Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (46 page)

“Shut up, Mika. You’re not coming near my car ever again.”

He laughs and tousles my hair.

Sigh.
My hair is permanently flattened, and I have a fart can muffler affixed to my car.

Twenty minutes later, I swing my car into the Lightning Speed parking lot and stall the engine. Mika tells me he’ll wait for me outside. Taking a deep breath, I start for the building and feel a sudden thrill compounded by happiness, relief and trepidation.

Sailing into the office, I waltz by Truong’s cubicle for the very last time. He throttles me from behind and jams me in a headlock. “Hey, we’re still celebrating your farewell at
Phở
Hoa tonight aren’t we?”

“
Phở
-king right we are!” I laugh, breaking free from his puny grasp.

Glancing briefly to the left, I catch Ingeborg looking distressed.

“Arch and I vill be there.
Maddy
,
ve
vill
miss
ya
so much. It vill neveh be de same here vithout you,” she chokes with emotion and bursts into tears.

“Oh, Ingeborg,” I soothe. “I’ll miss you guys more than you’ll ever know, but we’ll still be in touch.”

She sniffles. “Yah, ve vill.
Facebook
me and Twitter me, okay?”

Karsynn barges into our intimate gathering. “We’re going to party it up at that Vietnamese noodle house tonight!”

“Yes we are.” I link my arm with hers. “And you can come, just as long as you don’t bring your porn star friends with you.”

Kars pulls a face. “Humph! Just so you know, Pamela is
not
my best friend. We’re already fighting over the remote. If I have to watch one more episode of
Keeping Up with the
Kardashians
, I will shoot myself.”

Truong snorts with laughter. “Stop pretending! We know how much you just
love
your new airhead friends. Speaking of which, let’s line them up in a row and create a wind tunnel.”

“Okay, Kars,” I smirk. “I’ve changed my mind. You can bring Pamela Pornero tonight.”

“I don’t want to,” she harrumphs. “Pamela wouldn’t
get
any of the subtleties of a Vietnamese noodle house. She actually thinks the Vietnam War is still going on,
and
she thinks Vietnam is in Africa!”

Abruptly, Hilary pokes her head out of her watch tower and gives us the
look
. “What’s with all this ruckus? You people have calls to take! GET BACK TO WORK NOW OR ELSE YOU WILL ALL BE WRITTEN UP!”

The fiery
Führer
does not make idle threats, and so the crowd quickly disperses.

“Madison!” Hillary growls and beckons me with a whip of her head. “Get over here.”

Cautiously, I make my way to her desk. “Yeah?”

“I hear you’re leaving us,” she states with some hesitation and I give a slight nod. “Well, good luck,” she mutters grudgingly.

I force a smile. “Um…thanks,” I say stiffly.

“And if they’re ever hiring managers at Ajon, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know,” she remarks in a perfunctory fashion.

I jerk my head up in surprise. “I will.”

Rising ceremoniously to her feet, she looks me squarely in the eye. “Sometimes, it’s not easy being a manager here.”

At once, I feel a flicker of hope. Hope for Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi. This whole time, I’d vilified, demonized and ogre-rized her so much that I’d lost sight of the fact that she
too
might be suffering alongside us, that she
too
might be under pressure from
her
bosses at the top.

She’ll always be as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue, but this is a good start.

Before her hard-won pork chop exterior cracks any further, Hillary promptly dismisses me. “You’d best get going now. I know Douglas is in his office waiting for you to sign your dismissal papers.” She holds out her hand and I shake it firmly.

“Don’t come back to this place,
Maddy
.”

“I don’t plan on it.”

Half an hour later, my dismissal papers signed, I hoist the cardboard box into my arms, ready to walk out of this place for good. For some inexplicable reason, I find myself stalling.

Spinning around, I gaze out at the infinite sea of cubicles. The ocean of calls will continue to flow and flow. And flow. The tide may ebb, but it never dissipates. For twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

I am profoundly humbled by my experience here, and I harbor a deep respect for everyone that works in this call center. They come from all walks of life: mothers who work to supplement their family income, college students who support themselves, fathers who juggle two jobs, grandparents who can’t survive on social security alone, military men and women on reserve (even a couple of marines and Navy Seal officers), veterans, farmers who no longer find farming a lucrative business, an anesthesiologist who lost his license, small business owners who filed for bankruptcy. They’re folks like you and me, just trying to make a living.

Oh sure, there’s the occasional child molester and crazy meth addict. Pocatello
is
the meth capital of Idaho, after all. But for the most part, they’re good, honest, hardworking people.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time here is that there’s humanity in this place. We’re not machines. Most of us have good intentions and genuinely want to help our callers.

Despite our best efforts, all too often callers forget that we’re human. They say things over the phone that I’m positive they’d
never
consider saying face to face. And if a caller said half of that crap to my face, there’d be two decks—me decking the caller, and the caller hitting the deck.

Or is it two hits? Me hitting the caller, and the caller hitting the ground.

Either way, it’d be an aftermath of blood and guts.
 

Out of my peripheral vision, I spot a group of new hires in ‘nesting.’ And I find myself smiling in spite of myself. Little do they realize what they have signed up for. They are probably just treading water at this point, but soon they will be flailing away in shark infested waters. The waters I’d swam in for over a year.

And without a doubt in my mind, I know that some of them will drown. The turnover rate here is exponentially high. This job is clearly not for everyone.

It’s a dirty job, even worse than scrubbing toilets.

A toilet doesn’t talk back. But the callers do. And they throw feces at you.
Okay, no more ‘bodily function’ metaphors.

Metaphors aside, when callers are being verbally abusive, dropping F bombs and threats, and we’re on the receiving end of a constant bombardment of complaints, rants, and negativity, it somehow affects us after a while.

Trust me, I’ve seen my co-workers break down in tears and suffer from nervous breakdowns. But I guess I can sort of see both sides of the equation. Oftentimes the customers’ complaints and frustrations aren’t without merit. They don’t call us when they’re happy or satisfied; they only call when there’s a problem and they’re pissed off. And Lightning Speed only adds more fuel to their raging fire by forcing them to go through a barrage of prompts:
If you need help with your password, press 1. If you need help getting online, press 2. If you need help with your cell phone, press 3. If it is a billing issue, press 4.
And it goes all the way up to prompt number 12.

The highly annoying automated attendant harasses the callers with a dizzying tree of numbers. Not surprisingly, some callers get confused and punch their way into oblivion. And then when you add on the interminable hold times—
S
heesh
!
By the time the callers get to me, their blood pressure is skyrocketing through the roofs; they’re ticking time bombs ready to explode!

The callers unleashed their rage on me when they were upset with Lightning Speed, and yes, I was forced to swallow the brunt of the blame and take the flack because I’d represented the company. But I wish I could’ve said, “Yes! I agree with you! This company sucks! And it’s not
me.
It’s
them
. I’m handcuffed by this demented system! Screw Lightning Speed. Leave. Don’t give them your business!”

On top of that, management never stopped breathing down my neck to get my calls wrapped up in two minutes or less, because the shorter my calls were, the more calls I could take. And the more calls I could take, meant the more I could sell!

It’s
sick.

I was stressed and pressured from all sides—from the callers, from management and from the QA bastards. It is no wonder call center jobs rank among the most stressful in America, on par with firefighters, cops and paramedics.

Squaring my shoulders, I start for the
elevator. As I turn the corner, I walk by the Quality Assurance Assholes for the very last time, the brainless KGB squad who delighted in chipping away at our humanity.

Making my way down the narrow hallway, the blinding lights from the Sales Dashboard flash at me like a neon banner at a used car dealership.

Every single call that filters through this center is treated as a sales prospect.

Sadly, I’d become a part of this ugly machine, pushing products and services that the customers didn’t want or need. Forced to swear allegiance to the Sales Flag, I’d swallowed the bitter pill of dissent for fear of being arrested by the KGB and sent off to the firing squad.

For some, this job is permanent. Absurdly enough, there is a minority here who actually
like
this job. To say these folks are patient is an understatement. But they insist that they love what they do. From what I’ve observed, they tend to be religious and immensely forgiving. Or maybe they’re just doused on a ton of alcohol and drugs to numb the pain.

And then there are others who keep on working here, some for over thirty years, despite the fact that they’re miserable as hell. In my opinion, there’s only one explanation for this sort of behavior: battered wife syndrome. In denial about the abuse they suffer, they have come to accept their dismal fates; they feel hopeless, trapped, like they have no other choices, no other options.

I want to seize them by the shoulders, shake them hard and say, “Leave your bastard husband.
Oops
, leave your bastard job! You’re strong enough. You can do it. You can find a better job! You can leave this blasted place. At one time, I too considered staying. But it’s not worth it. If you love yourself, leave!”

For others, this is merely an in-between job before something better comes along. For me, this experience has been a myriad of things. A stepping stone, a small but steady paycheck, a whole lot of stress and diabolically fun.

Someday, I will look back upon this experience with delirious laughter and absolute horror. Make no mistake, a call center is something to be experienced before you can truly grasp the meaning of
a living Hell
.

But it seems as if human beings form the closest bonds when faced with adversity. Call it our natural defense against painful and catastrophic situations.

Consequently, this call center holds a very special place in my heart. This slum, this bleak and dismal labor camp is where my most memorable friendships have blossomed.

Truong will always remain one of my very good friends. He’s pursuing a degree in interior design and sticking around until he’s done with college.

Saint Ingeborg Draganov, bless her heart. I love that girl like a sister. She’s a rare bird; she actually
likes
this job and plans on working here for the rest of her life.

I tip my hat to her; she possesses patience and virtue beyond measure.

And Karsynn, my dear Kars. She and I were buddies before I even set foot in this call center, and we remain the best of friends as I step out. The friendship and bond we share has only grown stronger, not hampered in the least by Pamela Pornero and the rest of the Call Center Termites.

Kars aims to snag a supervisor position in a year and become a director in five. And I have no doubt in my mind that she’ll succeed. She’s ballsy and determined, plus she’s a pro at playing the demented office politics games.

Idealistic and optimistic, Kars tells me that when she claws her way to the top, she’ll make some changes. Changes that will help the plight of the people here. Although I hope she’ll follow through, I remain realistic.

Arriving at the elevator, I jab the button with one finger.

The elevator door pings open and I step in.

Whirling around, I glance back one final time and realize that I have no regrets. Working at Lightning Speed Communications has given me the skills to prepare me for future jobs. My skin is now tougher than leather. Correction. Tougher than steel. And I am certain I can handle anything thrown my way.

All the abuse has only served to make me stronger. I emerge from this call center a new and liberated woman, much like Tina Turner after she walked out on Ike.