Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (30 page)

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad over that hoochie who doesn’t even wear panties. And what makes you think Mika is even dating her? It’s never been verified.”

“Well, it’s never been falsified either,” I retort.

“I think you need to have a talk with Mika and just flat out ask him.”

“I can’t...” I let out a ragged breath. “It’s too weird. We haven’t spoken in days. I’ve, um, sort of been avoiding him.”

“Why? Poor boy doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong.”

“I don’t know.” I sigh dramatically. “I just thought that maybe he
felt
something for me. And seeing him with someone else just confuses things.”

Suddenly
my phone blasts with Katy Perry rocking out in full angst to
Hot ‘n Cold
. Reaching for my BlackBerry, I answer, “Hi, Truong.” Pause. “Okay.” I hang up. “Truong is bringing lunch for us tomorrow.”

“Sweet! I won’t need to go to the cafeteria, which means I won’t have to deal with that hoochie mama.” Abruptly, Kars exclaims, “Hey! You changed your ring tone.”

I shrug it off as if to say, “Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

“Oh, Maddy, you’re such a dingbat! Mika has been
hot, hot, hot
for you the whole time. You’re the one who’s
cold,
Miss Ice Queen.”

“I’m not cold!” I cry defensively. “Okay. Maybe I had my guard up a little at first, but I almost pulled the trigger. I almost told him I was more than a bit in love with him.”

“What? When?”

“On Christmas.”

“Well why didn’t you?” she counters.

“Ingeborg’s vodka. It was my best friend
and
my worst enemy. It emboldened me, but before I could pour my heart out, I puked my guts out,” I mutter glumly, still burning from shame at the memory.

Karsynn collapses onto my shoulder, giggling. “How come I wasn’t there to hold back your hair?”

“Hullo, don’t you remember? Kars, you were hunched over the toilet
all
night. And not only did I hold your hair back, I braided it too.”

Kars scrunches up her face. “I don’t recall.” After a beat, she asks, “What kind of braid?”

I bite back a smile. “Princess Leia.”

“
Aww
,” she gushes. “You’re such a good friend, Mads.”

“You bet I am.”

We walk in companionable silence.

After an unreadable minute, Kars says quietly, “Just talk to Mika. You’ll see…everything will work out just fine.”

I admire her cock-eyed optimism. “I’ll think about it,” I say, just so she’ll drop the subject.

Beep!

“Thank you for calling Lightning Speed Communications, my name is Maddy. How can I help?”

“Hi, Samantha, my username is not working,” says the caller and, I don’t even bother correcting him.

Sigh. I gave up a
long, long
time ago. I’ve had customers call me Theresa, Sylvia, Amy, Amanda, Kimmy, Natalie, Susan and Jessica. And none of those names sound remotely like Maddy.

“I can help you with that sir,” I say and take him through the whole authentication rigmarole.

Once that is out of the way, I probe, “Sir, what username did you type in?”

“Ilovebodyodour67,” he says in a kind and gentle voice.

A loud snort escapes me. I compare his username against our records. “Sir, you
are
typing in the right username. Can you please make sure that it’s in lowercase letters?”

A beat of silence ensues.

Finally, he speaks. “I can’t.”

I blink. “Huh? Why not?”

“All the keys on my keyboard are in uppercase letters.”
  

I rub my temples. “Sir, can you please make sure that your Caps Lock is
not
turned on.”

A beat. Another beat.

“I’m so sorry, Samantha, but what do you mean by that?”

Beam me up, Scotty.

I help navigate him through that simple task, and it literally takes him twenty minutes to turn the Caps Lock off. Regrettably, that doesn’t fix the problem.

“Sir, when you type your username, do any numbers appear?”
 

“No numbers are showing up. But I
am
typing 67.”

“Okay sir, that means your Num Lock key is turned off and I need you to turn it back on.”

“How do I do that?” he asks in a clueless voice.

I steel myself and walk him through that very task. But it is akin to leading a blind donkey out of a cave.

“I still don’t see it,” he tells me for the umpteenth time.

“It’s on the right-hand side of your keyboard, right above the number seven.”

“I’m so sorry, Samantha, but I still don’t see it.”

“Sir, I’m really trying here—” I break off and inhale sharply.
  

“Don’t worry, Samantha, I know you can help me fix this. So please don’t give up on me. You can do it. I
know
you can.”

My voice falters. “Sir, I appreciate your vote of confidence, but there’s only so much I can do.”

“What would you like me to do, Samantha? I’ll do whatever you tell me to do,” he says obediently.

I grit my teeth. “Sir, can you
please
just open your eyes and
look?
”

“Wait! Is it
this
Num Lock key?” he cries excitedly.

Relief washes over me. “Yes! There is only one Num Lock key. Push that key,” I say to the Numskull.

“But the green light above it is now turned on.”

Closing my eyes, I mutter, “Yes sir, it’s supposed to be.”

“Oh!” he says, seemingly surprised.

“Okay sir, you’re all set now. Is there anything else?” I ask, ready to wrap up the call.

“Yes, Samantha, as a matter of fact, there is. If I need to call back with a problem, how late are you open?”

“We’re open twenty-four seven,” I inform him briskly.

“Huh? I’m sorry, but can you please explain, in simple and plain English, exactly what that means?”

“It means we are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year,” I explain good-naturedly.

He-Who-Loves-BO seems pleased with my answer. But then he hits me with this next mind numbing question. “Um, what time zone is that? Eastern, mountain or pacific?”

I blink. A couple of times

?????????????????????

When I finally find my voice, I say, “Um...all of them?”

“I am so sorry, Samantha, but I still don’t follow what you’re saying. Now you’re open twenty-four hours a day in what
specific
time zone?”

I decide to simplify things for him. “Well sir, what time zone do
you
live in?”

“Um...Eastern?” he says uncertainly, like he’s a contestant and I’m a game show host quizzing him live on
Are You Smarter than a 5
^th
Grader.

“Well in that case sir, we are open twenty-four hours a day, Eastern time.” I scratch my head at how ludicrous that sounds. But Jeepers! That is the only way I could get through him.

“You are? Well that is wonderful. Thank you for all your help, Samantha. You’ve been super. Have yourself a fabulous day,” he says in a chipper voice.

“You’re very welcome sir, and thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications.”

Now, I have got a pretty high tolerance for stupidity. But that has got to be
the
dumbest person I have ever spoken to. I daresay he was dumber than algae! Heck, I am not even that smart, but he is so dumb that in comparison, I come off looking like some sort of astrophysicist who just won the Nobel Prize for quantifying the universe.

But in his defense, he was upbeat and positive throughout the call, and he sounded like a very happy man.

Ah...
ignorance is bliss.

Plus, he was so incredibly nice, and oftentimes niceness can take a person a lot further in life. I imagine Mister I-Love-BO floating through life in a happy bubble, meandering aimlessly through smelly, sweaty gyms.

It’s my lunch time! Very swiftly, I log off the phone before another call comes through. Truong is already on his lunch break and browsing the internet.

“Truong, I just spoke to a guy whose username is I Love BO.”

He chortles gleefully. “I once dated a guy with really bad BO. Let me tell you, Maddy, it was so
bad.
You would not believe the stench! But Pepé Le Pew was super hawt, and so we dated for a week until I could
not
take it anymore. So I told him very nicely that I had serious issues with his BO, and that he really needed to take a shower.”

“Did you guys still date after that?”

“No. But many months later, we bumped into each other and he thanked me profusely for bringing it to his attention. I’m such a Good Samaritan,” he says with a virtuous glow.

“What? He thanked you for bringing it to his attention? Are you telling me he didn’t know that he needed to shower?” I say in my most sardonic voice and smirk. “Wow!”

“Cut it out you ninny!”

I reach for my water bottle and take a sip of water. “What are you browsing, Truong?”

“Just the latest news on Prop 8,” he says distractedly.

I pause thoughtfully. “Do you hope to get married someday?”

“Oh
hells no
,” he cries. “I mean, of course I want my peeps to be able to get married, but I personally do
not
want to get hitched. No, no, no. No marriage for me.”

This takes me by surprise. “But why not?”

“Why should I buy the whole pig when all I want is a little sausage?”

I let out a howl of laughter.

Kars perches on my desk. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Pigs and sausages,” says Truong without missing a beat. “It’s the mantla that I live by.”

I turn to Karsynn and explain, “Truong was just telling me all about his mantra in life.”

Kars purses her lips. “I’ve got a new mantra myself, thanks to Doctor Mares.”

Janis forced Kars to seek therapy shortly after her breakup with Bob. So once a week, Kars visits her psychologist and I’m all for it. It is high time she gets some help so she stops dating these pathetic Potato Head Players who aren’t worthy of her.

“That’s awesome Kars,” I enthuse. “What is your mantra?”

She crosses her arms. “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results each time. It’s an Einstein quote.”

“I have one along those lines,” I cry. “Burn me once, shame on you—”

“Burn me twice, shame on me,” Kars finishes with a smile.

“Ditto,” tweets Truong.

Kars appears to be doing just fine, when suddenly she makes an exasperated sound. “What the hell is wrong with me? I want to be released from the shackles of Douchebag Desire!”

I cast her a meaningful look. “It takes time Karsynn, but you will.
You will
,” I repeat with conviction.

“Do you think I’m a quack? I mean, I’m a psych major myself, and here I am seeing a psychologist.”

“No! Of course not,” I say at once. “Just think of it this way, a hairdresser always gets her hair cut by someone else and—”

“Not true,” Truong interjects and points out, “My cousin is a hair stylist and she cuts her own hair.”

“Oh shush, Truong.” Turning to Kars, I say, “He is missing my point. Kars if you need help, you need to keep seeing your psychologist. You can’t treat yourself and be objective about it.”

Taking my cue, Truong echoes, “Yeah, you should keep seeing your psychologist. I think it is helping and I just love your new mant
rrr
a.”

I seize him fiercely by the shoulders. “Truong! You just said it!” I exclaim breathlessly. “You just enunciated the letter R. Say it again. Say it again.”

“Mant
r
a,” says Truong, beaming at me like a baby who just uttered his first word.

“You did it!” I cry ecstatically and slap him a high five.

Kars thumps his back. “Respect, man! Big ups! Now say ‘shrimp fried rice’.”

“Sh
r
imp f
r
ied r
i
ce,” says Truong, enunciating each and every syllable. It sounds as crisp and as clear as Eliza Doolittle in
My Fair Lady
when she recited
T
he
R
ain in
S
pain
F
alls
M
ainly in the
P
lains.

Ahhh
, his words are like music to my ears. Like a Puccini and Bellini aria. Like Hamlet’s Second Soliloquy. Feeling a sudden swell of emotion, I fling my arms around him. “I’m so proud of you, Truong!”