Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (42 page)

Swallowing my annoyance, I force a smile, then I incline my head toward Mika and whisper, “I can’t stand my cousin and my aunt.”

Mika’s lips twist into a smile, but he adopts a neutral facade, remaining placid and polite.

I cast a disdainful eye Constance’s way. She’s dressed like a character straight out of a Tim Burton movie. Dark horn rimmed glasses adorn her shifty, rodent-like eyes, and she’s got so much eyeliner caked on that she looks like a panda bear. Her makeup is a stark contrast to her pale, corpse-like skin. Everything about her is severe.

As usual, Uncle Stuart dominates the conversation and I find myself staring amusedly at his Donald Trump comb-over piece. The strawberry highlights clash with his salmon pink sweater. I’m sorry, but a grown man should
never ever
wear pink. No sane mom would ever dress her baby boy in pink, or paint his nursery pink. And any grown man who chooses to dress in pink is just plain
ridiculosity
.

As distracting as his funny hair piece and girly attire may be, I try to tune myself in to the conversation that is swirling around me. When the economy was booming, Uncle Stuart loved to boast about all the riches he was raking in from the stock market.

He fancied himself a mover and shaker, and hobnobbed with all the Wall Street head honchos and hedge fund managers. He also heavily invested in Madoff’s ponzi scheme.

Now that the economy is tanking and Stuart has lost his high-flying job, all he ever does is whine about how much money he is losing, how his investments and 401K are dwindling to nothing.

We make all the appropriate sympathetic noises.

“Bernie Madoff has got blood on his hands,” he growls.

“Um, didn’t Steven Spielberg and Kevin Bacon invest with him too?” I ask casually. It was something I read in
US Weekly
.

Uncle Stuart shifts his anger to me. “Yes! But those are just stupid, gullible Hollywood celebs. Let me tell you, lots of
smart
people got duped. Smart people like me!”

“I didn’t say you weren’t smart,” I implore.

“You
implied
it,” he grumbles and sulks like a two year old.

I roll my eyes and Uncle Stuart throws me a murderous look.

A bubble of laughter escapes me.

Hah! It’s a good thing Uncle Stuart is cross-eyed. Although he’s glaring at me, it appears as if he’s glaring at Mika, who happens to be sitting next to me on the leather settee. Poor Mika has no idea why my Quasimodo Uncle is giving him the evil eye, and so he focuses his full attention on Stuart’s hairpiece.

I do the same. For obvious reasons, conversation is driven to an absolute halt.

After an awkward silence, my mom clears her throat. “Let’s adjourn to the dining area, shall we?”

“Let’s,” concurs Aunt Benedicta and struts to the dining room, flanked by her two toddlers.

A feast fit for a king is spread out before us.

My Quasimodo uncle pads heavily into the room and squashes his humongous rear into the seat next to Mika. Now if there is one thing Uncle Stuart loves, it is new company. To him, it is an opportunity to brag in their ears nonstop. And when he does not brag about himself, he brags about the next best thing—his evil daughter, aka the Devil’s spawn. Just barely a minute into our meal, the brag session begins.

“Constance has just landed herself a fantastic job,” he booms.

My ears instantly perk up.

Constance and I are only months apart in age, and ever since we were kids, Uncle Stuart has loved making comparisons between Constance and me. Of course, it was always in Constance’s favor. Constance was always the faster swimmer, she always got better grades, and she attended the better college.

When she got admitted to Yale, it was all we ever heard about at every single holiday gathering. To add insult to injury, Constance also majored in Journalism, and so the comparisons have never ceased.

Uncle Stuart strokes Constance’s hair like he’s petting a prized panda bear. “Constance here is a foreign correspondent for
CNN. She’s following in the footsteps of Christiane Amanpour and Anderson Cooper.”

From across the dining table, Constance shoots me one of her
I’m-better-than-you
smirks, preening like she’s the gold medalist.

Keeping sangfroid, I treat her with taciturn indifference. On the surface, everything seems pleasant enough.

But I hate her.

And I wish she’d wipe that pompous smirk off her panda face.

Foreign correspondent, eh? Well I hope CNN deploys her to Afghanistan, or Syria, or Yemen.

“And what is it that
you
do Madison?” sneers Uncle Stuart.

I level my gaze with his. “I work at a call center.”

“What a shame,” clucks Aunty Benedicta, in a voice dripping with false empathy.

Uncle Stuart snarls in an accusatory tone, “Oh! So you’re one of
those
people, aren’t you?”

Slowly, I set my silverware down on the table. “And what do you mean by that?”

“You know, customer-
no-
service,” he says patronizingly. T
hen he emits his signature scratchy laugh, reminiscent of the noise a dog makes right before it pukes.

After collecting himself, he shoots me a smarmy smile and adds, “No offense kiddo.”

I know exactly what he’s trying to do. He’s been doing this to me my whole life—trying to make me feel inadequate.

Constance laughs a mirthless laugh and my mom’s eyebrows crease with concern when she catches the determined glint in my eye. Resentment and indignation boil inside me, and I have to consciously bite my tongue to repress the remarks I feel bubbling to the surface. But as tradition requires, a lady never speaks with her mouth full. And so, I patiently bide my time.

Crunching on my romaine lettuce, I allow myself to enjoy the tartness of the cranberries and the crispness of the leafy greens while I reflect upon the rampant stigma associated with my job.

I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m fully aware that most people harbor a deep contempt and hatred toward customer service reps. But now that I’m on the other side of the invisible phone line, I understand. The pressure and stress that management puts on me to sell
and
keep my calls short, callers who yell at me because their world will end if their DSL service is down for ten seconds.

It often feels as if I’m being crushed and compressed from all sides. It takes a
helluva
lot
to keep my composure, yet I always do my best. I am courteous, respectful and go above and beyond to be helpful, as long as the callers don’t make it obvious that they wish for me to die a slow and painful death.

There is bad customer service but there is also
good
customer service, and I have always prided myself on the latter. And with Uncle Stuart’s unprovoked attack, I feel marginalized, ostracized and victimized. Like I’m pushed against a wall.

I find myself in a situation where it’s me
versus
them. A customer service rep
versus
the haters.

Oh I know. I can be a tad bit dramatic and childish at times, but he started it! Plus, I feel this perverse need to defend myself, to defend the honor of customer service reps all around the world—in the States, in India, the Philippines, Botswana, Bolivia, Brazil, Malaysia, Russia, the Czech Republic.

I can’t let him get away with talking smack about
my
people
.

As the Lord said to Moses and in the great words of Martin Luther King, “Let My People Go!”

Meanwhile, the tension at the table continues to crackle and mount. Projecting an image of unflappable calm, I raise my chin at my Quasimodo uncle. Acting like a true lady in the face of adversity,
I say eloquently, “And you, Uncle Stuart, are one of
those
customers. And by that I mean brainless, idiotic, fart-brained fools who call in asking for help, yet think they know
everything.
”

Uncle Stuart is incandescent with rage. “How dare y—”

Mika cuts in, “If I may, Stuart?”

“What?” hisses Quasimodo.

Mika gives him a steady look. “Are you currently employed?”

“No!” he snaps. “I was laid off nine months ago and—”

Mika boldly interrupts, “And are you collecting unemployment?”

Something inaudible sputters out of Uncle Stuart’s mouth, which I take to mean a “Yes.”

Mika says in a measured voice, “Well Maddy and I have jobs and we’re not a burden on society.” He shrugs and continues, “No one wants to work at a call center. But some of us just wind up working there, and we try to make the best of it, and Maddy here surely has. She’s one of the nicest and brightest reps, and our callers love her.” He darts me a warm look and announces with great pride, “You may or may not know this, but Maddy recently got promoted.”

Uncle Stuart sneers scornfully, “Who the hell cares? I’d rather be unemployed for the rest of my life than work in a blasted call center. It is just
beneath
me.”

Mika clears his throat, then continues in a tone that is authoritative and borderline sexy, “Look, Stuart, I’m really sorry that you lost your job, but when you hit a rough patch, you can either choose to be humiliated, or you can choose to learn humility. Perhaps working at a call center would do you some good. You could use a little humility.”

Suddenly, my mom begins flapping and thrashing about in her chair. “Ackh, Kak, Kakh!”

I leap to my feet. “Mom, are you okay?”

“Achk! Kakh!” she hacks and sputters.

A gasp escapes the table as she continues to choke to death, right before our very eyes.

At once, I clap her hard on her back and a cranberry comes flying out of her mouth. It ricochets across the table, clunks onto the white china and spins like a dreidel.
  

Everyone stops and stares.

A lowly cranberry has never looked so mesmerizing.

“I-I’m fine,” my mom stammers and drains her glass of wine.

It pretty much goes downhill from there.

No one says a word for the rest of the meal; but there are plenty of pinched eyes, pained expressions and tightened lips.

And I
know
Aunt Benedicta is simply livid with me after my terse exchange with her Quasimodo husband. But try as she might to make a scowling Medusa face, she just looks...
surprised
.

Constance has her usual hateful smirk pasted on her panda bear face and Uncle Stuart’s Kim
Chee
expression remains unchanged. He is back to being a pickled cabbage, sulking with his pudgy arms crossed over his barrel chest, glaring at me with his crazy eyes.

How cute! My cross-eyed and cross-armed uncle.

Now all he needs to do is cross his legs and
Voilà!
He’ll have the whole look complete.

I blow out an explosive sigh and catch Mika’s eye.

He smiles broadly. Holding my gaze, he shoots me a look that says, ‘You
go
girl!’

I smile back at my comrade. “Mika, could you please pass me the gravy?”

“Of course,” he says evenly.

I reach for the gravy dish and our fingers lightly graze.

We exchange a lingering look, one that seems loaded with potential meaning. And for the rest of the meal, his eyes never leave mine. Sparks seem to be shooting in all directions, and I am no longer aware of my Quasi relatives. I am no longer aware of anyone but the two of us.

Half an hour later, I’m standing on the front lawn, watching Aunt Benedicta and her crazy clan drive off into the stark night.

My mom takes me by surprise when she says, “Sorry honey, I’m taking off too. I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘k love?”

I blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Kirk works in the ER and his shift ends at midnight.”

“Kirk? Mom, what happened to Vincent?”

“Oh, you were right,” she says with a tinkling laugh. “I am never dating an Ob-Gyn again.”

I stare after her open-mouthed as she slides into her Audi.

“See you kids tomorrow,” she hollers out the window. Then she toots the horn twice and zooms off.

Mika elbows me playfully. “Well that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I guess it could’ve been a lot worse. And by the way, thanks for standing up to Quasimodo. That took some
kahunas
.”

He shrugs it off. “Stuart sure is an interesting guy.” After a stretch of silence, he says, “So...what do you want to do now?”

Laughing somewhat deliriously, I manage, “Are you kidding me? After all
that
drama, I want to do nothing.”

“We can do nothing.” He clears his throat. “We’re all alone now in this big, empty house.”

“Want to go hang out in my room?” I hear myself saying.

Our eyes lock and I smile at him with the timeless mystery of a Venetian courtesan. A
cortigiana onesta.
At least that’s what I’m going for. For all I know, I probably exude the persona of a pariah dog in heat.