don’t pitch a sale, you’ll be marked down on the call in the event you’re monitored; and if you consistently fail your monitors, that can lead to termination. Understood?”

I sink back and stew, burning with frustration.

I can’t believe the security of my job is already hanging in the balance, my future here entirely dependent on how much I can sell. Pretty skewed terms if you ask me.

I’ll do it. But I wish I could actually
see
the callers so I could do a *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge* and say, “This is all a ruse, DON’T DO IT! If you don’t have the funds to purchase a product or service, or if you don’t
need
it, don’t get suckered in. Caveat emptor! Let the buyer beware!”

Meanwhile, Glenn is gripping the edge of the desk with such force that his knuckles are white. “Look, I am not the bad guy here.” He breathes out a weary sigh. “And neither is Lightning Speed Communications. This is reality. In the business world, it is all about sales. I don’t make the rules, that’s just how it is.”

My expression softens.
Aw,
Glenn almost seems like a normal person now. Then gradually, his voice grows so eerily soft that I almost have to strain my ears to listen.