Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (40 page)

I glide on some killer red lipstick and fluff up my hair. After slipping on a pair of dark sheer tights, I hop over to the shoe rack and wriggle my feet into my Miss L Fire blood red Hedy heels.

It’s sex on heels, adding a touch of
vavavoom
to my outfit.

Okay, now I’m ready.

Strutting down the stairs, I unfurl with the power of a femme fatale. The right dress and shoes can make any woman feel like a million bucks. I bet if Hillary Clinton ditched the pantsuits and donned a pretty frock from time to time, she’d be a less grouchy Secretary of State. And w
ith a different attitude, perhaps she could broker a peace agreement in the Mideast between Israel and Palestine.

Mika is standing in the foyer with both hands in his pockets.

As I gracefully descend the stairs, his eyes rake me from head to toe, traveling slowly and deliberately, almost sensually.

Straightening himself, he shoots me an appreciative smile.

“You look gorgeous,” he says in a thick voice.

I gaze at him from half lowered eyelids.
“Thanks, so do you.”

I’ve made reservations at Bri,” he says with aplomb. “And I’ve called a cab; it’s waiting outside.”

Gallantly, Mika helps me into my coat and whisks me out the front door.

Our cabbie is a jovial Indian man named Vijay Singh. Driving at breakneck speed, Vijay strikes up a conversation about the sour economy. “This recession is terrible. My daughter Gita graduated from college months ago and she’s still jobless.”
 

“What did she major in?” I ask politely.

“Philosophy,” says Vijay, swerving in and out of traffic.

Well no wonder
, I think to myself. That has got to be the most pointless degree ever. All you can ever do with a degree like that is teach philosophy or philosophize, asking yourself mindless questions like, “If an ambulance is on its way to save someone and runs someone else over, should it stop to help that person?”

A good friend of mine, Descartes, has a PhD in philosophy. He was a pothead,
still is
, and he now works at Blockbuster.

But then again, who am I to even talk? What good did my journalism degree do? I’m stuck in a friggin’ call center.

“
I myself have a master’s degree from Delhi
University,” says Vijay and slams on the brakes, just barley avoiding a head-on collision.

We lurch sickeningly forward and then flop backward like a pair of rag dolls. “That’s cool. How long have you been driving a cab?” asks Mika, gripping the sides.

“For far too long.” Vijay chortles. “When I started driving a cab eight years ago, I told myself it’s nothing permanent. Short term only! But then the years start to pass.” He stops and pounds his fist on the horn. “And now with the economy going down the drain like this, I’m just thankful I can put food on the table.”

Staring numbly at the bright lights whizzing outside, I grimly reflect upon my own predicament. I certainly don’t want to end up working at that call center forever. Already, I’ve been feeling considerably burnt out. Over the past few weeks, the call volume spiked and I was forced back on the phones again.

This Thanksgiving break is a much needed one. I was coiled so tightly that I was about ready to snap.
But at the same time, I feel the same way Vijay does,
grateful that I at least
have
a job.

“Vijay, if you ever want to make a career change, come out to Pocatello,” I offer. “You can get a job at a call center.”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “Actually madam, being a cab driver is not so bad after all. I enjoy working all by myself.”

For a brief moment, I consider what it must be like to be a cabbie. How liberating! I wouldn’t have to talk to customers all day long. Vijay is chatting with us on his
own
accord. It’s his prerogative if or not he wants to talk; and if I was at the wheel, it’d be
my
prerogative if I’d want to talk or not. Plus, driving always has such a calming effect on me.

Mika seems to have a keen sense of knowing what’s brewing about in my head. “You could
not
be a cab driver.”

“Why not?” I huff.

“I’ve seen the way you drive,
weaving in and out, cutting other cars by an inch, flying over speed bumps. When you’re at the wheel, I’m constantly
pressing the phantom brake pedal.”

“Actually,” Vijay chimes in, “she’d make an excellent cabbie.”

“See!” I smother a triumphant grin.

Traffic slows to a crawl, but Vijay is undeterred. He zips in and out of traffic, swerves around corners, jumps over curbs and drives down sidewalks. Minutes later, he violently swings the cab onto the side of the road.

“Here we are at Bri!” He flashes a toothy grin. “Very popular among the locals. And by the way, you two look like a
beau-ti-ful
couple. Enjoy your evening,” he says regally.

“Thanks, Vijay, it was so nice to meet you,” I say, inching across the back seat. For some odd reason, I don’t correct Vijay about us being a ‘couple.’ Neither does Mika, I observe.

Mika pays the fare and I notice him slipping Vijay a hefty tip.

Chalk another point for Mika. I’m glad he’s no cheapo.

Sauntering into Bri, I realize Mika is anything
but
cheap. My goodness! This place is going to break his Belgian bank account.

My bug eyes sweep across the golden gilded room and I find myself
mesmerized by its opulence and grandeur. It’s splendidly baroque and ornately orchestrated. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceilings, tufted chairs are tucked into alcoves, a roaring fire glimmers and glows in the score of reflections in the room.

Inclining my head toward Mika, I whisper, “I didn’t know we were attending the Tsar Ball at Catherine Palace.”

He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me. “I couldn’t afford the plane ticket to Saint Petersburg, so this will have to suffice.”

Within minutes, we’re seated by a burlesque-y hostess who bears a striking resemblance to Dita Von Teese.

I stare after Dita as she sashays off. Leaning forward, I ask in a hushed voice, “Mika, do you think she’s cute?”

“I think you’re cute,” he says without missing a beat.

I scoff at his deflection. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Smiling, he shakes his head and consults the menu.

I do the same.

Seconds later, he pops his head over the tall menu. “Shall we go for the tasting menu?”

“Let’s go for it,” I say robustly.

As if on cue, two posh waiters materialize at our table and
introduce themselves as Juan and Steve.

Juan takes our orders and nods approvingly. “Our chefs only use the freshest, local ingredients.”

Steve concurs with his team mate. “Yesssss. And all the food prepared here is organic
and
sustainable.”

My eyes shimmer. “Sustainable? How splendid.”

At first the trend was organic food, and now a new one has snuck up on me—
Sustainable!

And I’m a complete sucker for it all. Trust Mika, being an eco-friendly guy, to pick a green restaurant.

After our orders are placed, Juan and Steve magically fade into the wallpaper. Leaning back against the plush seat, I gaze at the Jackson Pollock-like artworks that line the walls.

Bach’s
Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major
plays softly in the background, set in perfect harmony to the romantic and whimsical ambiance.

Wait a minute.

Or is this
Concerto Number 3 in G major
?

I perk my ears up, straining to listen. But I can no longer tell.

To my absolute horror, I discover that I am tone deaf.

Egad! My ears have been ravaged by that call center! Eight years of piano lessons washed down the drain!

Mika watches me closely, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s slightly alarmed by my state of distress. He clears his throat. “So, what do you think of this place?”

“What’d you say?” I rub my damaged ears, and soothe myself with the thought that although Beethoven was tone deaf, he was one of the greatest pianists of all time.

“What do you think of this place?” he repeats.

Basking in the candlelight, I gush, “It’s magical.”

Moments later, Juan and Steve appear by our sides and serve our first
entrée
simultaneously. They lift the silver lids off the platters in perfect synch, as synchronized as two dolphins at SeaWorld.
Their timing is perfect and their tricks flawless.

Wow.
This place is surreal, like a cross between
SeaWorld and dining. And come to think of it, they
do
have such a thing at SeaWorld. It’s called Dinner with Shamu. Only difference is, this is
fine dining
with our waiters Steve and Juan.

The first
entrée is Escargots à la Bourguignonne.

“Um...” I stare uncertainly at the escargot that’s swimming in some sort of garlic buttery sauce. “Mika, you can have mine if you want.”

He spoons a snail into his mouth. “You don’t like escargot?”

The look on my face says it all. “Don’t you love euphemisms? If they called it snails, I bet you no one would eat it.”

“I would.” He takes another bite to prove his point. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Maddy.”

“Yeah I do,” I say with a faint smirk. “Sorry, Mika, but I’m pretty ghetto. I don’t have a sophisticated palette like you.”

“You? Ghetto? You live in an architectural dream.”

“Well, my parents were well off, but they worked full time and neither of them cooked. I mainly lived on frozen pizzas, hot dogs, and mac and cheese.”

“That’s it?” He looks appalled. “I grew up poor, but only in the material sense of the word. My mum made a feast out of every meal. We spent lots of time discussing food, preparing food
and
consuming food.”

I lean my elbows forward in fascination. “So what did you eat most of the time?”

“My mum’s homemade meatballs in sweet cherry sauce,” he says with a smile. “And you?”

“Hot dogs cold, right out of the fridge,” I admit, embarrassed.

“You speak of euphemisms, but don’t you know that a hot dog is pig snout, pig liver, pig kidney, pig fat and scrap that’s ground up, stuffed and squeezed into casings made of animal intestines? You’ll eat
that
but you won’t eat a snail,” he taunts.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll try a snail.” I fork the tiniest escargot, squeeze my eyes shut, and force the slimy thing down my throat.

He stares at me expectantly. “So?”

My face contorts. “The texture is a bit strange, but the garlic buttery sauce sort of makes it edible.”

“Well, I’m glad you at least tried it.”

The next course is Grilled Portobello Mushrooms and
Alaskan King Crab Legs served with a red wine reduction.

“Now this is a humongous fungus!” I stifle a laugh.

A smile crooks his lips. “I’ve never understood why they call skinny, spindly crab legs King Crabs.”

“I know,” I concur. “They should call it Poor Man’s Crab legs, or Anorexic Crabs.”

Sometime later, our next dish arrives—Pan Roasted Breast of Squab over Beet Salad and Oven Dried Black Figs.

“Enjoy your street pigeon and weeds,” says Mika cheekily.

“Mmmm.” I crunch on a lettuce. “I love rabbit food. And as for this pigeon, it’s payback time for messing up my balcony.”

Mika takes a bite off his rat with wings. “Sorry pigeon, this is for firing your mess all over my car.”

After all that pigeon bashing, I’m suddenly consumed with guilt. “You know what? Pigeons are also symbols of peace,” I say, paying tribute to my meal.

Mika matches my somber mood. “Pigeons are credited with saving thousands of soldiers’ lives in World War One and Two.”

“How?” I ask, nibbling on my salad greens.

“They were used to carry messages. Pigeons can fly at high speeds for miles and miles without stopping for food and water.”

For a little while, we lapse into silence.

“You know what?” I say in a sage voice. “I think we
should
call this hero with wings a squab. That way I’m not reminded of the fact that I’m eating a patriotic, lifesaving pigeon.”

“Okay, n
o more deconstructing euphemisms,” agrees Mika wholeheartedly. “They’re around for a reason.”

Our fourth course is soon placed before us, this time it’s Citrus Marinated Salmon with a Confit of Navel Oranges, topped with Sustainable Sturgeon Caviar and Pea Shoot Coulis.

Now let me start with my one caveat—I really detest caviar. But as I cautiously spoon some pearly eggs in my mouth, it pops with a flavor that’s surprisingly pleasing to my palate. The food here may
sound
pretentious, but it certainly doesn’t
taste
pretentious. We relish and savor every bite, praising and applauding the dishes along the way.