Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Page 4

  “You founded the B-Force, eh?” I smile with frank amusement.

  Somewhat pink around the ears, he laughs. “That’s why I didn’t mention it; you girls are already giving me a hard time.”

  Glenn returns to the podium and announces, “Class, listen up. If any of you are interested in taking ballroom dancing, please know that I give private lessons at my studio downtown. And my partner Bruno gives break-dancing lessons. So if you’re interested, just shoot me an email and I’ll provide you the details, okay?”

  Great plug, I think to myself.

  “And now,” Glenn continues, “it is finally time for me to hand out these trophies that are so well deserved of all of you. I want you to know that you are all winners today.”

  One by one, Glenn calls out our names and we claim our mini trophies. They’re shiny brass balls haphazardly affixed to cheap plastic sticks. And for the pièce de résistance, the brass balls are burnished with the company’s lightning rod logo.

  I accept my trophy, hold it up to Kars and manage an uneven smile. “Um, I sure do feel like a winner.”

  After all that shenanigans, we’re allowed to ‘party’ for an hour in the conference room and then report back to class.

  Our fates will be decreed today.

  Kars, Mika, Ingeborg and I mingle in a corner, still tight knit and clique-ish after six grueling weeks of training. We are the Band of Brothers in this torrential battle field, looking out for one another in the trenches.

  “I hope ve vill all be on de same team,” says Ingeborg, wide-eyed with optimism.

  “Me too. If we’re lucky enough, we’ll end up with a nice supervisor like Dawson. From what I hear, he’s super easy going.”

  A shadow of a frown touches Karsynn’s forehead. “I hope we don’t end up on Hillary Hildegard’s team. She’s a witch! The micromanaging queen.” Kars drops her voice a decibel. “My mom says people call her the Not Ready Nazi. Her team has the lowest Not Ready time in call center history, and if she ever catches you in Not Ready, you’re in deep shitz.”

  I shudder involuntarily. “Please don’t let me be on her team.”

  “Don’t worry, ladies. We’ll be fine wherever we go,” says Mika in a voice as cool as a cucumber. He remains poised while the rest of us have completely lost it. He has a talent for remaining calm and collected in the most chaotic situations. “Who knows? Maybe Hillary is not as bad as they say,” he proffers.

  At that, Kars emits a loud, exaggerated snort.

  But I certainly hope Mika is right.

  To distract ourselves, we head for the food table and pile up on the goodies that are quickly disappearing.

  I stack up on the tortilla chips and scoop myself a hefty portion of guacamole dip, happily indulging myself. After inhaling everything on my plate, I swiftly head back for seconds. Chips and dip in hand, I whirl around only to find Mika smiling at me with mild amusement.

  Self consciously, I slide a chip in my mouth, crunch on it, and catch the falling crumbs.

  Mika seems to sense my mounting discomfort. “I like girls with healthy appetites,” he says simply.

  I glance over at Ingeborg. She’s munching on a celery stick. Nothing else is on her plate.

  Great. Now I feel like a ginormous pudding.

  Humph…Mika may like girls with healthy appetites, but he certainly doesn’t date ‘em.

  The training class has never been this quiet. Like sitting ducks, we await our fates.

  Glenn fixes me with a steady look. “Maddy…”

  My stomach is in knots. Please let me be on Dawson’s team.

  “You’ll be on Hillary Hildegard’s team.”

  A sharp pain twists in my gut. Noooooooooooooo. I bury my head in my hands and make a muffled cry of despair.

  “Ingeborg,” Glenn bellows. “Hillary’s team as well.”

  She squeaks with terror and turns sheet white.

  “Karsynn.” Glenn pauses for a beat and looks straight at her.

  Her eyes are clamped shut, almost like she’s dreading what’s coming her way.

  Glenn lays it on her gently. “Hillary’s team.”

  Kars bashes her head against the desk.

  Unperturbed, Glenn continues roll calling more names, poor unfortunate souls, all doomed for Hillary the Not Ready Nazi’s labor camp.

  Sometime later, the tide begins to shift when we hear Glenn say, “Mika, you’ll be on Dawson Darling’s team.”

  Mika shrugs with a casual expression of indifference.

  Kars glares at him resentfully. “You lucky duck! You get your freedom while the rest of us take the train to the Gulag!”

  Mika shoots her a feeble smile and apologizes with his eyes.

  When Glenn is finished roll calling, he distributes printouts of our schedules. As it turns out, most of us will be working a crappy shift from noon ‘til 8:30 pm, right smack in the middle of the day. I won’t have time to do anything in the morning, afternoon or evening for that matter.

  The best shifts by far are: 8:30 am to 4 pm—so I still have the whole evening left to enjoy, or 3:30 pm ‘til midnight—so I can have the whole morning to myself. But since I am the low man on the totem pole, I am stuck with a shift where my whole day is wasted at work. Bummer!

  Before dismissing us from our final day of training, Glenn shepherds us to our cubicles. They don’t look like much, but what more can you expect from a cubicle? It’s a six-by-six foot partition without a view.

  And although Kars and I are on the same team, a row of cubes separate us, like the Red Sea. Ingeborg’s desk is just two cubes away from mine, so we can still holler at each other.

  We’re curious to see where Mika’s cubicle is, so we traipse over to his desk. Standing by his cube, I scan the floor for mine. “You’re quite a distance from us Mika,” I point out. “I’d say you’re about eight rows across.”

  Ingeborg pulls a face, slightly miffed that she and Mika won’t be joined at the hip.

  Mika gives a playful grin. “Ladies, don’t worry. I’ll come over and visit.”

  Glenn rounds us up like sheep one final time. “All right guys, so you’ll report to your supervisors on Monday. You may bring in pictures and plants to decorate your cubes if you wish.” He pauses and glances around, as if trying to memorize all our faces. “And although you’re no longer in training, please don’t be a stranger. My office is right next to the exit stairwell on the north side, so feel free to stop by and pay me a visit anytime, okay?”

  We nod and murmur our goodbyes.

  Glenn glances furtively at his watch. “Oops, it’s time. Must dash. I have a meeting with HR.”

  As he prances away, I overhear some snippets of conversation, something about how the shit hit the fan after word got around that Glenn executed a back flip and encouraged Mika to perform a stunt on company property. I guess if Mika had gotten injured, the company would have been liable, and so Glenn had violated some sort of code in the Employee Handbook.

  Poor Glenn...I hope he’s not in any hot water.

  Four

  “Hurricane Katrina has struck again!” Karsynn surveys the pile of clothes strewn across her room.

  My suitcase is empty but my stuff is everywhere and the room is in utter chaos. To be honest, Karsynn’s room was pretty much a pigsty even before I moved in, but I did sort of take it to a new level today.

  Looking helplessly around, I cry, “I have nothing to wear.”

  Karsynn seizes me by the shoulders. “Look, it’s just work—at a call center, remember? We don’t have to dress up since we don’t meet any clients. Plus, my mom says some lady comes into work dressed in her pajamas for Christ’s sake. So your skinny jeans and grandma top are fine.”

  “Grandma?” I glance down at my blousy, ethereal Leifsdottir top; it’s laced with ruffles, gathered with ruching, and stitched with tiny, iridescent rosettes. “This is vintage inspired,” I cry in an injured voice.

  “Po-tay-toh, Po-tah-toe,” she tuts. “You say vintage, I
say granny.”

  Eyeing Karsynn’s camouflaged pants, red bandana and mossy green top, I bite my tongue and let that comment slide. I am not taking fashion advice from someone who dresses like Rambo—First Blood Rambo, not the new Rambo.

  I change the subject. “This isn’t about work, it’s about Mika. Remember? Before I left work on Friday, he said he needed to talk to me about something. Privately. So we’re meeting for lunch in the cafeteria today.”

  Karsynn looks askance. “You mean I’m not invited? Not even Ingeborg?”

  “Nope.” I grin stupidly.

  She strikes a thoughtful pose. “Hmm. I wonder what he wants to talk to you about.”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself all weekend,” I say offhandedly, trying to still my fluttering emotions.

  Kars eyes me suspiciously. “You’re hoping he’s got the hots for you, eh?”

  “Me? No! Yes! Oh I don’t know.” My voice falters.

  “I know you’ve got the hawts for him,” she snickers and falls head-first into a pile of clothes.

  “I do, but he’s going out with Ingeborg. And I love Ingeborg. I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Plus, it’s strictly platonic between me and Mika.”

  “Platonic, Plutonic. Po-tay-toh, Po-tah-toe.” Kars rolls her eyes. “It’s all semantics to me.”

  Studiously ignoring her, I reach for a black scrunchie, and in two swift motions, my hair is up in a neat ponytail.

  “Jesus-Mary-Mother-of-Joseph, take the hideous thing off right now,” she orders fiercely. “Scrunchies are so nineties! You’ve got gorgeous, glossy hair. I’d sell my firstborn to have hair like yours; plus if you leave it down for a change, Belgium boy may notice.”

  “Whatever,” I say dismissively. But I do take off the scrunchie and run a brush through my hair a couple of times.

  Kars swings her feet out of bed and paces the floor. Scanning our checklist, she says, “You got your cinnamon scented candle?”

  I peer inside my bag. “One cinnamon scented candle—check!”

  “Photos?”

  “Got ‘em!” I hold up my favorite snapshots.

  Our cubicles will be our home away from home, so we plan on decorating and personalizing our cardboard partitions.

  Kars taps a large box. “One basil garden—check!”

  My eyes widen. “You’re bringing your Aerogarden to work?”

  The Aerogarden is a hydroponic device that uses some sort of NASA space age technology. Well, at least that’s what Karsynn tells me.

  She hoists the large box into her arms. “Yeah, why not? I love the smell of basil. Plus, it’ll help me snag a man.”

  I stare at Kars, bemused.

  She pads to the door. “Oh yeah, didn’t you know? In Italy, sweet basil is thought to attract husbands to their wives.”

  I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “We’re in Idaho—not Italy.”

  “There could be Italian men working there,” she quips airily.

  Shaking my head, I prop the door open. “After you.”

  Kars and her indoor garden trot out.

  “Is that everything?”

  Her head pops out of the burgeoning greenery. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Let’s boogie!” I slam the door shut behind me.

  As soon as Kars and I troop into work, we spy Hillary the Not Ready Nazi at her desk, sitting ramrod straight with her back to us. We take this opportunity to check out our new boss.

  Hillary is staring at her monitor, and appears to be reviewing an excel spreadsheet of some sort.

  Abruptly, she attacks her keyboard with brute force, pounding it into oblivion. TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!

  I stiffen. She looks so intimidating, and already my fear for her is all consuming. Kars and I remain firmly glued to the spot, transfixed by her muscular fingers that are hammering away at the keys.

  My gaze shifts to the Madonna biceps that decorate her arms.

  Gulps. I’m pretty sure she pumps iron.

  Sensing our presence, Hillary swivels round.

  My heart stops and my eyes widen in horror. Egad! She is a grisly ogre living amongst us. I find myself blatantly staring at her hatchet nose. It looks like a nose job gone wrong, almost like it’s collapsing inwards.

  She’s even got a slight moustache.

  Or as they call it these days—a nose neighbor, a crumb catcher, a trash stash, or a tea strainer.

  With an expression of mild petulance, Hillary raises a tufted unibrow that’s mushrooming out of control. “And you are?”

  “Um, I’m Maddy,” I manage feebly.

  “And I’m Karsynn, reporting for duty,” she pipes in chirpily.

  “And we’re on your team,” we say in unison. Then we eye each other, struggling to keep a straight face.

  Hillary doesn’t look the least bit amused. She rises ceremoniously to her feet. Fully erect, she towers over us. Oh God. She must be over eight feet tall.

  Kars and I cower in the corner as the giant looms over us.

  Hillary immediately fires out her commands, “Make sure you come into work at least fifteen minutes early so you have time to boot up your computer and log in to all of your apps. I expect you to be on the phones taking calls at twelve sharp! That is when your shift starts and that is precisely when I expect you take calls! And I expect you to be ready to take calls at ALL times, so don’t even think of touching the Not Ready key,” she says acidly. “And I expect you to obey my orders, so don’t even think of questioning me. If I say ‘Jump’, you say ‘How High!’ ”

  Each time Hillary spits the word ‘expect,’ her saliva sprays onto our cheeks. Gosh. Her mouth is an industrial humidifier, vaporizing the air around us. I need some Vicks Vapor-rub.

  “Understood?” she roars, striking fear into our hearts.

  We bob our heads up and down.

  Her lips curl into a sadistic smile and I quickly plaster a smile on my face, stretching it as tightly as a bungee cord that’s about ready to snap.

  Hillary’s nostrils flare with annoyance. “You are dismissed!” She swivels back to face her monitor.

  Kars and I exchange a look of alarm, wearing identical raised eyebrows. After collecting ourselves, we slink back to our cells.

  Jeez. We haven’t even started our shifts, and already she’s made us feel like convicted felons facing death row.

  Ingeborg, already seated in Cell Block D, waves at us and demurely slides on her headset. On anyone else, it looks like a plain metal band. On Ingeborg, it sparkles and shimmers like a diamond encrusted tiara. But tiara or not, once that headset is on, you’re chained to your desk.

  “What’s her problem?” mutters Kars. “Heck, it’s not even noon yet. We’ve got five minutes before we have to start taking calls.”

  “Well, I guess we better hurry then,” I say, scrambling over to Cell Block A. Hurriedly, I chuck my bag onto the desk and fire up my computer. But I soon realize that ‘fire up’ is the wrong word.

  I grit my teeth as my computer chugs and spits at a leisurely pace. By the time I’m logged in, I can already hear Ingeborg taking her first call.

  “Thank you for calling Lightning Zpeed Communications, my name iz Ingeborg, vot can I help you vit today?” she twitters like a canary.

  I love Ingeborg’s accent! It puts a smile on my face.

  Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi stands up from her watch post and fixes her steely gray eyes on me. She raises her tufted unibrow, making her meaning quite clear.

  Humph. I wasn’t aware that this is a no-smile zone.

  Hillary the Giant’s height gives her the added advantage of enabling her to spy over us. Hmm. I wonder why she’s so mean. Maybe kids used to pick on her and call her names like Andre the Giant, The Jolly Green Giant and Tall Chief.

  Poor Hillary. I’ll try to be nice to her.

  Instantly, I wipe the smile off my face and load up my apps. I plunk the cinnamon scented candle on my desk and stick a sepia-toned photograph on my cubicle wall. It�
�s a picture of me and my dad, taken on a muggy July afternoon at the Navy Pier. His hair is tousled from the wind and his eyes are crinkled from squinting at the afternoon sun. I vividly remember all the details of that summery day. We sat on a weathered bench by the pier, and he held my little hand in his big hand. Together, we feasted on our Häagen-Daz waffle cones and my dad was smiling at the camera with an ice-cream moustache.

  My dad passed away from lung cancer eight years ago.

  Losing him was devastating. I lost my dad and my best friend all in one day. He’s the realest thing I’ve ever had, and he left the biggest gap in my life when he left.

  I gaze at the photograph with affection, smiling back at him. Taking a deep breath, I slide on my headset.

  Okay, now I’m ready to take a call.

  Beep!

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

  “Because your FUCKING lines are down, it has cost my business over FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS IN FUCKING DAMAGES!” blasts the caller.

  Sheesh, someone has a potty mouth.

  “Sir, I apologize for any inconvenience and I’ll be glad to look into this matter for you. But could you kindly refrain from using such foul language with me,” I say all primly and properly.

  “FIX MY FUCKIN PROBLEM FIRST AND THEN WE’LL SEE YOUNG LADY!”

  “Oh-kay sir,” I say in a constricted voice. “First off, let me ask you a few questions to authenticate you.”

  The verification process is excruciatingly painful as he is less than cooperative; it’s literally like getting a root canal without anesthesia.

  By some miraculous fluke, I manage to get him authenticated.

  “Sir, do you mind if I place you on hold for a few minutes while I do some research?”

  “YES! I DO FUCKIN MIND BEING ON HOLD. BUT GO THE FUCK AHEAD! YOU FUCKIN IGNORAMUS NIMROD.”

  Welcome to the world of Customer Service.

  Now that the A-hole is on hold, I check the intranet site to see if there are any known issues.

  I scroll down the list and Bingo!

  There is an outage in Arizona, due to severe thunderstorms late last night that damaged some of our OC3 lines.