Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Read online

  From: [email protected]

  To: All employees

  Subject: Clarify Stimulator

  We have just launched Clarify Stimulator, which is a fantastic tulle that will help you with you’re call handle thymes. So please keep in mine to use the Stimulator, if your not already doing so.

  Dick Jones,

  Site Director, Pocatello ID

  “Truong, check your email. He sent another one!”

  Silence as Truong reads. Seconds later, he falls off his chair, convulsing with laughter.

  Tsk-tsk. Dear Dick Jones…Simulator and Stimulator mean two very different things.

  The Blue Balls Café is pretty empty today. Truong, Mika and I pick a table by a window overlooking an algae choked pond.

  Truong has the hawts for Mika, and he has been bugging me nonstop to hook him up. So here we are in the cafeteria, the three of us, on a lunch date.

  Truong is convinced that Mika is gay. The problem with Truong is he thinks every cute guy is gay. Over the past couple months my gaydar has vastly improved, thanks to Truong. But Mika is not gay. He is the epitome of straightness.

  Truong of course, begs to differ.

  Mika bites into his burger and smiles feebly at Truong, who won’t stop making googly-gooey eyes at him. Christ almighty, Truong needs to get a grip on himself.

  “Oh, Mika,” he purrs. “You’re such a cutie patootie. Where do men like you come from?”

  “I’m from Brussels,” says Mika in between chewing.

  “Blussels!” echoes Truong. “I just love Blussels splouts.”

  I stare at Truong in blank astonishment. Huh? What can Brussels sprouts the vegetable possibly have in common with Brussels the country?

  Mika appears just as puzzled, but he offers Truong a polite smile. “That’s um, healthy.”

  Truong giggles like a giddy, starstruck tween in the presence of Justin Bieber. “I am a huge fan of splouts; there’s a Vietnamese noodle dish called Phở and it is served with bean splouts. Have you tried it?”

  Mika takes a sip of his Coke. “I like Asian food, but I’ve never had Vietnamese before.”

  Truong gasps, “You haven’t? Then you must try Phở noodles! My Aunt Dung’s restaurant specializes in Phở. And let me tell you, her place serves the best noodles in town. Would you like to go there some time?”

  “Sure,” says Mika. “What is the name of her restaurant?”

  “It is called Phở Hoa,” Truong enunciates, suddenly sounding a lot more Vietnamese.

  Mika leans back. “Do they mainly serve noodles?”

  “Well, they also serve some good lice dishes, but Phở noodles are their specialty. You must try it,” he insists.

  “I will,” says Mika. “And how do you say Phở?”

  “You say it like this: ‘fuuuuuuuuuuuh’,” fuhs Truong.

  “Phuuuuuuuuuuuh,” mimics Mika.

  “No,” corrects Truong. “It’s fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.”

  Humph! When Truong first introduced me to Phở noodles, I was super adventurous. Most first-timers play it safe and order the beginner’s Phở. Not me. Bold and brave, I delved head first into my Phở initiation, ordering the Phở with all the bells and whistles. It came with beef tendons, beef steak, beef tripe, beef flank, beef balls, the whole shebang! Truong was so proud of me.

  The next day, he gifted me a T-shirt imprinted with the words ‘Phở King’ and I accepted it with immense reverence. I consider Truong a Phở ambassador, so I embraced the shirt like it was a gift from Kofi Anan, and even fancied myself a Phở aficionada, a connoisseur of sorts.

  Now I realize the joke was on me.

  “Truong,” I say sulkily. “You can have your fuuuuuuuuuuuuhking T-shirt back.”

  He laughs gregariously. “It’s still a cool shirt. No?”

  I fix him with a Medusa glare. Unfazed by my paralyzing glare and snake hair, he continues coaching Mika, who still happens to be butchering the Phở word.

  Fart. I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.

  “Mika,” I cut into their annoying speech lesson, “what do you miss most about your country?”

  “My family and the food,” he says without missing a beat.

  Truong gushes, “Oh. What’s your favorite food from home?”

  Mika’s eyes crinkle. “Belgian trippe sausage.”

  “Is it a beef or a pork sausage?” I ask with interest.

  “It’s made from pork and cabbage. Back home, the sausage is made out of the choicest pork from a recently butchered hog.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, feeling slightly squeamish, an image of a pitiful pig popping into my head. It’s fattened up and ready to be slaughtered. Oh no. I hear the distinct high pitched screech of a pig squealing for its dear life.

  “Ooooooooh Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-kaaaaaaaaaaaa,” shrills Truong.

  For a split second there, Truong sounded like a squealing pig.

  “Yeah?” says Mika apprehensively.

  Truong rests his chin on his dainty wrists. “Have you tried Vietnamese trippe sausage?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  Eyeing Mika with a come-hither expression, Truong picks up a french fry and points it to his nether region, an area I prefer not to mention. “Ahem…well, I’ve got one right here.” He grins wolfishly.

  Without meaning to, I burst out laughing. But I quickly clap my hand over my mouth when I catch the look on Mika’s face, which has turned several shades of red by now.

  “Truong!” I chide. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  Thankfully, Mika quickly recovers. Instead of crimson red, his cheeks are now tinged a light pink and he’s smiling, taking it in stride. “Sorry, Truong, I’ll have to decline your offer,” he says good-naturedly.

  Truong pulls a tiny face. “If you ever change your mind...”

  “Truong! Quit harassing Mika!” I admonish and crack open a can of Ensure. I take a swig. Mmmmmm, not bad at all. Tastes like watered down chocolate shake.

  Right then, Bob Seely plods into the cafeteria, bursting out of his black cotton T, which looks it was purchased at Baby Gap.

  Truong smirks, “Simon Cowell wants his shirt back.”

  “Tsk-tsk,” I tsk. “He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.”

  “Bag of chips?” Truong snorts. “More like a sack of potatoes.”

  I take two successive chugs of my Ensure. Honestly, I have no idea what Kars sees in that Potato Head.

  Mika smiles at me with frank amusement. “Is that all you are having today?”

  “What?” I jerk my head.

  “That,” he says, pointing to my can of Ensure.

  “Oh, this?” I raise my can. “Kars is on an all-liquid diet so I’m on the diet too to support her.”

  Truong rolls his eyes. “Girl, if Kars jumps off a bridge, will you jump off too?”

  “No,” I say defiantly. “But I’d be waiting at the bottom of the bridge to catch her. I’m just being a supportive friend.” I take another swig to prove my point. “Plus, it’s a good way for me to keep fit, lose some weight, detoxify my liver—”

  Oopsie! My stomach makes a gurgling noise. And each time I think it will stop, it chugs and churns like a locomotive train.

  Zoinks. It even makes a high pitched whistling sound.

  Mika’s mouth twitches and Truong erupts with laughter.

  “Screw it,” I snap and reach for one of Truong’s french fries.

  Something is missing though. I fish out my bottle of powdered cinnamon and dust it all over the plate of fries.

  I am gaga over cinnamon, and I love cinnamon rolls and Cinnabons, much to the detriment of my burgeoning waistline. And I sprinkle cinnamon on everything. It is truly my wonder spice and I never leave home without my faithful bottle.

  Truong and Mika stare at me as if I were whacko.

  “What?” I cry defensively. “It tastes better. Try one,” I offer.

  Mika politely declines.

  Truong grabs a cinnamo
n fry and sticks it in his mouth.

  That’s one thing I love about Truong—he’ll try anything and is game for everything.

  “So?” I look at Truong expectantly.

  He twists his lips. “Tastes like a soggy churro stick.”

  “Cinnamon has a ton of health benefits. It helps reduce inflammation, it lowers your cholesterol, it—”

  Truong interjects, “Says who?”

  I tilt my chin. “Says Suzanne Somers.”

  Truong wags a french fry at me. “Hey, do you own a Suzanne Somers Thigh Master?”

  “Yes,” I say indignantly, “as a matter of fact I do.”

  “You do?” His mouth slackens.

  I nod fiercely. Like every woman in the world, I strive for smaller thighs. “The Thigh Master is the best way to shape and firm your inner thighs with just a few squeezes a day,” I intone in my best infomercial voice.

  Truong makes a cuckoo sign at me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Bob taking a seat next to Nina, or is it Mena? Anyway, she is that annoying bragasaurus who used to sit by me.

  “So, they didn’t fire that bitch,” I say to no one in particular.

  Truong instantly knows who I am referring to. “Nina? Nope, she’s a KGB agent now! A spy amongst us.”

  Mika shoots me a quizzical look.

  “She works in Quality Assurance,” I explain.

  Hmm. Perhaps that’s why my last few monitors have been less than stellar. That KGB spy is probably monitoring my calls. We have never jelled, and we harbor a mutual dislike for each other, so maybe now it’s payback time. At my expense.

  All of a sudden, I hear a shrill peal of laughter from the Bob-Nina table. Whirling around, I eye the pair with revulsion. Bob reaches across the table and fondles Nina’s blowfish lips; she reciprocates by suckling his sausage fingers.

  Ugh! What the hell was that? Bob is a total man-whore. And Nina is a total she-slut.

  Consumed with repugnance, I feel a surge of outrage on Kars’ behalf and on Bob’s wife behalf. That three timing bastard! For all I know, Bob probably has a harem of women stashed somewhere.

  Truong, just as sickened by the sight of Bob and Nina, raises an eyebrow at me. A perfect arch. I raise mine right back.

  Meanwhile, Mika is whopping down his cheeseburger, totally oblivious to this whole exchange.

  It’s been three weeks since Karsynn’s jaw surgery, and I marvel at her tenacity. Eating is still painfully uncomfortable, yet she manages without complaining.

  For breakfast today, Kars is having basil scrambled eggs.

  We ditched the Ensure diet two weeks post-surgery.

  Well…I ditched the diet much sooner, but Kars doesn’t need to know that.

  “So,” I say cheerfully. “You’ll be back to work next week?”

  “Uh-huh,” Karsynn confirms. “I’m just dying to get out of the house; I never thought I’d be excited about going back to the call center purgatory.”

  Janis reaches over my shoulder and pours me a fresh cup of coffee. “I think it’s too soon. Her wires are out, but it’s still a bit hard for her to talk, especially for eight hours straight.”

  “Mom, please. I’ll be fine,” Kars whines and promptly changes the subject. “So what’s new at work, Maddy?”

  I sip my coffee. “Nothing much really. Truong is still obsessed with Mika; he flirts with him shamelessly. Oh yeah, and he calls him Mikquisha.”

  Kars chuckles and bits of basil scrambled egg spray out of her mouth. “And what about you, Maddy? You still in lurrrve with Mikquisha?”

  I toy with my coffee mug. “Even if I like him, I don’t think he likes me in that sorta way.”

  “How do you know if you don’t ask him?” she implores.

  “Ask him? No, I could never. Plus if he likes me, surely he would’ve made a move by now. But no. Nothing so far...”

  “Hullo? It’s transparently obvious he’s into you. I’ve seen the two of you together; you’re both so sickeningly cute it makes me want to gag.”

  I shoot her a ‘yeah right’ look.

  Kars forks a mouthful of eggs. “Are you still tutoring him?”

  “Uh-huh. Once a week, without fail. You know, I really don’t do much except edit his papers and suggest books for him to read. And there’s hardly anything for me to edit. All I do is tweak his punctuations. A semi colon here, a comma there. Seriously, I’m just dotting his I’s and crossing his T’s.”

  Kars eyes me suspiciously. “Hmm. Then why are you still meeting up for tutoring sessions?”

  “I’ve mentioned it a couple times.” I shrug nonchalantly. “But he insists he still needs my help.”

  Kars waves her fork in the air. “See! That’s a good sign.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I breathe out a weary sigh. “I just feel like that geeky girl in high school who he only sees as a tutor, not the cute cheerleader he takes to the prom.”

  Kars rolls her eyes. “Stop it! You’re starting to sound like a Taylor Swift song.”

  We exchange silly grins across the table, then we burst out singing You Belong to Me, crooning the best parts. Sometimes I think Kars and I are distant descendants of the African Zulu tribe. We randomly burst into song, and for some inexplicable reason, we make strange noises with our tongues, like Ali Li Li Ayi Ayi Ayeee Ayeee. Just like the Shaka Zulu tribal women.

  When we’re done singing, clapping and making tribal sounds, the entire kitchen table is covered with a smattering of basil scrambled eggs.

  Janis tuts and wipes the surface with a rag, shooting Kars a parental look. “Honey, you don’t need to be singing in your condition.”

  Kars brushes off her concerns with a wave of her hand. “So, Maddy, how’s Ingeborg?”

  Gingerly, I pluck a sliver of basil out of my hair. “She’s doing good; she’s dating this guy on Pablo Escobar’s team. Archibald. I think he must be ten times her age!”

  She smirks. “With a name like Archibald, I’m not surprised. Is he at least cute?”

  “He looks like Sean Connery, minus the teeth.”

  “What?” she guffaws.

  “I know. It’s weird. One minute I looked over at his cubicle, he had teeth and the next minute, they were sitting in a glass of water.”

  Kars slurps her juice through a straw. “Hey, I’d date a James Bond with dentures.”

  “Well, they’re an oddball couple, but they make a good match. After all, Ingeborg could be mistaken for a Bond girl.”

  Kars bobs her head. “That she could.” After a pregnant pause, she asks, “Who is your favorite double O seven?”

  “Pierce Brosnan,” I say without hesitation, “although I think Clive Owen would make the ultimate Bond. Maybe even Zachary Levi. What about you?”

  “Psssh! Connery any day. And I’m so glad that you didn’t say Daniel Craig.”

  “Daniel Craig?” I echo. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Sean Connery—chest hair. Roger Moore—chest hair. Even your dashing Pierce Brosnan had chest hair. And then WHAMO! Daniel Craig—hairless! Not anywhere! He’s plucked, preened and waxed up like a baby seal.”

  “Baby seals are cute,” I insist. “Now, would you rather go to bed with a woolly mammoth or a baby seal?”

  “Woolly mammoth!” she woofs. “He’ll keep me warm at night; the slippery baby seal will just slide right off the bed. Plus, I like real men, and real men have hair on their bodies.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know. You’ve said it many times before. You don’t like your men to look prettier than you.”

  “Um-hmmmm, I don’t have a penchant for pre-teen girls.” She pauses for effect. “Like you.”

  Instinctively, I kick her under the table. “Mika is all man.”

  “Mika may be, but not Zac Efron,” she smirks.

  “Hey! Don’t you be talking smack about my Zac,” I cry in an injured voice. “I’ll take Zac over Sean Connery any day.”

  Kars fervently shakes her head. “Not me. I’
ll have to side with Ingeborg on this one and pick Connery.”

  Burying my nose in my coffee mug, I speculate, “You may be right about Ingeborg. Maybe she really is trying to find a replacement for her daddy to fill this fatherless vacuum in her life. Only in her case, it’s granddaddy.”

  “Better an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.” Kars laughs. “Is he nice? Grandpa Connery?”

  “Yeah, he seems like a really sweet guy. He dotes on Ingeborg and she appears genuinely happy. And…he’s not married,” I say for good measure.

  An awkward pause follows.

  I tentatively broach the subject, “So, are you still seeing Bob?”

  Another pause ensues. I wait for Kars to fill the silence.

  Eventually, she says with a pained expression, “I haven’t seen him since my surgery. And he hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

  Janis, who was washing dishes at the sink, strides over and squeezes Karsynn’s shoulders. “You deserve better sweetheart.”

  I nod, agreeing with Janis. “You do.”

  I am compelled to rehash the Bob and Nina incident that I witnessed in the cafeteria the other day, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to. And I don’t think I need to. Kars looks suitably chastised and I have a feeling she already knows it’s over.

  Twelve

  Today is Karsynn’s first day back at work since her surgery and there is a noticeable buzz about the floor as we breeze into the office. I make a beeline for Truong’s cubicle and tap my AP wire on the shoulder.

  “Truong! What’s going on?”

  He swivels around. “I’ve got ball breaking news! The shit hit the fan,” he cries, bubbling with excitement. Then he sees Kars, and his bubbles fizzle somewhat. He darts her a nervous glance and tones it down a notch. “Bob got fired...Nina too. I just saw security escort them out.”

  “What happened?” demands Kars.

  Truong dithers. “Um, are you sure you want to know?”

  “Tell me!” she shrieks and I can hear the hysteria in her voice.

  “It’s not so pretty,” he warns. After a sharp intake of breath, he spills the beans, “Bob and Nina were caught boinking in the parking garage. And security caught it all on tape.”