Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Read online

  Confessions of a Call Center Gal

  a novel

  by Lisa Lim

  edited by Felicia A. Sullivan

  Copyright © 2011 Lisa Lim. All rights reserved.

  Second Edition

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  One

  How on earth did I wind up stuck here in Pocatello, Idaho, a town where every other vehicle is a Ford pickup truck and the wind blows faster than said trucks?

  Just yesterday, I spotted a turnip truck bumping along a dirt road and was reminded of the country bumpkin saying, “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”

  But here in Pocatello, my response to that would be, “Or did you? In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw you roll off one.”

  But I digress.

  I say again, how did I end up here?

  Where do I even begin? Let me pause, rewind and paint a picture. It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times. I was a recent college grad, starry-eyed and optimistic, ready to take on the world of print media.

  Instead, I watched the fate of print media crumble right before my very eyes. Newspapers, mags and journals suffered casualties; the Chicago Tribune even filed for bankruptcy protection.

  I applied at every print media outlet within a thousand mile radius, even the obscure ones like the Coon Valley Times, Ozaukee Press and Sheboygan Suns.

  Alas, I never heard back.

  Or worse, I received some version of this lame reject letter:

  Dear Applicant, (Pssh! They didn’t even bother personalizing it)

  Although we were impressed with your background and experience, we have decided to pursue other applicants who more closely reflect the requirements for the position (You are not good enough for us). We wish you well in your employment search (REJECT! stamped on my forehead).

  Literally hundreds of these hate mail missives came back to taunt me; I spiraled into self doubt and began questioning my choices, my career path. My life became stagnant, and I was on the verge of depleting all my savings.

  It was in this jaded and broke time in my life that Karsynn, my BFF from the University of Wisconsin, rang me up again. I checked the caller ID and sighed. I didn’t want to answer, but I knew she’d just keep on calling and calling until she got an answer to the question she’d asked yesterday and the day before. And the day before that.

  “Hey Kars,” I said, picking up on the fourth ring.

  “Wassup!” she boomed.

  “Nothing,” I replied listlessly, cradling the phone on my neck while I moped around the house.

  The dreaded question came right away. “Got a job?”

  “Nope,” I grunted. “No job...you?”

  “Hell no!” she scoffed. “Um, haven’t you been watching the news? Unemployment is at ten percent! Nobody’s hiring, so don’t take it personally. I’m not.”

  I heaved out an explosive sigh. “This really sucks.”

  “I know. Heck, the way things are going now, I’ll end up jobless and single for the rest of my life, mooching off my mom, living in her basement.”

  “And you’ll turn into one of those crazy cat ladies who hoard a gazillion strays.”

  “Uh-huh. One day you’ll read about me in the news—Karsynn Alayna Higginbotham, found dead in basement, body half eaten by rats.”

  “Nope,” I said and pointed out, “With all your stray cats, there wouldn’t be any rats.”

  “True, true.” She barely contained a snicker. “I’d be the best Crazy Cat Lady in town. I’m slowly accumulating more cats.”

  “You are?”

  “Yep!” A tone of smugness squeezed into her voice. “But not real cats though, just fake ones from my Crazy Cat Lady board game.”

  “Um…” I paused for a beat…“they make such a thing?”

  “Yes and it’s a riot!” She squealed with delight. “The whole goal of the game is to collect more cats than your competitors.”

  “Well, d’oh!”

  “Hah! You mock me, but I swear you’d love it too. The squares on the board say things like Find a stray cat at the grocery store—add one cat. And there are wild cards, but guess what? They’re called wild cats!”

  “Karsynn,” I said mildly, “you sound a little too excited about this board game. Are you bored?”

  “Bored outta my friggin’ mind,” she groaned in affirmation. “I have no job, no money, no friends...”

  “You’ve got me,” I soothed.

  “You know what?” she said after a pregnant pause. “I was just thinking…why don’t you come out here and see me? You could use a mini vacation!”

  I almost dropped my phone.

  Pocatello wasn’t exactly my idea of a vacation spot. In fact, it wasn’t even on my radar.

  “C’mon,” she pleaded, “come visit me. It’ll be fun. I can show you around Spudsville, and we can hang out and watch TV, just like old times.”

  Kars and I had been roommates in college, and on many dateless nights, we found ourselves holed up in our lava lamp lit dorm room, happily watching the tube. And we never fought over the remote because we watched all of the same shows.

  All of them.

  That is a bond that we share ‘til today. Even though we’re miles apart, we still watch the same TV shows...and gaze at the same moon, of course.

  “So what do you say, Maddy?” Karsynn prodded, summoning me from my thoughts.

  “Well,” I hesitated, “why don’t you come visit me in Chicago?”

  “I’m broke,” she whined.

  “I’m broke too.”

  “Well, I’m broke-r,” she retorted.

  After briefly mulling it over, I folded. “Oh, okay. I’ll come out and see you.”

  “Yes! You could sound a little more excited, you know. Don’t you miss me?”

  I smiled in spite of myself, missing her already. “I do.”

  The very next day, I packed up my bags, loaded up my relic of a Subaru and clunked it clear across the country to her hometown of Pocatello, Idaho.

  And I haven’t left because I’ve scored a job interview!

  Holy Crappity Cripes! Believe it or not, there are jobs in this Godforsaken place.

  Karsynn’s mom, Janis, works at a call center for Lightning Speed Communications. It’s a DSL and cell phone provider, which gives it a double-edged sword, and when Janis informed us that her company was hiring, our jaws literally dropped.

  Eventually, I managed, “But Miss Higginbotham, with the economy like this, most companies are cutting back. And they’re certainly not hiring.”

  Janis patted my knee in a motherly fashion. “Well, sugar, no matter how bad the economy is, and no matter how broke folks are, they will always feel like they need their cell phones and their high speed internet access. Even janitors have cell phones. Heck, I even have one, and I’m broke. Anyway, they’re hiring customer service reps. Pay starts at twelve dollars per hour, and you can apply on their website. And don’t forget to put me down as a referral so I’ll get my five hundred bucks.”

  Fast forward to presen
t—Lightning Speed Communications is where I shall have my first job interview.

  And that is why I’m still stuck here in The Valley of Potatoes.

  Tweedle dee, tweedle dum, I’m twiddling my thumbs, eyeing the life-sized poster on the wall, emblazoned with a mustard yellow lightning rod, which I presume to be the company’s logo.

  The caption reads: Lightning Speed Communications, Because Speed Matters.

  Leaning back against the club chair, I anxiously await my name to be called.

  Last night, Karsynn and I burned the midnight oil prepping for this interview by googling sample interview Questions and Answers, and I’m feeling pretty confident because I know exactly what they’ll ask me:

  1) What are your strengths?

  I’ll give an answer that mentions these essential key words: team player, excellent communication skills, multi-tasker, learn on the fly, dedicated and motivated.

  2) What are your weaknesses?

  Easy. I’ll give some lame lie about how I’m such a perfectionist, that I must always go back and double check my work to make sure everything looks perfect. I know—lame.

  But then Kars and I decided that the both of us can’t give the same answer. So we came up with a solution. Karsynn’s answer will run somewhere along these lines:

  “Well, I used to have a problem saying ‘no’ to people. Now, however, I prioritize my days, thus allowing my excellent time management skills dictate when I can truly say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

  Isn’t that brilliant?

  Easy peasy. Kars and I are going to nail this interview.

  Abruptly, a stout, squat man sporting a military buzz cut emerges from the conference room.

  He glances down at his note pad. “Miss Madison Lee?”

  That’s me, that’s me! My heart pounds and my stomach lurches.

  Karsynn shrieks, “That’s you, that’s you!”

  Leaping to my feet, I smooth down the wrinkles on my skirt and step forward. “Hi, I’m Maddy.” I thrust my hand forward and eyeball him.

  “Victor Petraeus,” he replies in a stern and detached manner.

  “Nice to meet you, Victor.” I pump his hand heartily.

  Hah! Let there be no mistake that I give weak, wet-fish handshakes. Research has revealed that a firm handshake is the key to an interview’s success, as it sets the tone for the rest of the interview. That and constant eye contact are essential, hence, the eyeballing.

  Awkwardly, he extracts his hand from my deathly grip and gestures. “Right this way, Miss Lee.”

  So far so good.

  I trot into the conference room and hear the door click shut behind me. After a brief and polite banter about things I can’t remember, he whips out a thick binder and gets right down to business. “Okay, Miss Lee, let’s get started.” He clears his throat. “Describe a situation in which you had to think and act quickly. How did you handle the situation and what was the outcome?”

  What the HELL? What happened to strengths and weaknesses?

  I blink. Several times.

  My whole body reverberates in shock as I try to maintain eye contact, but fail miserably.

  A long uncomfortable silence ensues.

  {{{{{{{{Crickets Chirping}}}}}}}}}

  I draw a blank, barely able to form a coherent thought. Feeling numb, disconnected, and at a complete loss, I find myself on the verge of hyperventilating.

  Just keep breathing, Maddy, I coach myself. In. Out. In. Out. Come on Maddy, think. Think.

  After racking my brain, I say, “There was this one time—”

  Victor nods and gives me a tentative smile.

  Encouraged, I continue, “Well, I was babysitting my grandma’s poodle, Fifi, when all of a sudden Fifi went into a violent seizure. She was frothing at the mouth and thrashing wildly all over the place.” After a brief pause, I add, “It was really traumatizing.”

  Victor’s expression is unreadable and he’s madly scribbling away in his binder.

  I venture, “Immediately, I dialed 911 and when the operator explained, in no uncertain terms, that they don’t respond to animal emergencies, I did not panic. I remained calm and asked if she could kindly give me the phone number to the nearest EV.”

  Victor looks up from his binder and stares at me blankly.

  “Um, that’s short for Emergency Vet...err, just in case you were wondering.”

  He motions for me to continue.

  “And so I called the clinic, got directions, threw Fifi into my car and drove like a mad woman to the EV,” I gab, hearing the hysteria in my own voice.

  Catching myself, I quickly backpedal. “But, I should point out that I did drive responsibly. Yesireee I did. No reckless driving or speeding on my part. When I said I drove like a mad woman, it was merely a figure of speech.” I let out a shrill laugh.

  In reality, it was pedal to the metal. I floored the gas all the way to the EV while Fifi lay comatose in the back seat.

  Victor doesn’t laugh. His eyes are hard as he stares at me deadpan.

  The seconds tick by. Oh God! I’m completely losing it.

  Taking a deep breath, I press on, “Once we arrived at the EV, Fifi was immediately whisked off and put on some anti-seizure medication.”

  Victor is still mute and madly scribbling in his binder. “And what was the outcome?” he asks without looking up.

  “Well, they were able to stabilize Fifi for an hour, in time for my grandma to arrive. But…but,” I break off, bite my inner lip and swallow hard.

  “But what?” he asks in a cold voice.

  “Fifi...um...she eventually died that same night,” I mutter softly, ridiculously close to tears.

  Victor stops writing and looks up. “I’m sorry for yours and your grandmother’s loss.”

  I nod meaningfully at him. Alas, he has a heart.

  Alas not!

  Snapping back into business mode, he attacks me with a rapid-fire barrage of outlandish questions:

  “Give me an example of a time when you had to deal with a difficult co-worker or fellow student on a project. How did you handle the situation? What were the outcomes?”

  “Tell me about a time when you had to persuade someone to see your point of view. What tactics did you use? What were the outcomes? What did you learn?”

  “Describe a time when you were assigned a task but were provided little direction on how to complete the task. What steps did you take to complete the task? What was the outcome?”

  My brain is aching.

  No, scratch that. My brain is hemorrhaging as I try to come up with answers that make sense. But Victor doesn’t stop and the questions keep whizzing at me like poisoned arrows.

  Feeling woozy, I place a clammy hand to my forehead to quell the throbbing ache.

  I struggle and fumble through it all while Victor just keeps on writing everything down in his stupid binder.

  My scrambled brain is screaming, “Enough!”

  One hour later—though it feels more like eons later to me—the appalling interrogation is finally over.

  Phew. I sag with relief.

  “We’ll call you in about a week after your background check goes through,” he informs me in a brisk voice.

  I nod with my head hunched down.

  Defeated, battered and bruised, I wobble out of the war zone, my jelloid legs barely holding me up.

  Kars is in my face all at once. “How’d it go?”

  Frazzled to bits and a complete basket case at this point, I say dazedly, “I think I bombed it.”

  “Gak!” she blurts in a panic. “I think I’m next.”

  That very second, the door creeks open and General Petraeus’ square head pops out. “Miss Karsynn Higginbotham?”

  I shoot her a look of doom and she shoots me back a look of gloom as she’s marched into Guantanamo Bay.

  Two

  I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but TOOT!!! TOOT!!!

  We got the jobs! And Lord only knows how. Either Karsynn and I aced o
ur interviews, or Lightning Communications are just really desperate. Whatever the case, I’m not complaining.

  Kars fiddles with her iPod and soon ABBA’s Dancing Queen is blaring from the speakers. Bouncing up and down, we pound our jubilant fists in the air and break into our signature celebratory dance. It involves a shimmy, a jiggle, a wiggle, and a smack on the tush.

  Today, we celebrate and tomorrow we start our first day of a six-week long training. I know. Six weeks!

  Apparently, there’s a lot to learn.

  Kars and I have no sense of direction. Although we arrive at the call center fifteen minutes early, it takes us an eternity to locate the training room. We flounce around like two headless chickens, dodging through hallways, trying to orient ourselves, and half an hour later, we find it!

  Wheezing and panting, we creep into class. I’m stumbling across the training room when this dreamy looking guy catches my eye.

  He’s smolderingly gorgeous. He’s so incredibly hot that clouds seem to part, and he radiates from within like Helios the Sun God. I guess Greek mythology serves a purpose after all. I even hear a choir of angels singing. And a string quartet playing, with several harps strumming fluidly in the background.

  Miraculously, despite the fact that I’m lost in my own ancient Grecian musical odyssey, and in my own thoughts of the Sun God, I somehow manage to make my way to the back of the classroom, straight into the empty seat right next to him. Score!

  Kars plops down next to me, oblivious to his beauty. She only fancies men with all the B’s—big, butch, burly, buffed, and with bulging biceps aka beefcakes extraordinaire.

  I prefer my men lean and tall, with sculpted features. Kars calls them pretty boys, but I beg to differ. They’re just more evolved and look less like apes.

  “Class,” a petite, pasty blond guy calls our attention. “I think everyone is here now. I’ll be passing out this sheet of paper. Please write your name down so I know you’re present. My name is Glenn Bland and I’ll be your trainer for the next six weeks.”