Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Page 14

  Kars is in a similar trance. “Hot Cocoa Darren? Nah, I was checking out Carlos, the Hot Tamale.”

  HR Linda ambles by, peering through her bifocals, waggling her finger at us admonishingly.

  Whoopsie! I guess she must’ve heard us.

  Thirteen

  Tick Tock, I’m watching the clock. Yesssssssss! Only six more minutes left, then I’m done for the day! I’m so euphoric that my shift is almost over that I’m humming a happy tune, “Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! It’s home from work I go!”

  Ordinarily, I’d jab the Not Ready key five minutes before my shift ends, but not today. I’ve been written up for excessive Not Ready time, so I have no choice but to stay logged in.

  Only three minutes left. Two. One minute left.

  My index finger hovers over the Log Out button—

  Beep!

  “F#@!*&!#@!*!” I release a steady stream of profanity.

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

  “This is a relay call. My name is Amy and I’m a California relay service operator. Have you taken a relay call before?”

  I bash my head against the keyboard. “Yes I have,” I mutter, struggling to keep the impatience from my voice. I know it’s not this operator’s fault, nor is it the deaf caller’s.

  Honestly, I have nothing against the hearing impaired.

  The timing is just crap. And relay calls take forever and ever.

  Kars perches on my desk. “You ready to roll?”

  MUTE. “No, you go on,” I say miserably. “I’ll be stuck on this call for a while. It’s a relay call!” I sob theatrically on her shoulder.

  Kars shoots me a sympathetic look.

  We carpooled today, like we do on most days. But it’s okay, I won’t have Kars suffer alongside me.

  She slides off my desk. “Are you sure?”

  I nod despondently.

  “Okay, ciao!” she tinkles and sashays off. I watch her disappear down the hallway, headed back to our cozy apartment.

  “Now,” instructs the relay operator, “repeat again what you just said, only this time, say it much, much slower so I’m able to type and keep up with you. Go Ahead.”

  I slow it down to a snail’s pace. Thank—you—for—calling—Lightning—Speed—Communications—This—is—Maddy—how—can—I—help? Go—ahead.”

  Long pause.

  All I hear is the operator’s acrylic fingernails clacking away at her keyboard.

  Another long pause.

  And finally, “My name is Tina Connor and my internet is not working. I can’t pull up any sites. Please help. Go ahead,” relays the operator.

  After spending way too much time going through the verification process, I ask, “What—browser—do—you—use? Go—ahead.”

  More keys tapping. More silence. “The internet. Go ahead,” relays the operator noncommittally.

  I bury my face in my hands.

  Somebody please put a gun to my head and just friggin’ BLOW MY BRAINS OUT!

  I silently count to ten and grit my teeth. “Do—you—see—a—blue—E—on—your—desktop? Go—ahead.” I draw in a ragged breath and resign myself to my abysmal fate.

  More pause. More waiting.

  And then...“What is a desktop? Go ahead,” says the operator, suppressing a snort.

  Oh yeah, I’m sure she’s enjoying this. She thinks this is such a lark, but I’m not tickled by this. Not in the least! And why does this caller even own a computer? It should be downright illegal!

  Deep breath. Find my inner peace. Yoga. Chi Kung.

  Think tranquil and serene thoughts.

  Think Japanese botanical garden.

  Think pristine koi pond.

  Ohm…Ohm…Ohm…

  After my meditative hiatus, I press on, “When—you—boot—up—your—computer—the—very—first—screen—that—comes—up—is—your—desktop—Do—you—see—a—blue—E—on—it?—Go—ahead!”

  Sheesh. I simply cannot wait for this call to end, but getting this caller off the line is like trying to pass an Act of Congress.

  Fifty minutes go by and I fail to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Not even a flicker.

  One hour and thirty-seven minutes later (oh yeah, I’ve been keeping track), the call finally comes to an end.

  Feeling completely drained, I grab my bag and drag my feet to leave. Spinning around, I spot Mika lounging at an empty cubicle. He’s reading a book, and his forehead is slightly creased from rapt concentration. I bite my lip. He looks so endearing, it hurts.

  Glancing up, he catches my eye and smiles.

  I tilt my head to the side. “You waited for me?”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, like he’s proud of the fact.

  My heart skips a beat. “Oh.”

  Surreptitiously, he stows the book away. “Kars called my cell and said you might need a ride home.”

  “You didn’t have to wait for me; that call took forever. But, um, thanks though...for waiting.”

  “No problem,” he shucks. “So, you want to go grab a bite?”

  “Sure!” I hoist my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s go!”

  As we stroll out into the frosty night, there’s a noticeable spring in my step. I’m quite positive I look like the cat that just ate the canary topped with whipped cream. And this is not even a real date! Kars you sneaky little devil. I owe you one!

  Ever the chivalrous one, Mika opens the door to his low rider Impala and I slide in. The first time I rode in Mika’s car, I was pleasantly surprised; it may look like a fishing boat, but it rides like an airplane.

  We speed off and I feel buoyant, like I’m floating on a hot air balloon. Riding over speed bumps is like bouncing on clouds.

  I steal a glance at him. “What year is this baby of yours?”

  “Nineteen sixty-four,” he says, beaming like a proud daddy.

  “It’s older than my rust bucket. Mine’s an eighty-four.”

  He gives a respectful nod to my relic of a Subaru.

  Feeling rather restless, I start rubbing my arms.

  “You cold?” he asks at once.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter, but he cranks up the heat anyway.

  “You feel like pizza tonight?”

  “Pizza sounds good,” I say with an easy smile.

  “Cool.” He fishes out an iPod from his coat pocket. “I know of a good pizza place.” Expertly, he plugs in his iPod and seconds later, my ears are treated to a brand of music unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It sounds like Indian hip hop music.

  But instead of Bollywood, this is Bollyhood.

  “Who’s this?” I ask.

  “Panjabi Hit Squad; this track is from Desi Beats,” he says in a highly animated voice. “It’s bhangra music.”

  This particular song has a slight R&B feel to it, and every so often a female’s velvety vocals blend in with the catchy beats.

  He darts me a glance. “So, what do you think of bhangra?”

  Listening raptly, I say, “I think if Mary J Blige were to cut an Indian record, this is what it would sound like.”

  This elicits a smile from Mika. “What about you? What do you listen to?”

  “I tune in to NPR most of the time. As for music, it’s a hodgepodge, but Jack Johnson is probably my favorite.”

  When I listen to Johnson’s drifting chords, the strum of his ukulele and his laidback acoustics, I’m magically transported to a paradisal beach in the Maldives where coconut trees sway lazily in the wind, and I inhale the salty island breeze.

  Needless to say, it’s nothing like the Panjabi Hit Squad. But bhangra is pretty catchy. Sinking back onto the worn out leather seat, I chill to the music for the rest of the ride.

  Papa’s Pizzeria is empty for a Friday night. Tiny tables and chairs are crammed into a minuscule space.

  Holy Ravioli! This place is a dive. It’s a hole in the wall. In fact, it’s so small that it’s a hole in the hole in the wall.

&
nbsp; A rat hole, to be precise.

  Mika instantly reads my mind. “Don’t worry, Maddy. This is the town’s best kept secret. They make the best pizzas.”

  At the register, Mika turns to me. “So, should we get a whole pizza or just individual slices?”

  “A whole one!”

  “A whole pizza it is,” he declares. “What kind?”

  “Is ham and pineapple okay with you?”

  He approves. “Drink?”

  “7 Up with lots of ice.”

  “My treat,” he insists and shoos me off.

  I pick a dimly lit booth, remove my coat and slide in.

  My ears perk up when I hear Mika conversing with an elderly man behind the register—in French!

  Minutes later, Mika strides over and carefully sets our drinks on the table. “Our pizza should be ready in about ten minutes.”

  “Sweet,” I say airily and remove the plastic lid from my cup.

  He shrugs off his navy bomber jacket. “You hungry?”

  I spoon an ice cube into my mouth. “Ravenous!”

  “Good!” he exclaims and scoots into the booth. “You won’t be disappointed. The owner of this pizzeria, Giuseppe, he’s Italian; his family immigrated to France twelve years ago and they just moved to Pocatello last year. Giuseppe was just telling me that he finally got his green card today.”

  I crunch on an ice cube. “I heard you speaking to him in French. Is that what most Belgians speak?”

  He pokes a straw through the plastic lid. “Well in the north, the Flemish or the Flanders speak Dutch. And in the south, the Walloons speak French. In Brussels, they speak both languages.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “Near the German border, some speak German; and most of the younger crowd can speak English.” Half-smiling, he adds, “Some people make fun of us; they say we can speak three languages, but none of them intelligibly.” He laughs. “Of course I don’t agree with that.”

  “So are you Flemish or are you a Walloonian?” I ask cheekily.

  I can’t help it; but every time I hear that word, an unpleasant image of a chesty cough comes to mind. An image of phlegm. Flemish phlegm, to be precise.

  And Walloon? Is that a wandering tribe of baboons?

  Mika chuckles heartily. “I’m a Wallonie.”

  “Oh. Parlez Vous Francais?”

  “Oui. I’m what you’d call a Francophone.”

  I rest my chin on my hands. “Say something in French.”

  Just then, our pizza arrives at the table.

  “Jambon et ananas pizza,” he says with a flourish.

  “What does that mean?” I ask breathlessly.

  “It means ham and pineapple pizza.”

  I snicker. “Say something else.”

  “S'il vous plaît permet de manger.”

  Ah, it all sounds so romantic. In fact, I think anything said in French sounds dreamy, lovely and complimentary. You can say you want to murder someone in French, saw his neck off with a blunt pocket knife and scalp the skin off his head, and it’d still sound romantic...like waxing poetic in my ear.

  Actually, French is considered a Romance language because it is derived from Roman, and deeply rooted in Latin (which was the primary language used by the Romans), so it sounds romantic because it is a Romance language after all.

  I release a dreamy sigh. “Oooh, what did you just say?”

  His mouth twitches. “It means ‘please, let’s eat’.”

  “Bon Appétit!” I exclaim Julia Child-style.

  We eat in companionable silence for a while, sharing in the growing comfort of warm dough and mozzarella cheese filling our empty stomachs.

  Mika reaches for another slice. “So, are you going back home for Christmas?”

  “No, I’m forced to work.”

  “Me too,” he groans. “By the way, where’s home for you?”

  “Me? I grew up in Lake Forest. It’s near Chicago.”

  He leans back. “So, is Chicago a lot like Pocatello?”

  I laugh. “Pocatello is much smaller than Chicago, by like two million people.”

  Mika chuckles. “I’ve never been to Chicago.” After a pause, he says ruefully, “I haven’t traveled much around the States.”

  “You mean you’ve never left Pocatello?” I cry aghast.

  “Well, I’ve been to Boise,” he says defensively. “And I’ve even been to Paris.”

  I blink. “Paris, France?”

  He shakes his head. “Paris, Idaho.”

  “Mika!” I gasp. “That is not acceptable! You need to get away from here and breathe a different air. Go to Yellowstone and see the bears and bison. Go to Vegas and catch Celine Dion’s show! Next time I go home, you’re coming with me,” I say adamantly.

  “Okay,” he says, unaware of a stringy piece of mozzarella that’s sticking to his bottom lip.

  I have this sudden impulse to wipe it away, but I resist.

  That would feel too intimate.

  “Oh and by the way,” he adds with a wry smile, “of course I’ve been to Paris, France. Belgium borders France, and Paris is only a hundred and sixty miles from Brussels.”

  “Well, I’ve never been.” I sigh wistfully. “Someday, I’d love to go to Europe.”

  Mika reaches for a napkin and wipes his mouth. “Come back home with me sometime.”

  “For real?” I ask, surprised.

  “Of course,” he says. “I’d love to show you around.”

  “I can’t wait to see the famous Pissing Boy Statue.”

  He laughs. “You mean the Manneken Pis?”

  “Yeah, and isn’t he dressed in different costumes each week?”

  He nods. “Why would you want to see the Manneken Pis?”

  “Why not?” I huff. “It’s one of the most famous landmarks in Brussels.”

  He smiles. “It’s not fair. You guys have the Statue of Liberty and we’ve got the Pissing Boy Statue.”

  “Sounds fair to me.” I grin. “So, when will you be going back?”

  “Well after I graduate, I’m going back for good.”

  “Oh…” I trail off and stare at my cup of soda.

  Lifting the cup to my lips, I sip in silence. His words seem to settle like rocks and boulders in my chest.

  He breaks the silence. “When will you be going home?”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  “You have a slight accent.” He wrinkles his brows. “Is that a Chicagoan accent?”

  “I do? I didn’t realize it. Speaking of accents, people from MinnesoooOooooota and WisConsin have a much stronger one. It sounds like a whole different language.”

  “I know what you mean.” He smiles. “Darren’s from Wisconsin and whenever he offers me a soda, he calls it ‘pop’.”

  I giggle helplessly. “You mean pahp.”

  Mika continues, “And he calls the water fountain a bubbler. Yesterday, he asked me where the bubbler was, and I thought he was looking for a ground geyser.”

  “You gotta love Wisconsin accents.”

  “So...” He pauses for a beat. “Do you know Darren?”

  I bob my head. “Yeah, he’s the guy who sits next to you.”

  “Well…” he hesitates. “Darren’s been asking me about you; he wanted to know if you’re seeing anyone.”

  I gulp down my soda. “What’d you tell him?”

  He makes a conscious effort to avoid my eye. “I, err…told him that you think dating someone at work is like dumping on your own doorstep.”

  I choke on my 7 Up.

  “You okay?” he asks with concern.

  I nod, trying to find my voice. I take another healthy swallow, and this time it goes down the right pipe. Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, you really told Darren that?”

  “Yes.” His dark eyes probe mine. “Is that how you really feel? About dating a co-worker?”

  Before I can respond, Mika quickly adds, “If not, I can easily clear things up with Darren.”

  I open my mouth and clamp it shut. If I tell Mika tha
t I am not opposed to dating a co-worker, he’ll assume that I fancy Darren. Arrgh! What I really want to say is that I fancy him. You, Mika.

  Suddenly, Springsteen croons Born in the USA and I’m saved by The Boss. Bolting upright, I retrieve my cell. “Wassup!” I answer. “Yeah, I’m with Mika. We’re at Papa’s Pizzeria.” Short pause while I listen. “Uh-huh, sure no problem.” I hang up.

  “Kars wants me to pick up a pesto pizza.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “Better now that she can eat solid food.” I stand up and reach for my purse. “I’ll go place that order for her.”

  Mika pulls out a tenner. “Here, let me get it.”

  “No,” I protest.

  “I want to,” he insists. “You’ve been tutoring me every week; it’s the least I can do.” He stuffs the ten dollar bill in my hand.

  “Okay,” I relent, “but on one condition…”

  “What’s that?” he asks with a tilt of his chin.

  “If you ever thank me for tutoring you again, I’ll make you eat a tenner.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he says with a wave of his hand, indicating gracious dismissal of the matter.

  Heading for the register, I’m suddenly halted by Mika’s voice and throw a backward glance over my shoulder.

  “Keep the change,” he says, not trying to hide a smile.

  The door bells chime as we duck out of the pizzeria. Waddling along at a brisk pace, I nudge Mika playfully. “Hey, can you speak Gaelic?”

  He just looks at me with a slightly crooked smile and shakes his head.

  I hug my coat tightly around me. That’s too bad. If Mika could speak Gaelic, I’d get down on bended knee right now and say, “I want to marry you and bear your children.”

  “So...” he interrupts my moony fantasies, “are we still on for my tutoring session tomorrow?”

  I tuck my frosty fingertips in my pockets. “I am if you are.”

  “I sure am. Same place?”

  “Well, instead of the library, why don’t you come over to my place?” I ask on a whim.

  “Your place it is,” he says with an easy smile.

  Fourteen

  What the hell was I thinking? My place is a mess.