Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel Read online

  Jon Hamm struts on stage to present the next award.

  Karsynn swoons. “He is simply bootylicious.”

  “Quit talking like Beyonce. By the way bootylicious and booh-tay are not real words.”

  Karsynn blanches. “For your info, Beyonce is now known as Sasha Fierce. She can sing, act and dance. That sista is a triple threat! And by the way,” she adds. “Booty is a real word, it’s in the dictionary.”

  “Which one?” I challenge.

  “The urban dictionary,” she states matter-of-factly.

  “The urban dictionary doesn’t count,” I counter. “You can’t use it in Scrabble.”

  “Hah! But I’m pretty sure that in Webster’s dictionary, booty means pirate treasure or prize. So it is a real word,” says Kars triumphantly. Then out of nowhere, she lets one rip.

  It is mammoth!

  Unlike her usual Mount Saint Helen eruptions, this one is a Krakatoan explosion. In fact, it is so massive that the aftershock tremors resonate through the lumpy sofa cushions.

  “Your farts stink!” I choke through the fume of flatulence. “It smells like something crawled up your ass and died.”

  She looks at me with an expression that says she’s inordinately pleased with herself. “What? Yours don’t stink?”

  “Nope! Mine’s all air and packs no punch. But yours, yours are silent killers.” I shudder. “And I even felt it,” I add, cringing with disgust.

  KAPOW! She swats me with a pillow. “Feel this!”

  “OW!” I squawk, half laughing. “You really outdid yourself this time; that one tipped the Richter scale. It was a magnitude of 20.0.”

  While I’m no stranger to breaking wind, Kars actually trumps me in this sport. We’re in such a comfort zone that whenever I let one loose, Kars will let one rip and announce smugly, “Mine was better.” I’m always happy to concede.

  But tonight’s fart episode has got me thinking…maybe we’re getting a little too close for comfort. Maybe we need some space.

  Maybe it’s time I move out.

  Janis and Kars have been nothing but kind and generous, giving me shelter and feeding me for two months. They’ve offered me unlimited hospitality, making it very clear that I can stay for as long as I want. And the last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome.

  “Kars,” I say in all-seriousness. “I think it’s time. Time for me to get a place of my own.”

  Her face contorts. “You want to move out?”

  I nibble my lips. “Umm-hmm.”

  Karsynn looks crestfallen. But her state of distress is short lived. “I have an idea!” Her face lights up. “Why don’t we move out together and get a two bedroom apartment?”

  I pause to allow myself to digest this. Now why didn’t I think of that? I’ll have my own place, I’ll still have my best friend and I’ll save on rent money.

  “Sure, why not?” I hear myself saying.

  “Yes! My mom will be so glad to be finally rid of me.”

  I fervently shake my head. “Are you kidding me? Kars, your mom will miss you like crazy.”

  Honestly, Janis and Kars are joined at the hip, and I envy the strong bond they share. When Kars breaks the news to Janis, I just know she’ll be sad to see her baby go.

  Hmm, I wonder if my mom even misses me.

  I doubt it. She’s far too busy with work to even notice I’m gone. My mom is an OBGYN. And if you scramble the letters and use a little imagination, OBGYN sort of resembles G’BYE.

  As a kid, that’s exactly what I called her—the G’BYE doctor; and quite aptly so as she was always bidding me adieu, rushing off to help deliver some stranger’s baby.

  After we lost my dad, things got worse. My mom completely checked out. I never saw her. I felt alone, I felt raw, I felt angry, and I would’ve surely gone off the deep end had it not been for my dad’s parting words. He said, “Maddy my love… always stay drunk on writing.”

  Whenever I felt down, whenever I missed him, whenever I felt upset, whenever I felt alone, he told me to pick up a pen and just start writing. Anything. My feelings, my dreams, my hopes, my stories. And so I wrote and wrote to blot out the tears, to blot out the hurt, to blot out the pain, to blot out the world.

  I wrote until my fingers blistered and bled. Eventually, they hardened and calloused. But it was cathartic, helping me heal in more ways than one. And it solidified my aspirations of becoming a writer.

  Just like my dad.

  But things don’t always go as planned. Sometimes life throws you curve balls, and you either learn to swerve them, or hit them like there’s no tomorrow.

  At this point in my life, I’m just swerving.

  I breathe out a heavy sigh. Resigning myself, I pick up my cell and call my mom. It’s been over two months since I’ve left home, yet it never occurred to me to call her sooner.

  One summer, I went away to Young Writers Camp.

  Oh I know. I was a nerd with a capital N, and that camp was nerd proof.

  When I arrived home, my mom was oblivious to the fact that I had been gone for an entire month; the whole time I was away at nerd camp, she assumed that school was still in session and that she just happened to miss me at home. For a month. Go figure.

  It’s not like her head was in the clouds or anything like that; she was simply married to her job. While her practice flourished, our relationship wilted.

  The only time we spent together was in her Audi, since she chauffeured me to school every morning. During those brief moments, I could chat with her, tell her about my day, ask her about hers…just be with her.

  But all that changed when I turned fourteen. She dragged me to the DMV, signed me up for a hardship license, and that was the end of that.

  Our time together—finito. Our relationship—kaput-o.

  Although my mom’s still around, I feel like I’ve lost her. It’s as if I’ve lost both my parents. What can I say? I’m an orphan, so to speak. Little orphan Annie.

  I press the phone to my ear and after a couple of rings, my mom answers, “Hi, dear!” Before I can get a word in edgewise, she launches off, “Honey, you won’t believe this! I’m dating now, he’s an Ob-Gyn. Vince works at the UC Medical Center and I’ve only been seeing him for a month, but I think he’s prefect and—”

  I cut her off. “Wait. Did you just say he’s an Ob-Gyn?” I ask, feeling somewhat disturbed by this. “Mom, please don’t tell me you’re dating a Vagina Doctor.”

  “Oh, Madison!” she scoffs. “There’s nothing wrong with male Ob-Gyns.”

  “Err, yeah there is. Mom, any man who chooses a profession that involves shoving his hand down a woman’s pickachu on a daily basis is seriously a pervo. It’s legalized, medical rape!”

  “It’s called a pap smear,” she scolds. “And when was the last time you had one?”

  I sigh dramatically. “Mom, I really don’t want some stranger scraping my pikachu.”

  “I’ll do it,” she insists. “Make an appointment with my clinic.”

  “Mom, stop. Let’s discuss Vince again. What is he like?”

  “Ahh, Vince is a wonderful man; a divorcee, no kids. Anyway honey, I’m sorry I’ve missed you at home these past few weeks. I’ve just been so caught up with work—and with Vince of course,” she adds impishly.

  See, she doesn’t even realize I’m still in The Valley of Potatoes.

  “Mom, I’m still in Idaho visiting Kars, remember? And guess what?” I pause for effect. “I’ve got a job here!”

  “Well that’s great news honey,” she trills with pleasure. “At a newspaper?”

  I clear my throat. “No. At a call center.”

  “Honey, the line is fuzzy. All I got was call something.” Then she emits a tinkling laugh. “Madison, please don’t tell me you’re a call girl. I raised you better than that.”

  “Ha-ha mom. Very funny. No. I am not a prostitute. I work at a call center.” After a beat, I add, “As a customer service rep.”

  There is an excruciating pa
use, a silence bordering on awkward. Sheesh! I’m beginning to think she’d be happier if I were a call girl. After all, hookers aren’t reviled as much as call center reps, even though both professions offer the same service.

  Oral service. Sorry, but it begged to be said!

  Her voice drips with disappointment. “But Madison, why?”

  “Well, it’s a job, albeit a thankless one. But a job nonetheless, and I needed one. I was tired of sitting around doing nothing. Plus, it’s not that bad. Really. I’ve even learned a lot,” I gab, trying to remain upbeat and positive for my sake and hers.

  She perks up. “So tell me, what have you learned?”

  “Patience. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve learned to control my tongue.”

  This elicits a sardonic harrumph from her. “What about the people who work there? What are they like?”

  I decide to give her what she expects to hear. “Well where I sit, to the left of me is a beached whale. Three rows in front of me is another beached whale. Four cubicles across, you’ll never guess, another beached whale,” I ramble in a monotone.

  I’ve actually gotten to know one of these whales. He’s a five hundred pound Samoan, and his nickname happens to be Tiny.

  Now don’t get me wrong; having curves or being curvaceous is good thing but there is ‘curvy’ and there is ‘coronary,’ and Tiny is a walking heart attack.

  Here lies the shocker—Tiny acquired that name because he is actually the smallest of all his siblings.

  Meanwhile, all I can hear is static on the line.

  “What did you say again honey?” Her voice crackles.

  “Um, nothing...”

  A beat. Another beat.

  “Well, if you’re sure about that job, then I guess it’s okay,” she says disconcertedly. After a pause, she adds, “Really, there are plenty of other jobs out there you know.”

  She’s obviously out of touch with reality. “Mom no, not really. There are no jobs out there. And—”

  She cuts me off, “Look sweetie, I must dash! Vincent is taking me to the opera tonight, but you take care of yourself. If you need money, let me know and I’ll wire you some right away. ‘K, love?”

  I sigh out loud as she clicks off.

  Money will be the last thing I ask of her.

  Seven

  “KAR-SYNN,” I holler with a sense of urgency.

  Her head pops out of her cubicle. “What?”

  “Get over here,” I command. “NOW!”

  Kars races to my cube and I seize her by the shoulders. “You will not believe this, but I am talking to a Miss Fuck-a-Lot.”

  She stares at me bug-eyed for several minutes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “No I’m not, and yes I am talking to a Miss Fuck-a-Lot.”

  “No—you—are—NOT,” she says severely.

  “Look! Check out her name.” I point at my screen.

  Kars peers at my monitor and spells the caller’s name out loud, “F-A-U-G-H-A-L-A-T-T-E.”

  “She’s French,” I explain succinctly. “She says it’s pronounced Fuck-a-Lot.”

  There is an instant palpable hush.

  Kars stares at me deadpan.

  Seconds later, we explode into a spasm of giggles.

  “Hello? Anybody there?” An agitated voice crackles in my ear.

  My laughter instantly evaporates. Whoopsie! I forgot Miss Fuck-a-Lot is still on MUTE.

  Remorse washes over me. I feel terribly awful for neglecting her.

  Shoot! I have no idea what she’s been harping about for the past five minutes. As soon as she said her name, I pushed MUTE so she couldn’t hear my gales of laughter and screamed for Kars.

  “Merde, I have to get back to her,” I say wistfully. “Mais c'est chouette, les name est magnifique.”

  Kars tuts, “Sacré bleu! Zut Alors! Au revoir Mademoiselle Fuck-a-Lot.” Then she shimmies over to Ingeborg’s cubicle.

  Keeping half an ear turned to their conversation, I catch some snippets, something about French people having the best names au contraire, followed by Karsynn’s wild and infectious laughter echoing through the maze of cubicles.

  Poor Miss Fuck-a-Lot. Oh to be cursed with such a name.

  After composing myself, I release the MUTE key. “I’m so sorry Miss Fuck-a-Lot, but we have a really bad connection. You were breaking up there for bit,” I say in my most apologetic voice and proceed to give her my full and undivided attention.

  Moments later, I’m still assisting Miss Fuck-a-Lot when I hear Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi’s ear-shattering scream.

  Uh oh, her meeting must be over now.

  “Karsynn! You’ve been in NOT READY for over ten minutes. GET BACK ON THE PHONES RIGHT NOW!” The Führer blasts, sending shock waves throughout the entire center.

  Karsynn stiffens, collects herself and scuttles like a cockroach to her cubicle.

  When we’re not slaving away in Hell, we’re apartment hunting, which ends up consuming our entire weekend.

  Pocatello Plaza is the eighth apartment complex we’ve looked at so far, and eight is certainly the charm.

  “This is the one!” Karsynn cheers while doing a cartwheel in the middle of the living room.

  I shake my head, marveling at her boundless energy; she’s the Energizer Bunny on speed.

  As I pace the floor, going back and forth between the kitchen and living room, one word keeps repeating in my head—Love!

  It even features vaulted ceilings! Ahhh. A warm and virtuous glow envelops me. I’m standing in the Sistine Chapel. Now all I need is a Michelangelo mural on the ceiling.

  Gazing out the lofty bay windows, I gasp with joyful wonder; it bestows upon me a picturesque view of the Rocky Mountains.

  I’m sold!

  Satisfied with our decision, we sign on the dotted line.

  Rent will be $950, plus we’ll have to fork over another $900 for the security deposit. Well, that just about wipes out most of my earnings. But, it’s worth it. My heart is bursting with joy.

  “I feel like a grown-up now,” I say jubilantly, as we leave our future pad behind.

  Kars flashes a full-wattage grin. “Amen sista. We’ll have our very own place.”

  Moving day arrives before we know it. Mika offered to help us move, and his offer was snapped up without a moment’s hesitation. We need all the muscles around to lift our bulky stuff, and so our Man-with-the-Muscles Mika is on site, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, raring to go.

  Kars puts him to work right away. Upon discovering that the elevator was kaput, Kars conveniently placed herself in charge, appointing herself Directress of Project Move.

  Mika rubs his palms together. “Where is this sofa going?”

  “Way up to the top,” says Kars, not trying to hide a smirk.

  I smile at him sheepishly. “Sorry, Mika, we’re on the top floor and that makes it twelve flights of stairs.”

  “Hey, it’s not a problem for me. But will you be okay, Maddy?”

  “Me? Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I mutter somewhat dubiously, fully aware of the insurmountable task ahead.

  Kars wastes no time in cracking her whip. “Maddy! Mika! Ready, Set, HEAVE!”

  Mika lifts one end of the sofa while I grasp the other end. Like Sherpa carriers, we begin our ascent of Katmandu.

  “Urnnggh,” I grunt, using every inch of my body, every ounce of strength to lift and mount the steps.

  This sofa, donated to us courtesy of Janis, weighs a ton.

  Janis treated herself to a brand spanking new Pottery Barn slip-covered sofa, on the assumption that she’ll be rolling in the Benjamins for getting us the jobs.

  Apparently, referral money is big money.

  While I’m struggling under the weight of the sofa, Mika seems to be doing just fine. He lugs the sofa with ease, while I’m sweating from the sheer exertion, wheezing and panting, trying to keep up. But that’s totally fine with me because right this very minute, I have the best aerial view in Pocatello. />
  Each time Mika flexes his toned forearms, his T-shirt hitches up a few inches. And the sight of his sun bronzed, chiseled body unsettles me. My liquid eyes linger on his washboard abs; beads of sweat accumulate on his pecs, glistening in the afternoon sun.

  Phew. I wipe my brow. It’s getting hot in here.

  I find myself entranced by his taut skin, and the tiny trail of fine hair that leads down, down, down to his…Gulp.

  I’m hiking down the Treasure Trail. Sexy music playing in the background. I’m wandering down the Happy Trail.

  “To the left,” Kars yells like a drill sergeant and I’m thrown off the Happy Trail.

  Sweat pouring down my face, I glower at her belligerently. She’s taking her job a little too seriously, barking out orders with a ruthless ferocity as Mika and I clumsily navigate the sofa up the narrow stairs. She has zero compassion for her Sherpa carriers.

  “Maddy! Move! Keep MOOOVING!” Kars screams in my ear.

  In between ragged breaths, I manage, “Just in case you’ve forgotten Kars, I’m Maddy your BFF, (WHEEZE) not Maddy the Mule.”

  Mika’s eyes flash with concern. “You want to take a break?”

  “Nurrggghh,” I grunt, wearing a determined expression, but I seriously doubt I’m fooling anyone. “I’m fine. Let’s...nurgh...keep go-ingggg.”

  Karsynn booms, “THAT’S RIGHT, KEEP GOING! YOU’VE GOT TEN MORE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS TO GO!”

  In retrospect, we could’ve picked an apartment unit on the first floor. But Kars insisted that we live on the top floor.

  I had some initial qualms, but after my eyes were treated to the spectacular view from the top, I knew I just had to be up high, scraping the skies.

  Now that I’m lugging this bulky sofa up these endless flights of stairs, I think that was quite possibly the stoooopidest decision ever.

  What the hell were we thinking?

  After mountaineering the sofa up to the very peak, we tackle two queen sized mattresses, two box springs, our fifty inch LCD TV, two headboards, the dining table, the side tables, the lamps, loads and loads of boxes filled with clothes, cooking utensils and all our mindless crap.

  By the time we’re done carting everything up to Unit 12 B, I’m about ready to pass out.