Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (5 page)

Now is my chance. Patiently, I bide my time.

Before the call ends, Mr. Klum bellows, “Dahnk-uh shoon.”

“You’re welcome,” I say graciously. This upcoming moment is pivotal. “Thanks for calling sir and...
Aufiderzein
.”

I said it! What a momentous occasion!

Next time, I’ll kick it up a notch and say, “YOU’RE OUT!
Aufiderzein.
”

Maybe I’ll get a Russian, and we can discuss Pushkin and Matryoshka dolls.

I’m proud to say that I have
quite
the collection of Russian nesting dolls, which incidentally, are all made in China.
   

Hey, this job really isn’t so bad after all. Although I’m sitting at a tiny desk in a crappy, cramped up cubicle in a windowless call center located in Pocatello, Idaho…I feel so globalized. I am connected to the world.

Three

T
he Lightning Five conference room is an explosion of pink confetti; b
alloons emblazoned with words like ‘Congratulations!’ and
‘WOW!’ decorate every space.

Our graduation day is feeling like a slightly overplayed event, think prom night, circa 1980.

Spread out before us is a Costco sheet cake, doughnuts from Daylight Donuts, and a whole smorgasbord of food and drinks. An imposing podium is set up in the front, and thirty five brass trophies are proudly displayed on a makeshift table.

“They sure rolled out the red carpet for us,” Kars
remarks, while slicing a fat piece of cake.

I fill up my paper cup with some virgin punch. “Not bad at all. Although I wish they would’ve told us this was a fancy soiree. I would’ve glammed up.”

“Oh, Mika!” Ingeborg gushes with childish delight. “You have that vary nice Italian suit. You could have vorn it today, yah? And I could’ve vorn my zequined dress. Babe! Ve vud have looked vanderful.” She does a little princess twirl.

Mika smiles at Ingeborg indulgently as she pirouettes, spinning around and around, like a ballerina in a musical box.

Karsynn inclines her head toward me and whispers, “What is Ingeborg smoking, and who is her dealer?”

I shrug. “She’s making me dizzy.”

Glenn clears his throat. “May I please have everyone’s attention
?” He is standing behind the podium, beaming at us like a proud parent. “I just want you guys to know that I am so proud of you; I feel honored for having had the opportunity to be your trainer for the past six weeks. You guys are a fabulous group, and I’ve truly enjoyed getting to know you,” he says earnestly, almost choking up in the process.

Kars harrumphs. “What on planet Earth is he talking about? He doesn’t
know
me; he doesn’t even know my favorite ice cream flavor.”

“Mint chocolate chip,” I say without missing a beat.

Glenn concludes his speech, “Before I hand out these trophies, I have a little surprise for you guys. Now for those of you who don’t know, I
used to be a professional ballroom dancer,
and
today I will perform a special stunt for you.”

There is a stir of interest through the crowd as Glenn struts like a peacock to an open area and assumes a dancer’s stance.

Other than the sound of him cracking his knuckles, the room is hushed. Everyone is silently waiting in anticipation.

Without further ado, Glenn breaks into a fast paced, zipping jive, showcasing his flair and fancy choreography, drawing cheers and laughter from the crowd. And then out of nowhere—BAM!

He executes two dramatic back flips. One after another!

We’re a little stunned at first, but soon the whole room breaks into rapturous applause.

“Holy mackerel!” I gasp. “His form and landing was sharp and clean! It was perfect. As effortless as
Plushenko’s quad-triple-double toe loop combination.”

Kars gives a short hiccupping laugh. “I wouldn’t go
that
far; he’s more of a Johnny Weir. But this is better than anything I’ve seen on
Dancing with the Stars
.”

Glenn is in his element, taking a bow, preening and posing, clearly enjoying the limelight.

Presuming this whole shindig is over with, I trot to the punch bowl only to stop myself in my tracks. Glenn is fervently waving his arms in the air, motioning for Mika to join him in the front.

Looking surprised, although not very pleased, Mika shakes his head. “No, Glenn. I don’t want to do it.”

Glenn’s voice rings loud and persuasive. “C’mon on down here, Mika!”

Mika refuses to budge.

With an instinct for entertaining a crowd that rivals the likes of Letterman and Leno, Glenn turns to his audience for support.

“Class, since I’ve gotten to know Mika, I’ve learned that he
too
shares a passion for dancing. When Mika lived in Belgium, he was the founder of a street break-dancing group called the B-Force. So once again, c’mon down here Mika and show us what you’ve got!”

Mika shuffles his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.
Suddenly, Ingeborg pumps her fists in the air and chants, “Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka!” Pretty soon, everyone is rallying and chanting for him, including
moi
.

Mika gives a half embarrassed smile and remains glued to the spot; but I can see his resolve
slowly wavering. Resigning himself, he squares his shoulders and jogs
to the front of the room.

He begins warming up with some simple three-step footwork. Seconds later, he drops to the ground and pops out the familiar coffee grinder move. A smile touches my lips; he’s visibly more relaxed now. Then while doing a fancy side step, he blazes into a suicidal back head flip, followed by a front head flip.

WHOA! That’s two headsprings with no hands!

He could be in the Cirque du Soleil.

A roaring applause breaks out, even mightier and louder than Glenn’s reception. I even hear a couple hoots and wolf whistles from the crowd.

“He did that trick so effortlessly,” I mutter, audibly floored.

The crowd wants more. They rally and egg him on, “WOOT!!!
WOOT!!! Mi-ka! Mi-ka!
Mi-ka!”

Graciously, he obliges. Dropping to the ground, he whips out a dizzying windmill move. His lean, muscular legs rotate and spin around in rapid motions. I swear I even feel a breeze. Who needs an electric fan when you have Mika?

Next, he combines more power moves using his strong elbows and strapping forearms to propel him through the air like a boomerang. After more fluid flares and turtle crunches, he rolls back and freezes with a one-handed handstand.

A thunderous applause fills the entire room. He has brought the house down! Apparently, our dear friend Mika has a knack for showmanship.

My mouth is slightly agape. “Wow. He’s incredible! As light as a leaf, as hard as concrete, yet as flexible as a rubber band.”

Kars bobs her head. “Gotta give Belgium boy props!”

Without breaking out in a drop of sweat, Mika jogs back to a chorus of rowdy applause, slightly impeded by slaps on his back, high fives and knuckle bumps as he passes by our cheering classmates.

We cluster around our newfound celebrity friend, shielding him from the estrogen filled skanks who flock around him like country hens in heat, jostling for his attention.

Ingeborg flings herself at him. “Dat vas so avesome babe.”

He smiles and gently disentangles himself, keenly aware of all the snooping eyes on him.

Kars delivers a solid punch to his arm. “Holy crap, Mika, we didn’t know you had moves like that!”

“You founded the B-Force, eh?” I smile with frank amusement.

Somewhat pink around the ears, he laughs. “That’s why I didn’t mention it; you girls are already giving me a hard time.”

Glenn returns to the podium and announces, “Class, listen up. If any of you are interested in taking ballroom dancing, please know that I give private lessons at my studio downtown. And my partner Bruno gives break-dancing lessons. So if you’re interested, just shoot me an email and I’ll provide you the details, okay?”

Great plug, I think to myself.

“And now,” Glenn continues, “it is finally time for me to hand out these
trophies that are so well deserved of
all
of you. I want you to
know that you are
all
winners today.”

One by one, Glenn calls out our names and we claim our mini trophies. They’re shiny brass balls haphazardly affixed to cheap plastic sticks. And for the
pièce
de résistance,
the brass balls are
burnished with the company’s lightning rod logo.

I accept my trophy, hold it up to Kars and manage an uneven smile. “Um, I sure do feel like a winner.”
 

After all that shenanigans, we’re allowed to ‘party’ for an hour in the conference room and then report back to class.

Our fates will be decreed today.

Kars, Mika, Ingeborg and I mingle in a corner, still tight knit and clique-ish after six grueling weeks of training. We are the Band of Brothers in this torrential battle field, looking out for one another in the trenches.

“I hope ve vill all be on de same team,” says Ingeborg, wide-eyed with optimism.

“Me too. If we’re lucky enough, we’ll end up with a nice
supervisor like Dawson. From what I hear, he’s super easy going.”

A shadow of a frown touches Karsynn’s forehead. “I hope we don’t end up on Hillary Hildegard’s team. She’s a witch! The micromanaging queen.”
Kars
drops her voice a decibel. “My mom says people
call her the Not Ready Nazi. Her team has the lowest Not
Ready time in call center history, and if she ever catches you in Not Ready, you’re in deep shitz.”

I shudder involuntarily. “Please don’t let me be on
her
team.”

“Don’t worry, ladies. We’ll be fine wherever we go,”
says Mika in a voice as cool as a cucumber. He
remains poised while the rest of us have completely lost it. He has a talent for remaining calm and collected in
the most chaotic situations. “Who knows? Maybe Hillary is not as bad as they say,” he proffers.

At that, Kars emits a loud, exaggerated snort.

But I certainly hope Mika is right.

To distract ourselves, we head for the food table and pile up on the goodies that are quickly disappearing.

I stack up on the tortilla chips and scoop myself a hefty
portion of guacamole dip, happily indulging myself. After inhaling everything on my plate, I swiftly head back for seconds. Chips and dip in hand, I whirl around only to find Mika smiling at me with mild amusement.

Self consciously, I slide a chip in my mouth, crunch on it, and catch the falling crumbs.

Mika seems to sense my
mounting discomfort. “I like girls with healthy appetites,” he says simply.
 

I glance over at Ingeborg. She’s munching on a celery stick. Nothing else is on her plate.

Great. Now I feel like a ginormous pudding.

Humph…Mika may like girls with healthy appetites, but he
certainly doesn’t
date
‘em.

The training class has never been this quiet. Like sitting
ducks, we await our fates.

Glenn fixes me with a steady look. “Maddy…”

My stomach is in knots.
Please let me be on Dawson’s team.

“You’ll be on Hillary Hildegard’s team.”

A sharp pain twists in my gut. Noooooooooooooo. I bury my head in my hands and make a muffled cry of despair.

“Ingeborg,” Glenn bellows. “Hillary’s team as well.”

She squeaks with terror and turns sheet white.

“Karsynn.” Glenn pauses for a beat and looks straight at her.

Her eyes are clamped shut, almost like she’s dreading what’s coming her way.

Glenn lays it on her gently. “Hillary’s team.”

Kars bashes her head against the desk.

Unperturbed, Glenn continues roll calling more names, poor unfortunate souls, all doomed for Hillary the Not Ready Nazi’s labor camp.

Sometime later, the tide begins to shift when we hear Glenn say, “Mika, you’ll be on Dawson Darling’s team.”

Mika shrugs with a casual expression of indifference.

Kars glares at him resentfully. “You lucky duck! You get your freedom while the rest of us take the train to the Gulag!”

Mika shoots her a feeble smile and apologizes with his eyes.

When Glenn is finished roll calling, he distributes printouts of our schedules. As it turns out, most of us will be working a crappy
shift from noon ‘til 8:30 pm, right smack in the middle of the day.
I
won’t have time to do anything in the morning
, afternoon
or
evening for that matter.