Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,101

the shoe rack and wriggle my feet into my Miss L Fire blood red Hedy heels.

It’s sex on heels, adding a touch of vavavoom to my outfit.

Okay, now I’m ready.

Strutting down the stairs, I unfurl with the power of a femme fatale. The right dress and shoes can make any woman feel like a million bucks. I bet if Hillary Clinton ditched the pantsuits and donned a pretty frock from time to time, she’d be a less grouchy Secretary of State. And with a different attitude, perhaps she could broker a peace agreement in the Mideast between Israel and Palestine.

Mika is standing in the foyer with both hands in his pockets.

As I gracefully descend the stairs, his eyes rake me from head to toe, traveling slowly and deliberately, almost sensually.

Straightening himself, he shoots me an appreciative smile.

“You look gorgeous,” he says in a thick voice.

I gaze at him from half lowered eyelids. “Thanks, so do you.”

I’ve made reservations at Bri,” he says with aplomb. “And I’ve called a cab; it’s waiting outside.”

Gallantly, Mika helps me into my coat and whisks me out the front door.

Our cabbie is a jovial Indian man named Vijay Singh. Driving at breakneck speed, Vijay strikes up a conversation about the sour economy. “This recession is terrible. My daughter Gita graduated from college months ago and she’s still jobless.”

“What did she major in?” I ask politely.

“Philosophy,” says Vijay, swerving in and out of traffic.

Well no wonder, I think to myself. That has got to be the most pointless degree ever. All you can ever do with a degree like that is teach philosophy or philosophize, asking yourself mindless questions like, “If an ambulance is on its way to save someone and runs someone else over, should it stop to help that person?”

A good friend of mine, Descartes, has a PhD in philosophy. He was a pothead, still is, and he now works at Blockbuster.

But then again, who am I to even talk? What good did my journalism degree do? I’m stuck in a friggin’ call center.

“I myself have a master’s degree from Delhi University,” says Vijay and slams on the brakes, just barley avoiding a head-on collision.

We lurch sickeningly forward and then flop backward like a pair of rag dolls. “That’s cool. How long have you been driving a cab?” asks Mika, gripping the sides.

“For far too long.” Vijay chortles. “When I started driving a cab eight years ago, I told myself it’s nothing permanent. Short term only! But then the years start to pass.” He stops and pounds his fist on the horn. “And now with the economy going down the drain like this, I’m just thankful I can put food on the table.”

Staring numbly at the bright lights whizzing outside, I grimly reflect upon my own predicament. I certainly don’t want to end up working at that call center forever. Already, I’ve been feeling considerably burnt out. Over the past few weeks, the call volume spiked and I was forced back on the phones again.

This Thanksgiving break is a much needed one. I was coiled so tightly that I was about ready to snap. But at the same time, I feel the same way Vijay does, grateful that I at least have a job.

“Vijay, if you ever want to make a career change, come out to Pocatello,” I offer. “You can get a job at a call center.”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “Actually madam, being a cab driver is not so bad after all. I enjoy working all by myself.”

For a brief moment, I consider what it must be like to be a cabbie. How liberating! I wouldn’t have to talk to customers all day long. Vijay is chatting with us on his own accord. It’s his prerogative if or not he wants to talk; and if I was at the wheel, it’d be my prerogative if I’d want to talk or not. Plus, driving always has such a calming effect on me.

Mika seems to have a keen sense of knowing what’s brewing about in my head. “You could not be a cab driver.”

“Why not?” I huff.

“I’ve seen the way you drive, weaving in and out, cutting other cars by an inch, flying over speed bumps. When you’re at the wheel, I’m constantly pressing the phantom brake pedal.”

“Actually,” Vijay chimes in, “she’d make an excellent cabbie.”

“See!” I smother a triumphant grin.

Traffic slows to a crawl, but Vijay is undeterred. He zips in and out of traffic, swerves around corners, jumps over curbs and