Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (45 page)

I trace the edge of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He burrows his head in my belly. “I like my job. Enough about me; how was work at the Lightning Speed call center?”

I groan with displeasure. “I wish lightning would strike that place down.”

He laughs. “Suck it up! You won’t have to work there much longer.”

“You’ve got that right! Monday is my last day,” I say with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Momentarily, I find myself mentally revisiting the whirlwind of the past few weeks. Exactly fourteen days ago, I’d submitted my resignation after
Ajon
had presented me with a very enticing offer. I couldn’t believe my deaf ears when they’d said they wanted to hire me and pay me seventy-five thousand dollars a year! I was
overjoyed by their offer, but I’d remained
undecided. For the first time in my life, I’d found myself at a crossroads, filled with sudden trepidation.

Should I stay with Lightning Speed? Or should I go with Ajon and become a tech writer?

Or should I pull a Frost and take the road less traveled by and write my own book?

For as much as I’d wanted to accept Ajon’s offer, I was scared shitless.
What if I don’t live up to their expectations? What if I’m not good enough?

I’d kept laboring over my decision.

Thankfully Mika, Kars,
Ingeborg
and Truong were there to offer their undying support. Even my supervisor, Douglas, was thrilled for me. He’d put things into perspective when he’d said, “If you want to write, this call center is not for you. You’ve already reached the ceiling here, and I am confident you can go a lot further.”

And I knew deep down inside that it was time for me to leave the call center. My dream was to become a writer, and I owed it to myself to pursue that dream.

Mika jolts me out of my reverie. “Let’s not talk about work anymore.” He sidles closer and I nestle comfortably into the curves of his body. Closing my eyes, I relish our cozy existence.

“Hey, babes,” he mutters. “I’ll need to work on your car this weekend. The muffler I ordered came in today.”

“Umm hmmm,” I murmur lazily.

“Babes...” he whispers.

“Mmmm?”

“My arm is numb. Can we switch positions?”

Sitting upright, we readjust ourselves on the sofa. Mika surfs the channels with one hand and musses my hair with the other. What does he think I am? An Irish Sheepdog? Lassie?

He has this habit of stroking my hair. Actually,
squashing
my hair would be a better way to describe it, since it looks like a steamroller just steamrolled my head.

And it doesn’t help that I have straight, flat and BLEH hair that’s completely lacking in vitality and volume. Every morning, I spend half an hour blow drying it to give it an ounce of bounce, and Mika just squashes it each time he sees me.

I fluff up my hair. “Want to watch a DVD?”

“Sure,” he says. “Whatcha got?”

I slide the DVD into the player. “
Planet Earth
.”

The documentary unfolds. In one scene, a polar bear leaves his newly born cub in search of food, but it has no luck, thanks to global warming. By the time the polar bear finds his prey, it is too weak to hunt and too weak to go on.

And the next thing I know is, the film crew leaves papa polar bear to die. DIEEEEEEE!

“WHAT? Couldn’t the film crew have done
something
?
” I cry in indignation. “They could’ve saved that polar bear’s life. C’mon already! They could’ve air dropped papa bear some food!”

“Calm down.” Mika strokes my hair. “They’re letting nature play its course. That polar bear is in the wild.”

I flip. “That’s complete bullshit and you know it! If a film crew is there, they’re no longer technically in the
wild,
” I hiss, making air quotes with my fingers. “And you do not have helicopters zooming about and high-tech cameras filming in the
wild
. Plus, if I see some animal starving to death in the wild, you know what? I’ll still help it! It makes no difference where it is. If an animal is dying and you are there to witness it, you’re supposed to
do something.
”

In another scene, a baby elephant gets separated from her mommy. Oh no! I feel a rising panic in my chest when the baby elephant follows the tracks—the
wrong
way.

And now the baby elephant is lost and guess what?

It is left to DIEEEEEEEEEE!

“NOOOOOooooooo!” I wail. “This is too friggin’ messed up!”

Mika laughs and ruffles my hair.

I rise to my feet. “Sorry, but I can’t watch this.”

He tugs me back to the sofa and gathers me firmly onto his lap. “I can watch this some other time.” He pinches my nose. “I can think of better ways to be entertained.”

“Yeah?” I murmur.

Standing up, he scoops me into his arms. “Urrrrggh,” he grunts, showing off his brute strength.

I slide my arms around his neck. “Am I too heavy for you?”

“Uh-huh, must be from eating all those cinnamon rolls,” he says in a teasing voice.

“Will you still love me if I turn into a chubby Cinnabon?”

“I’ll love you more!” He drops a kiss on my lips. “You could use some more meat on your bones.” Heading for the bedroom, he carries me over the threshold like it’s our honeymoon night and kicks the door shut. Then he plops me on the bed and jogs to the bathroom.

“Be right back, babes,” he hollers over his shoulder.

I drape myself seductively across the damask duvet. Taking a deep breath, I fluff my hair and wait, jittery with anticipation.

Moments later, Mika emerges from the bathroom.

Holding out my arms, I bedazzle and bewitch him with my Jezebel charms, wearing a come-hither, sex-kittenish expression.

To my surprise, instead of sliding under the sheets with me, Mika hops onto his Stud Bar.

Heaving a big sigh, I resign myself and wait. It’ll be another thirty minutes before he comes to bed.

Months ago, when Mika had mentioned in passing that he loved his Stud Bar, I’d assumed he frequented some seedy bar, and that thought didn’t really sit well with me since the Mika I’d come to know and love just did
not
seem like the barfly type. Just to be certain, I’d
googled
‘Stud Bar’ and a website popped up for a gay bar in Montreal. It was described as being one of the most virile establishments in town.

For obvious reasons, I was flummoxed beyond words.

Not only was it a bar, but um, it was also a gay bar?

In Montreal?

Now, after living together, I’d finally discovered that his much beloved Stud Bar is a steel, pull-up bar that mounts to the studs in the ceiling.

And every night before retiring, he is up on that Stud Bar, doing thirty pull-ups followed by thirty chin-ups.

Just like tonight.

By the time my Stud Muffin is ready for bed, I am nodding off to sleep. “Mika…” I mutter drowsily into my pillow. “If you buff yourself up too much, your head will shrink
way
out of proportion to the rest of your body.”

Slipping into bed beside me, he wraps the duvet around us and nuzzles me lovingly. Smothered in darkness, I can feel the strength of his wanting, and he proves that his
other
head is not in the least bit affected.

Ahhhhhh
. Bliss. And double bliss. After some mind-blasting love making, Mika spoons me from behind and whispers a Scottish folk song in my ear. It’s my favorite love song and I’d only mentioned it in passing once, yet he’d took it upon himself to memorize most of the lyrics.

Resting his chin on my shoulder, he sings in a hushed and sleepy voice…
 

My love is like a red, red rose,

That’s newly sprung in June;

My love is like the melody,

That’s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

‘Til
all the seas gang dry.

‘Til
all the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt with the sun,

And I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands of Life shall run...

Phwoar! It’s not Gaelic. But it’s pretty damn close!

“Maddy,” he adds huskily, “
mo chridhe.
”

Gasp.
Mo chridhe
is Scottish Gaelic for
my heart
.

I think I may have just died and gone to Heaven. Thrice.

The weekend rolls by and Mika, my MacGyver, spends all his time in the garage, tinkering with my Subaru. And I’ve noticed that he’s been putting gas in my car. It’s such a small gesture, yet I’m touched. Being taken care of for a change, well it sort of feels...nice.

Before I know it, it is officially my last day at the Lightning Speed Call Center. Mika kindly took the day off from
his
work to share this momentous occasion with me. All I need to do is go in, sign some papers, gather my things and leave.

“You ready?” His face glows with elation.

“What are you so excited about?” I ask, grinning myself.

“Well, I’ll be driving you to
that
place for the last time
and
you’ll finally get to see what I’ve done to your car. C’mon, let’s check it out.”

“Wait,” I say in a panic. “Have you seen my sunglasses?”

His mouth twitches. “It wasn’t my turn to watch them, babes.”

“I’m not amused.”

Taking charge, he puts one hand under my elbow, steers me out the door and leads me to my car.

“Check out your new muffler,” he gestures, pink with pride.

I stand frozen at the revelation. “Good Grief! Those suckers are gargantuous.”

This is not a regular muffler.
No
. This is a rice burner muffler slash exhaust system.

Meanwhile, Mika is looking exceedingly pleased with himself. “Doesn’t it look awesome?”

“Err, I guess.” I manage a tepid smile.

Seriously, I could have bolted on a sewer pipe in lieu of that monstrosity of a muffler, and it probably would have looked the same. Actually, it would have looked better.

“Thanks, but um, it’s not a stock muffler like I’d wanted.”

“Why buy stock when you can buy aftermarket accessories for a better price?” he states matter-of-factly.

I am laughing inside. Oh my God. Mika has ordered me a fart can muffler. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed, I drive a Subaru
not
a Honda Civic.”

“This is a Magnaflow,” he intones with a grandiose sweep of his arm.

As if I’d know the difference
.

“This is
not
a ricer. Ricers are modified cars with all show and no go. This my dear, is a tuner. Magnaflow mufflers have a much deeper and richer sound. It’s a lot more muscular. Let’s take it for a spin. You’ll see,” he says reassuringly.

We slide into my car and snap on our seatbelts. As I rev up the engine, I hear the ferocious roar of my new muffler coming to life.

On impulse, I floor it and soon we’re flying down the freeway like fugitives in my souped up Subaru. Hahaha. I’m surprised to find myself enjoying every minute of it.

Blaarrrrrgggggghhhhhh
blares my new muffler.

“Now all I need are some fat rims and lowering springs,” I
shout over the loud racket.

“Really? I’ll order ‘em for you,” says Mika in all seriousness.

“No, don’t!” I say at once and jab him in the ribs. “I was just kidding. Mika, you’re my boyfriend,
not
my mechanic.”

His lips curve into a thin smile. “I can be both.”

We exit off the highway and my Subaru rolls to a stop at the lights. Abruptly, I hear an arrogant rev of an engine. Turning my head, I come face to face with a
real
ricer. The Honda Civic has a wing attached to the back.

I suppress a snort. The wing looks like a park bench.

Arrogantly, the young punk jerks his head at me and revs up his engine.

Mika nudges me. “I believe he wants to race you.”

I regard the driver with frank amusement.

VROOOM, VROOOM, VROOOOM! He taps his gas pedal.

The light turns green and the ricer screeches off, leaving skid marks all over the road. Languidly, I gently ease off the brakes; and to prove a point, I drive like Little Miss Daisy.

Mika balks, “Maddy! We need to do an engine swap so we can smoke the shit out of ricers like him.”