Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (6 page)

The best shifts by far are:
8:30 am to 4 pm—so I still have the whole evening left to enjoy, or 3:30 pm ‘til midnight—so I can have the whole morning to myself. But si
nce I am the low man on the totem pole, I am stuck with a shift where my whole day is wasted at work. Bummer!

Before dismissing us from our final day of training, Glenn shepherds us to our cubicles. They don’t look like much, but what more can you expect from a cubicle? It’s a six-by-six foot partition without a view.

And although Kars and I are on the same team, a row of cubes separate us, like the Red Sea. Ingeborg’s desk is just two cubes away from mine, so we can still holler at each other.

We’re curious to see where Mika’s cubicle is, so we traipse over to his desk. Standing by his cube, I scan the floor for mine. “You’re quite a distance from us Mika,” I point out. “I’d say you’re about eight rows across.”

Ingeborg pulls a face, slightly miffed that she and Mika won’t be joined at the hip.

Mika gives a playful grin. “Ladies, don’t worry. I’ll come over and visit.”

Glenn rounds us up like sheep one final time. “All right guys, so you’ll report to your supervisors on Monday. You may bring in
pictures and plants to decorate your cubes if you wish.” He
pauses and glances around, as if trying to memorize all our faces. “And although you’re no longer in training, please don’t be a stranger. My office is right next to the exit stairwell on the north side, so feel free to stop by and pay me a visit anytime, okay?”

We nod and murmur our goodbyes.

Glenn glances furtively at his watch. “Oops, it’s time. Must dash. I have a meeting with HR.”

As he prances away, I overhear some snippets of
conversation, something about how the shit hit the fan after word got around that Glenn executed a back flip
and
encouraged Mika to perform a stunt on company property. I guess if Mika had gotten injured, the company would have been liable, and so Glenn had violated some sort of code in the Employee Handbook.

Poor Glenn...I hope he’s not in any hot water.

Four

“
H
urricane Katrina has struck again!” Karsynn surveys the pile of clothes strewn across her room.

My suitcase is empty but my stuff is everywhere and the room is in utter chaos. To be honest, Karsynn’s room was pretty much a pigsty even before I moved in, but I did sort of take it to a new level today.

Looking helplessly around, I cry, “I have nothing to wear.”

Karsynn seizes me by the shoulders. “Look, it’s just work—at a
call center
, remember? We don’t have to dress up since we don’t meet any clients. Plus, my mom says some lady comes into work dressed in her pajamas for Christ’s sake. So your skinny jeans and grandma top are fine.”

“Grandma?” I glance down at my blousy, ethereal Leifsdottir top; it’s laced with ruffles, gathered with ruching, and stitched with tiny, iridescent rosettes. “This is vintage inspired,” I cry in an injured voice.

“Po-
tay
-toh, Po-
tah
-toe,” she tuts. “You say vintage, I say granny.”

Eyeing Karsynn’s camouflaged pants, red bandana and mossy green top, I bite my tongue and let that comment slide. I am not taking fashion advice from someone who dresses like Rambo—First Blood Rambo, not the new Rambo.

I change the subject. “This isn’t about work, it’s about Mika. Remember? Before I left work on Friday, he said he
needed to talk to me about something. Privately. So we’re meeting for lunch in the cafeteria today.”

Karsynn looks askance. “
You mean I’m not invited? Not even Ingeborg?”

“Nope.” I grin stupidly.

She strikes a thoughtful pose. “Hmm. I wonder what he wants to talk to you about.”

“I’ve been wondering that myself all weekend,” I say offhandedly, trying to still my fluttering emotions.

Kars eyes me suspiciously. “You’re hoping he’s got the hots for you, eh?”

“Me? No! Yes! Oh I don’t know.” My voice falters.

“I
know
you’ve got the hawts for him,” she snickers and falls head-first into a pile of clothes.

“I do, but he’s going out with Ingeborg. And I
love
Ingeborg. I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Plus, it’s strictly platonic between me and Mika.”

“Platonic, Plutonic. Po-
tay
-
toh
, Po-
tah
-toe.” Kars rolls her eyes. “It’s all semantics to me.”

Studiously ignoring her, I reach for a
black scrunchie, and in two swift motions, my hair is up in a neat ponytail.

“Jesus-Mary-Mother-of-Joseph, take the hideous thing off right now,” she orders fiercely. “Scrunchies are so nineties!
You’ve got gorgeous, glossy hair. I’d sell my firstborn to have hair like yours; plus if you leave it down for a change, Belgium boy
may notice.”

“Whatever,” I say dismissively. But I do take off the scrunchie and run a brush through my hair a couple of times.

Kars swings her feet out of bed and paces the floor. Scanning our checklist, she says, “You got your cinnamon scented candle?”

I peer inside my bag. “One cinnamon scented candle—check!”

“Photos?”

“Got ‘em!” I hold up my favorite snapshots.

Our cubicles will be our home away from home, so we plan on decorating and personalizing our cardboard partitions.

Kars taps a large box. “One basil garden—check!”

My eyes widen. “You’re bringing your Aerogarden to work?”
      

The Aerogarden is a hydroponic device that uses some sort of NASA space age technology. Well, at least that’s what Karsynn tells me.

She hoists the large box into her arms. “Yeah, why not? I love the smell of basil. Plus, it’ll help me snag a man.”

I stare at Kars, bemused.

She pads to the door. “Oh yeah, didn’t you know? In Italy, sweet basil is thought to attract husbands to their wives.”

I
raise my eyes to the ceiling. “We’re in
Idaho
—
not
Italy.”

“There could be Italian men working there,” she quips airily.

Shaking my head, I prop the door open. “After you.”

Kars and her indoor garden trot out.

“Is that everything?”

Her head pops out of the burgeoning greenery. “Yes ma’am.”

“Let’s boogie!” I slam the door shut behind me.

As soon as Kars and I troop into work, we spy Hillary the Not Ready Nazi at her desk, sitting ramrod straight with her back to us. We take this opportunity to check out our new boss.

Hillary is staring at her monitor, and appears to be reviewing an excel
spreadsheet of some sort.

Abruptly, she attacks her keyboard
with brute force,
pounding it into oblivion. TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!

I stiffen. She looks so intimidating, and already my fear for her is all consuming. Kars and I remain firmly glued to the spot, transfixed by her muscular fingers that are hammering away at the keys.

My gaze shifts to the Madonna biceps that decorate her arms.

Gulps.
I’m pretty sure she pumps iron.

Sensing our presence, Hillary swivels round.

My heart stops and my eyes widen in horror. Egad! She is a grisly ogre living amongst us. I find myself blatantly staring at her hatchet nose. It looks like a nose job gone wrong, almost like it’s collapsing inwards.

S
he’s even got a slight moustache.

Or as they call it these days—a nose neighbor, a crumb catcher, a trash stash, or a tea strainer.

With an expression of mild petulance, Hillary raises a tufted unibrow that’s mushrooming out of control. “And you are?”

“Um, I’m Maddy,” I manage feebly.

“And I’m Karsynn, reporting for duty,” she pipes in chirpily.

“And we’re on your team,” we say in unison. Then we eye each other, struggling to keep a straight face.

Hillary doesn’t look the least bit amused. She rises ceremoniously to her feet. Fully erect, she towers over us. Oh God. She must be over eight feet tall.

Kars and I cower in the corner as the giant looms over us.

Hillary immediately fires out her commands, “Make sure you come into work at least fifteen minutes early so you have time to boot up your computer and log in to all of your apps. I
expect
you to be on the phones taking calls at twelve sharp! That is when your shift starts and that is precisely when I
expect
you take calls! And I
expect
you to be ready to take calls at ALL times, so don’t even
think
of touching the Not Ready key,” she says acidly. “And I
expect
you to obey my orders, so don’t even think of questioning me. If I say ‘Jump’, you say ‘How High!’ ”

Each time Hillary spits the word ‘
expect,’
her saliva sprays onto our cheeks. Gosh. Her mouth is an industrial humidifier, vaporizing the air around us. I need some Vicks Vapor-rub.

“Understood?” she roars, striking fear into our hearts.

We bob our heads up and down.

Her lips curl into a sadistic smile and I quickly plaster a smile on my face, stretching it as tightly as a bungee cord that’s about ready to snap.

Hillary’s nostrils flare with annoyance. “You are dismissed!” She swivels back to face her monitor.

Kars and I exchange a look of alarm, wearing identical raised eyebrows. After collecting ourselves, we slink back to our cells.

Jeez. We haven’t even started our shifts, and already she’s made us feel like convicted felons facing death row.

Ingeborg, already seated in Cell Block D, waves at us and demurely slides on her headset. On anyone else, it
looks like a plain metal band. On Ingeborg, it sparkles and shimmers
like a diamond encrusted tiara. But tiara or not, once that headset is on, you’re chained to your desk.

“What’s her problem?” mutters Kars. “Heck, it’s not even noon yet. We’ve got five minutes before we have to start taking calls.”

“Well, I guess we better hurry then,” I say, scrambling over to Cell Block A. Hurriedly, I chuck my bag onto the desk and fire up my computer. But I soon realize that ‘fire up’ is the wrong word.

I grit my teeth as my computer chugs and spits at a leisurely pace. By the time I’m logged in, I can already hear Ingeborg taking her first call.

“Thank you for calling Lightning Zpeed Communications, my name iz Ingeborg, vot can I help you vit today?” she twitters like a canary.

I
love
Ingeborg’s accent! It puts a smile on my face.

Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi stands up from her watch post and fixes her steely gray eyes on me. She raises her tufted unibrow, making her meaning quite clear.

Humph. I wasn’t aware that this is a
no-smile
zone.

Hillary the Giant’s height gives her the added advantage of enabling her to spy over us. Hmm. I wonder why she’s so mean. Maybe kids used to pick on her and call her names like Andre the Giant, The Jolly Green Giant and Tall Chief.

Poor Hillary. I’ll try to be nice to her.

Instantly, I wipe the smile off my face and load up my apps. I plunk the cinnamon scented candle on my desk and stick a sepia-toned photograph on my cubicle wall. It’s a picture of me and my dad, taken on a muggy July afternoon at the Navy Pier. His hair is tousled from the wind and his eyes are crinkled from squinting at the afternoon sun. I vividly remember all the details of that summery day. We sat
on a weathered bench by the pier, and he held my little hand in his big
hand. Together, we feasted on our
Häagen-Daz
waffle cones
a
nd my dad was smiling at the camera with an ice-cream moustache.

My dad passed away from lung cancer eight years ago.

Losing him was devastating. I lost my dad and my best friend all in one day. He’s the realest thing I’ve ever had, and he left the biggest gap in my life when he left.

I gaze at the photograph with affection, smiling back at him. Taking a deep breath, I slide on my headset.

Okay, now I’m ready to take a call.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, how can I help?

“Because your FUCKING lines are down, it has cost my business over FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS IN FUCKING D
AMAGES!” blasts the caller.

Sheesh, someone has a potty mouth.

“Sir, I apologize for any inconvenience and I’ll be glad to look into this matter for you. But could you kindly refrain from using such foul language with me,” I say all primly and properly.