Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Read online

  Despite Glenn’s efforts to blur the lines of distinction between service and sales, it is simply not working.

  I remain silent and skeptical.

  Service equals sales?

  What the hell is he talking about?

  Service equals service. Period.

  And when the customer says ‘No’, he or she means ‘No’. I’m sorry but ‘No’ does NOT mean ‘Yes’!

  Glenn is beginning to sound a bit like a rapist.

  The rapist pauses for a long minute, appearing to be deep in thought. Eventually, he says, “Now class, think of it this way—people will always buy whatever it is that they want to buy. All you need to do is make them want to buy it; that’s salesmanship in a nutshell. Make them want it badly enough. Make them desire it. Make them crave it. And you do this by selling the features, and by making it sexy. Sell them the feeling that they’ll get from buying that product or service, and always remember to make it sexy!”

  Glenn gives a crisp nod of satisfaction. “Now, do you get it?”

  That was bullshit. Well, it was pretty amusing, temporarily brow wrinkling, but bullshit nonetheless.

  Sell the feeling? Make it sexy???

  It’s not like we’re selling Marc Jacob purses, Balenciaga bags or Louboutin shoes here. We’re a DSL slash phone company!

  Glenn’s eyes shift across the room. “Do you get it?” he repeats.

  Silence ensues.

  I grudgingly acknowledge the sharp undercurrents of truth to what he’s saying. Of course I get it. I may not like it, but I get it.

  But there is no time to sulk or mull, nor bemoan the fact that we’re forced to sell. Before we know it, we’re in ‘nesting.’

  ‘Nesting’ is a period when we’re all thrown on the phones, but our trainer is tucked safely by our sides, ready for our beck and call. And we have other more knowledgeable agents known as ‘team-leads’ to hold our hands and guide us through this whole intimidating process.

  This is what ‘nesting’ is like: I answer the phone, sometimes nervously, others, with fake confidence. The caller asks me a question. I have no idea what he is talking about and/or I don’t know the answer. I yell for help.

  Here’s my scenario:

  Me: Thanks for calling Lightning Speed (my voice quivers). My name is...(what the heck is my name again?) err...Maddy, how can I help you?

  Caller: I need help with blah, blah, blah.

  Me: Um, yes...I can assist you with that. But um...do you mind holding while I…err...do some research?

  Caller: Of course I mind, but go ahead.

  Then I frantically wave a checkered flag until Glenn or a team lead comes to my rescue. That’s nesting in a nutshell. We’re just dazed, lost and confused the whole time, crying HELLLLP!

  Everything made sense in class, but on the phone, I suddenly feel like a fish out of water. I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m doing. My troubleshooting consists of taking tentative shots in the dark.

  Thank God for Glenn and the team leads, they’re our saviors.

  But I quickly discover that they’re not the biggest life savers.

  As it turns out, the biggest life saver is not a person, but an inconspicuous, yet highly significant button on the phone—the ‘Not Ready’ button.

  This discovery was huge and all-encompassing, parallel to stumbling upon the Holy Grail. I owe it my youth, I owe it my sanity, and without it, I’m certain I would’ve aged tenfold.

  When I’m in ‘Not Ready,’ it means a call cannot come through, because hey—I’m not ready to take one!

  How fab! It’s meant for completing technical tickets, and for emergencies (I think); but most of us just end up staying in ‘Not Ready’ to take a breather from taking call after call, after call, after call. The ‘Not Ready’ button is revered as a Godsend, and is hailed amongst us as mankind’s greatest invention, the pinnacle of human achievement, even better than sliced bread.

  During my ‘nesting’ period, I keep a diary and here it is, unveiled in all its nightmarish gory.

  Maddy’s Nesting Dairy:

  Number of calls taken = 488

  Number of pills popped = 2 bottles (Tylenol Extra Strength)

  Number of times I felt like shoving my head in the oven = 1000

  Day 1 of nesting – I hate, hate, hate being on the phones. Feel utterly hopeless and confused. Sometimes instead of pushing the Hold button, I accidentally jab the Release key right next to it. I blame my fat fingers. Also, I stay in ‘Not Ready’ a lot. It is my haven. By the end of the day, I feel like going home and SHOVING MY HEAD IN THE OVEN!

  Day 2 of nesting – Good news: I did not shove my head in the oven. Bad news: I’m still alive, back in this garish call center, being repeatedly abused over the phone.

  Day 3 of nesting – Things are improving. Occasionally I feel lost, but I’m learning to use my ‘resources,’ aka the knowledge base. Transferring calls to other departments, or worse, conferencing calls with a third party is all a blurry mystery to me. Still using ‘Not Ready.’ If it’s there, why not use it, right?

  Day 4 of nesting – Feel more comfortable on the phone and with the phone buttons now. The calls are going smoothly. My ultra-secret weapon: bullshitting. I make certain I sound 100% sure that I know what I’m doing, even when I haven’t the foggiest idea, because once the callers sense I’m unsure, they pounce on me like a pack of wolves and question every single thing I tell them. But now that I’m on BS mode, everything is just fine and dandy. Well, all except for the fact that an 8 hour shift is equivalent to 8 hours of callers bashing me nonstop.

  Don’t feel the urge to jab ‘Not Ready’ as much now; am becoming slightly more competent.

  Day 5 of Nesting – Hey, this is a piece of cake! Don’t need to resort to BS as much, but I whip it out when desperate measures call for it. Suddenly, things are starting to click. I actually know what I’m doing. ‘Not Ready’ is only used when I feel I deserve a much needed break. Hmm. Perhaps I’ll go home and bake myself some chocolate chip cookies in the oven.

  On the very last day of nesting, I’m like a bird, ready to sprout my wings, leave my nest and soar. After logging on to my phone, I whack the calls, one by one, out of the ball park!

  I skip the ‘selling’ part, since I’m not held accountable for my sales quotas, at least not yet.

  But I’m pumped! I feel a thrill, a rush of adrenalin like I’m flying a plane solo for the very first time. I am Amelia Earhart. Let’s hope I don’t crash this plane. Bring ‘em on!

  Beep!

  “Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. What can I do for you today?”

  “Habla español ?”

  “Hola señor! Um, como estas. Sorry...no,” I say in my broken, hacked up Spanish. “I…err…no habla espanol. Uno momento por favor.” Then I promptly transfer the call to the Spanish queue.

  It’s pathetic really, since I took Spanish in high school, but other than that, I can only say random Spanish words like burro (donkey), mijo (my son), vamanos (let’s go), papi chulo (hot daddy), chica (girl), quien es tu papi (who’s your daddy?) and la princesa (the princess).

  Oh, and I can count to ten—uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco…

  Okay, I guess I can only count to five.

  I am completely incapable of carrying on a conversation in Spanish. Fortunately, that’s what the Spanish queue is for and they get paid more than I do because they’re bilingual.

  So, TRANSFER call.

  Beep!

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

  “G’day. Me name is Poida Woite. And I need some help with me password.”

  How awesome! An Aussie from Down Under!

  I peer at his name on my computer screen: Peter White.

  “I can help Mr. White, but first—”

  “Poida,” he interjects kindly. “Just call me Poida.”

  “Okay, Peter,” I say amiably. “I’ll just need to ask y
ou a couple of questions for verification.” And once that is out of the way, I tackle the task at hand. “Now you mentioned earlier on that you needed help with your password?”

  “Aye mate,” he huffs in affirmation, like pirate Captain Jack Sparrow. “I’d like to change it to Inicondi88.”

  “Now, Peter, let’s make sure that I’ve got this right. Is the first letter I like igloo?”

  “Norrr, I as in int,” he corrects.

  Int??? What the heck is int????

  “Um, you mean I as in India?” I persist.

  “Nyet! I as in ipple,” he says, agitation creeping into his voice.

  Pause.

  Now I’m even more confused. What the hell is an ipple?

  “De fruit!” His voice rises with frustration. “Ipple de fruit! I for the first letter of the ilphibet!”

  “Ohhhhhh.” I stifle a laugh. “A as in Apple. Yes. Gotcha! So you want your password to be Anaconda88?” I confirm.

  “Ibso-bloody-lutely!” he exclaims with a mixture of relief and exasperation.

  My mouth twitches at the corners.

  I reckon that they don’t speak English in Down Under; they speak Strine.

  Peter chuckles heartily. “Bloody hell, Sheila, I was beginning to think ye were a muppet. Ye dun’t know i dunny from i bottom dollar. More is the pity, the great Ozzie vernacular is fizzing ind only i galoot like ye ne’er tire of diddling me, mekin me seem silly as i two bob watch.”

  O-kay, I didn’t understand nearly half of what he was saying. Something about a puppet, I gather.

  “Puppet?” I ask perplexed. “Did you just call me a puppet?”

  “Muppet.” He emits a throaty laugh. “Muppet means idiot.”

  An idiot? Who is the idiot here? At least I can pronounce the letter A. I’m sorry but ‘A’ is not pronounced ‘I’.

  Crikey! After that call, I have this sudden urge to throw some shrimp on the barbie. Perhaps I’ll even adopt a dingo and name him Mitch. On second thought, I’ll name him Poida.

  Beep!

  “Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, what can I do for you today?”

  “Halo. My name is Klaus Klum and I am locked out of my account,” says the caller in a heavy German accent.

  Guten Tag. He hails from Doytchland!

  And I’m half-wondering if he is related to Heidi Klum.

  Aside from kinder, dachshund, ausfahrt, du arschgefickter hurensohn, fahrvergnügen and ich bring dich um, the only other German word I know, I learned from Heidi on Project Runway.

  Oh, I can’t wait to flex my German skills. I’ve been waiting to say that word since the day I learned it on the Bravo channel.

  Now is my chance. Patiently, I bide my time.

  Before the call ends, Mr. Klum bellows, “Dahnk-uh shoon.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say graciously. This upcoming moment is pivotal. “Thanks for calling sir and...Aufiderzein.”

  I said it! What a momentous occasion!

  Next time, I’ll kick it up a notch and say, “YOU’RE OUT! Aufiderzein.”

  Maybe I’ll get a Russian, and we can discuss Pushkin and Matryoshka dolls.

  I’m proud to say that I have quite the collection of Russian nesting dolls, which incidentally, are all made in China.

  Hey, this job really isn’t so bad after all. Although I’m sitting at a tiny desk in a crappy, cramped up cubicle in a windowless call center located in Pocatello, Idaho…I feel so globalized. I am connected to the world.

  Three

  The Lightning Five conference room is an explosion of pink confetti; balloons emblazoned with words like ‘Congratulations!’ and ‘WOW!’ decorate every space.

  Our graduation day is feeling like a slightly overplayed event, think prom night, circa 1980.

  Spread out before us is a Costco sheet cake, doughnuts from Daylight Donuts, and a whole smorgasbord of food and drinks. An imposing podium is set up in the front, and thirty five brass trophies are proudly displayed on a makeshift table.

  “They sure rolled out the red carpet for us,” Kars remarks, while slicing a fat piece of cake.

  I fill up my paper cup with some virgin punch. “Not bad at all. Although I wish they would’ve told us this was a fancy soiree. I would’ve glammed up.”

  “Oh, Mika!” Ingeborg gushes with childish delight. “You have that vary nice Italian suit. You could have vorn it today, yah? And I could’ve vorn my zequined dress. Babe! Ve vud have looked vanderful.” She does a little princess twirl.

  Mika smiles at Ingeborg indulgently as she pirouettes, spinning around and around, like a ballerina in a musical box.

  Karsynn inclines her head toward me and whispers, “What is Ingeborg smoking, and who is her dealer?”

  I shrug. “She’s making me dizzy.”

  Glenn clears his throat. “May I please have everyone’s attention?” He is standing behind the podium, beaming at us like a proud parent. “I just want you guys to know that I am so proud of you; I feel honored for having had the opportunity to be your trainer for the past six weeks. You guys are a fabulous group, and I’ve truly enjoyed getting to know you,” he says earnestly, almost choking up in the process.

  Kars harrumphs. “What on planet Earth is he talking about? He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t even know my favorite ice cream flavor.”

  “Mint chocolate chip,” I say without missing a beat.

  Glenn concludes his speech, “Before I hand out these trophies, I have a little surprise for you guys. Now for those of you who don’t know, I used to be a professional ballroom dancer, and today I will perform a special stunt for you.”

  There is a stir of interest through the crowd as Glenn struts like a peacock to an open area and assumes a dancer’s stance.

  Other than the sound of him cracking his knuckles, the room is hushed. Everyone is silently waiting in anticipation.

  Without further ado, Glenn breaks into a fast paced, zipping jive, showcasing his flair and fancy choreography, drawing cheers and laughter from the crowd. And then out of nowhere—BAM!

  He executes two dramatic back flips. One after another!

  We’re a little stunned at first, but soon the whole room breaks into rapturous applause.

  “Holy mackerel!” I gasp. “His form and landing was sharp and clean! It was perfect. As effortless as Plushenko’s quad-triple-double toe loop combination.”

  Kars gives a short hiccupping laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far; he’s more of a Johnny Weir. But this is better than anything I’ve seen on Dancing with the Stars.”

  Glenn is in his element, taking a bow, preening and posing, clearly enjoying the limelight.

  Presuming this whole shindig is over with, I trot to the punch bowl only to stop myself in my tracks. Glenn is fervently waving his arms in the air, motioning for Mika to join him in the front.

  Looking surprised, although not very pleased, Mika shakes his head. “No, Glenn. I don’t want to do it.”

  Glenn’s voice rings loud and persuasive. “C’mon on down here, Mika!”

  Mika refuses to budge.

  With an instinct for entertaining a crowd that rivals the likes of Letterman and Leno, Glenn turns to his audience for support.

  “Class, since I’ve gotten to know Mika, I’ve learned that he too shares a passion for dancing. When Mika lived in Belgium, he was the founder of a street break-dancing group called the B-Force. So once again, c’mon down here Mika and show us what you’ve got!”

  Mika shuffles his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. Suddenly, Ingeborg pumps her fists in the air and chants, “Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka!” Pretty soon, everyone is rallying and chanting for him, including moi.

  Mika gives a half embarrassed smile and remains glued to the spot; but I can see his resolve slowly wavering. Resigning himself, he squares his shoulders and jogs to the front of the room.

  He begins warming up with some simple three-step footwork. Seconds later, he drops to the ground and pops o
ut the familiar coffee grinder move. A smile touches my lips; he’s visibly more relaxed now. Then while doing a fancy side step, he blazes into a suicidal back head flip, followed by a front head flip.

  WHOA! That’s two headsprings with no hands!

  He could be in the Cirque du Soleil.

  A roaring applause breaks out, even mightier and louder than Glenn’s reception. I even hear a couple hoots and wolf whistles from the crowd.

  “He did that trick so effortlessly,” I mutter, audibly floored.

  The crowd wants more. They rally and egg him on, “WOOT!!! WOOT!!! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka!”

  Graciously, he obliges. Dropping to the ground, he whips out a dizzying windmill move. His lean, muscular legs rotate and spin around in rapid motions. I swear I even feel a breeze. Who needs an electric fan when you have Mika?

  Next, he combines more power moves using his strong elbows and strapping forearms to propel him through the air like a boomerang. After more fluid flares and turtle crunches, he rolls back and freezes with a one-handed handstand.

  A thunderous applause fills the entire room. He has brought the house down! Apparently, our dear friend Mika has a knack for showmanship.

  My mouth is slightly agape. “Wow. He’s incredible! As light as a leaf, as hard as concrete, yet as flexible as a rubber band.”

  Kars bobs her head. “Gotta give Belgium boy props!”

  Without breaking out in a drop of sweat, Mika jogs back to a chorus of rowdy applause, slightly impeded by slaps on his back, high fives and knuckle bumps as he passes by our cheering classmates.

  We cluster around our newfound celebrity friend, shielding him from the estrogen filled skanks who flock around him like country hens in heat, jostling for his attention.

  Ingeborg flings herself at him. “Dat vas so avesome babe.”

  He smiles and gently disentangles himself, keenly aware of all the snooping eyes on him.

  Kars delivers a solid punch to his arm. “Holy crap, Mika, we didn’t know you had moves like that!”