Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Page 19

  Gosh. I don’t mean to spell it out for her. It just sounds so crass when put like that.

  “Oh me goodnees-eh. Well why didn’tcha just say so in da first place? Sure, sure,” she tweets.

  As it turns out, the caller, Marlene Dushek, is a really sweet old lady and I immediately detect her Wisconsin accent.

  “So,” my voice softens like it always does when I’m confronted with sweet old ladies; they tend to bring out the best in me. “Are you from Wisconsin, Miss Dushek?” I ask amiably.

  She chuckles heartily. “You betcha! I’m a cheese head through and through. And a Packer fan too, don’t-cha-know?”

  “Go Packers!” I cheer. “And which part of Wisconsin?”

  “Oconomowoc,” she says in a heavy Wisconsinite accent. “It’s a varrry nice place up narth. And I’ve lived here for over seventy years.”

  I stifle a laugh. To most Wisconsinites, everything is ‘up north.’ I spent many muggy summers in Green Bay with my Aunt Sally, and whenever I asked her where we were going, her reply was always, “Up narth.” No matter if we were headed just down the street, or to the south, east or west, her compass only pointed one direction—North.

  “Miss Dushek,” I say, veering it back to business, “what can I help you with today?”

  “Yah. I’ve been stuck on yer website furrr weee hours. And I can’t get on tuh any ooother sites.”

  I decide to try the oldest trick in the book. “Miss Dushek, can you please reboot your computer?”

  “Oh-kie doh-kie,” she chirrups. “If you don’t mind eh, I’ll just do some dishes while my komputarrr boots up.”

  “Sure go right ahead,” I say with a smile in my voice.

  I hear the faucet cranking, followed by the sound of gushing water, and in the background, I hear the rollicking rhythms and heavy accordion sounds of polka music. This polka song sounds like an upbeat mariachi band at a wedding.

  Absently, I pick up my pen and doodle on my notepad.

  I heart Mika I heart Mika I heart Mika

  Then I draw swirly flowers and creeping vines all around it. After filling up a page chock full of fancy swirls, squiggly lines and doodles, all proclaiming my love for Mika, I check in with Miss Dushek. “Has your computer booted up ma’am?”

  “Oh yeah! It did. I’m sooooo varrry sorry, I fergahht that you were still on hold,” she chirrups, amidst the sound of ceramic dishes clanking about.

  “And did that fix the problem?”

  “You bet-cha! Thank you so much. You did good. And thank you for being so patient with me. Now dearie, I’d simply love to send you some of my famous homemade salsa.”

  “Trust me Miss Dushek, I’d love to try your salsa. But I’m clear out in Idaho and even if I did live in Wisconsin, it’s against company policy to accept gifts.”

  “That’s such a silly policy,” she tinkles. “Now why don’tcha tell me more aboot whatcha wish to sell. I’m all ears now.”

  Since she has given me the green light, I pitch the sale, “Well ma’am, we’re also a cell phone provider and if you sign up for our service and bundle it with your DSL bill, it’ll help you save some money.”

  “Oh. But I am blind as a bat. I think I need dat special kinda phone furr older folks. Ya-know, one of ‘em Jitterbug phones?”

  I’m really not an aggressive seller, so I say, “That’s okay, Miss Dushek, whatever works for you.”

  “Thanks again, sweetie,” she coos and hangs up.

  Over my lunch break, Kars and I traipse over to Mika’s cubicle. Hovering by his side, I tap him lightly on the shoulder. He looks up, catches my eye and smiles. I can tell that he’s on a call, so I mouth, “Do you want to join us for lunch?”

  He jabs his MUTE button on the phone. “I can’t,” he says ruefully. “I’m afraid I’ll be stuck on this call for a while. This caller’s system is FUBAR.”

  Kars and I immediately get it.

  FUBAR = Fucked Up Beyond All Repair or Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

  “Okay, see ya later then,” I bid him adieu.

  When we’re safely out of earshot, I grumble, “I haven’t even gotten a chance to thank him.”

  Kars tilts her chin. “Thank him for what?”

  “Oh that reminds me! Wait here a sec.”

  I nip back to my cubicle and fetch my heart shaped cinnamon roll, then I bound back to Kars and proudly display the treat in the palm of my hand. “See!” I say rapturously.

  My eyes shimmer at the sight of my Valentine prezzie. It’s as if I’m gazing at a sparkling De Beers diamond.

  I gush, “This is my Denny & George scarf moment.”

  “Nice,” says Kars, clearly impressed. “See! I told you that he likes you. Now are you going to eat it or not?”

  I gaze at her uncertainly. “Maybe I should freeze dry it so I can keep it forever.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, just eat the damn thing.”

  Stubbornly, I shake my head.

  She whips out her iPhone and snaps a picture. “There! Now you can eat it. I’ll send you the pic so you can scrapbook it.”

  “Thanks, Kars!” I take a huge bite and smack my sugar coated lips. Mmmm. Mika sure knows the way to my heart.

  Four hours later, I have yet to thank my benevolent benefactor. I agonize and wait until my shift ends. And when it finally does, I head over to Mika’s cube with the sole intention of giving him a proper thank-you, which in my mind involves a hug and a peck on the cheek. After that, I envisage us driving off into the sunset.

  Strangely, when I arrive at Mika’s desk, he’s gone.

  I glance furtively around but he’s nowhere in sight.

  Kars is soon beside me. “C’mon, Maddy, I just saw Mika leave a few minutes ago. Maybe we can catch up with him outside.”

  My face instantly lights up and we rumba out of the building.

  Outside, my world slows down to a complete standstill. I spot them—Mika and some girl, who is hanging and clinging onto his arm like a baby orangutan.

  At once, I feel shots of territorial pangs rip through my veins. It doesn’t help that she’s drop dead gorgeous. But she’s not a classic beauty like Ingeborg.

  Nope. Far from it. She looks like a chick from a Girls Gone Wild commercial that’s forced down my throat on late night TV.

  In short, she’s skanky.

  A gorgeous skank, but skanky nonetheless.

  Skank woman is wearing Daisy Duke shorts, even though there’s a foot of snow on the ground and it’s minus two hundred degrees.

  Oh, and her skin is the color of a tangerine.

  Spray on fake tan gone wrong. Overdone and over baked.

  And her stringy hair is definitely over peroxided.

  Frozen to the spot, I feel a sharp metallic taste in my mouth, mildly sickened by the sight of Mika and Mystery Chick.

  I watch them make their way across the parking lot, headed in the direction of Mika’s car.

  Gallantly, he opens the door for the tangerine and she slides into the passenger seat in a very uncouth manner. Her legs splay wide open, like a beaver trap.

  Mika jogs over to his side of the car and hops in.

  Seconds later, the engine roars to life and his car peels away. They zoom off into the stark night while I’m left standing there with my hair billowing in the biting wind.

  Sniffles. That was supposed to be me and Mika driving off into the night.

  Kars clucks like a flustered Mother Hen. “Maddy, I’m sure that slut is just a friend of his.”

  Swallowing hard, I manage a sardonic smile. “Yeah, just like I’m a friend of his,” I say bitterly.

  Kars gives me a respectful few minutes of silence, and I use it to gather my thoughts and pull myself together.

  Right here, right now, I resolve to make some changes.

  Any romantic feelings I have for Mika, I shall squash into the deep recesses of my heart.

  There are plenty more fish in the sea, and this time, I need to find myself a local trout from a r
iver nearby. Maybe even a farm raised catfish or tilapia.

  Humph. What I surely do not need is some overrated Belgian swordfish from the Atlantic Ocean.

  Kars gently pats my arm. “Let’s go home, Maddy.”

  “Okay,” I mumble, feeling utterly broken.

  Later that night, I throw myself a pity party. I fold up on my bed, licking my wounds and hugging my sorrows to my chest.

  Outside, the Heavens open up and rain begins to pour.

  Listening to the dismal sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpanes, I allow myself to descend into a brief foray of sadness.

  I feel an inexplicable knot in my chest. My eyes fill in spite of myself and salty tears spill down my face, stinging my raw cheeks, sopping my pillow.

  Abruptly, my BlackBerry blares with the voice of AR Rahman belting out Jai Ho.

  Ah yes, I switched my ringtone. A new year, a new ringtone. A new year, a new man.

  I need to force Mika out of my mind.

  I hereby declare the Mika love fest over and done with!

  I have a feeling it’s him calling. He’s been calling me every night. Sometimes to talk, sometimes just to say good night, and I’ve always looked forward to his phone calls.

  But not tonight.

  I refuse to answer and let it go to voice mail. Seconds later, the music stops and I glance at my cell. ‘You Have 1 New Voice Mail.’

  Curiosity gets the better of me. I dial in and listen.

  Mika’s deep timbered voice floods my ears. “Maddy, I hope you like your gift. I’m sorry I was tied up all day; it’s just been one of those days where every caller was upset about something.” Pause. “Anyway, call me.”

  I delete the voice mail. And I don’t call him back.

  This whole time, I have been grasping at the straws, hoping and searching for something that does not exist. Well, it exists, but only on my part.

  Sigh. What more can I say? I am in love with a man who is in love with a citrus fruit.

  Today, Cupid’s arrow has struck me.

  But instead of going Ahhhhhh, reeling with joy and love, I am yelping Owwwwww, writhing from pain and yearning.

  Oh how it hurts to be in love!

  Eighteen

  The next day, I find myself staring impassively at my cubicle wall. Resting my elbows on the desk, I silently brood while waiting for a call. It’s pretty slow today. It’s the day after Love Sucks Day and all these couples are just too darn exhausted to call in after spending the night locked up in their love boudoirs, caught in the throes of passion.

  No complaints here.

  At least something good comes out of that evil day.

  “Truong, your Mikquisha is taken,” I say sullenly.

  He fiddles with his silk scarf. “My Mikquisha? More like your Mikquisha.”

  “Nope,” I say despondently, “not anymore.”

  His expression softens. “Oh, what’s wrong, Maddy? Tell Mama Truong all about it.”

  After a pause, I say, “I saw him with a girl yesterday.”

  “Describe her,” he instructs firmly.

  “Gorgeous. Long stringy blond hair. A bleach-o-saurus and a tan-o-saurus and—”

  He cuts me off, “I know who that bitch is! Orange Slut with Split Ends. Her name is Tatiana Green.”

  “Tatiana Green?” I snort briefly. “She’s more orange than green. Her name should be Tatiana Tangerine.”

  Truong emits a gleeful chortle.

  “But wait!” I cry. “How do you know her?”

  Then I realize—how can he not? Truong is privy to everything that goes on in this call center. He isn’t called the ABC or the AP wire for nothing.

  Truong studies his cuticles. “Oh, I have my sources,” he says with candor. Then he whips out a purple filer and sands his nails with vigor.

  A plume of nail dust settles on my desk.

  So annoying.

  Truong also clips his fingernails in the middle of calls, which I find absolutely repulsive. I personally would never floss, pick my nose, use q-tips, pop my blackheads or shave my pits at work. That is why it is called personal hygiene.

  I’ll be conversing with my callers, and in the background I’ll hear the maddening Clip Clip Clip Clip sounds resonating in my ears, sounding very much like Japanese water torture. And before I know it, fingernail shrapnel will be zinging in all directions. My work space is fraught with danger!

  Seriously, I really don’t think I’m overreacting when Truong’s essentially sending large organic bits of himself my way.

  I’m dreading the summer time; that’s when he’ll waltz into work in flip flops and clip his toenails. Ugh! That’s the problem with Truong. He brings in his whole grooming kit and operates Truong’s Nail Salon in his cubicle.

  Although Truong’s grooming habits bug the hell out of me, I’m trying my darndest to act like a tolerant neighbor. Well, that is until a fingernail scrap lands inside my mouth while I’m in the midst of yawning.

  “Truong! Cut it out!” I sputter and spit out his nail. “Please, this is not Truong’s Nail Salon,” I remind him for the umpteenth time.

  “Okay, I’m done. I’m closing shop.” He stows the clipper and filer away. “By the way, that’s why you’re supposed to yawn with your mouth closed.”

  “That’s technically impossible,” I retort.

  “Whatever! Just cover your mouth next time,” he chides, like it’s my fault that his fingernail landed inside my mouth.

  Moments later, Truong roots around in his Marc Jacobs man purse and fishes out a bottle of nail polish. After giving the bottle a good shake, he unscrews the cap and begins to give himself a manicure.

  “Thank you for fumigating this place,” I say with a trace of sarcasm.

  He ignores my jab. “It’s Chanel Vendetta,” he intones like a vindictive vixen.

  I check out his raven black nails. “Nice. Very Adam Lambert.”

  My gaze shifts over to his pinky. “Hey, Truong, why is your pinky nail so long?”

  “For digging ear wax, nose wax and eye wax,” he says without missing a beat.

  I make a disgusted face.

  “I’m just kidding! Although I know that’s what you were probably thinking. Am I right?” He looks me squarely in the eye.

  I shake my head but it’s transparently obvious I’m lying.

  He dips the brush into the bottle. “It’s actually for good luck.”

  “I see. But you know what some people will assume it’s for?”

  “What?” he asks without looking up.

  “Scooping up cocaine for a quick bump.”

  This time, Truong looks up. “Girrrrl, I am no druggie! That shit does not fly with me. I’ve never done drugs in my life,” he protests huffily. “But you want to know who’s a coke head?”

  Feeling a bit restless, I swivel my chair, spinning it round and round in circles. “Who?” I ask dizzily.

  “Tatiana,” he deadpans.

  I shoot him a speculative look. “How do you know?”

  He shoots back one of his infamous I-know-I’m-the-shit sort of looks. “Mama Truong knows everything.”

  “Well, spill the goods then, Mama.”

  He holds his hand up eye level and appraises his work. “She and I went to the same high school, and I caught her doing blow plenty of times.”

  Intrigued, I lean forward in my chair. “Tell me more.”

  “That Tatiana is one skanky hoe. That hoe slept with the entire high school football team and cheerleading squad.”

  I give him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “No way!”

  “Way. Girl she so did. That chick is one hot mess.” Truong inclines his head, like he always does when he is about to impart some juicy bits of gossip. “She works in the cafeteria downstairs because she’s got a felony record. They won’t hire her up here. No, no, no. That bitch is gang-sta man! She’s done time in the slammer.”

  “Time in the clink? For what?” I ask, astonished.

  He blows on h
is fresh manicure. “She stole someone’s identity, and she got busted with a DUI.”

  I let out a short gasp.

  Truong shakes his head. “I can’t believe our Mikquisha would go out with a stupid, skanky slut like that.”

  I can’t believe it either. But Truong has sparked my interest. I need to satiate my ardent curiosity and find out more about this Tatiana character. “Truong, when’s your lunch?”

  He glances at his Cartier. “Right now.”

  “Me too. Do you want to go down to the cafeteria?”

  He smiles a wicked little smile. “Hell yeah sista! Let’s go check out Tatiana the Tangerine.”

  The cafeteria is buzzing with activity and we’re standing in line, waiting to be served by the Tangerine. A scruffy, unkempt man, sporting uneven side burns and a mangy twelve foot long ZZ Top beard, is queuing up right in front of us. Poor guy. He appears to be suffering from a serious case of persistent eczema. His skin is peeling and shedding all over the place.

  It is now the unabomber’s turn to be served.

  He lurches forward and leers at Tatiana lasciviously.

  Tatiana flutters her fake lashes and flashes the unabomber a coquettish grin. “Hi handsome,” she gushes.

  Um, if that isn’t full blown flirtation, then I don’t know what is. Doesn’t Tatiana realize that she’s not a waitress at Hooters?

  D’oh! You don’t get tipped at a cafeteria for being a floozie. In fact, you don’t get tipped at a cafeteria period.

  “Hey-ya doll, I’d like some tater tots purty puhlease,” the unabomber drawls like a Confederate Yankee.

  “Comin right up, big boy,” coos Tatiana in a syrupy voice. She scoops up a hefty ton of tater tots and plops it onto his plate. “Is that all?” she asks saucily, wiggling her butt.

  “Can ya get me a to-go box, sexy?” he drools. Apparently, Tatiana’s incessant flirting is not lost on him.

  “Sure thing, cutie!” Tatiana winks and spins around to grab a Styrofoam box.

  Truong and I gawp. OMG.