Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,104
“You were saying?”
“Have you ever considered writing for an essay mill?”
I lick chocolate sauce off my bottom lip. “What’s that?”
“You don’t know?” he asks, mildly surprised and I shake my head. “It’s a ghostwriting service,” he explains. “College students pay big money to have these essay mills churn out their term papers.”
“How much do these papers go for?”
“Well a friend of mine paid fifty bucks per page, and his paper turned out to be well over a hundred pages long.”
“Whoa! That’s way more than what some New York Times bestsellers are paid per page. Now have you ever bought a paper from one of these essay mills?”
“No,” he says with conviction, and I believe him.
He continues, “I may struggle with writing but I enjoy doing the research. Anyway, that was a dumb idea. Don’t sell yourself short. You shouldn’t waste your talents writing for an essay mill.” After a pause he adds, “You shouldn’t waste it at that call center either.”
The last dessert is elegantly placed in front of me: Raspberry Champagne Sorbet topped with fresh mint.
Just perfect for cleansing my palette!
“Well?” he urges. “I know how much you hate working at that call center. Why don’t you explore your options elsewhere? Do something you love.”
“Well,” I hesitate, “I applied for a tech writing job with Ajon; they design software for medical devices.”
“Really, Maddy? That’s great! Have you heard back?”
I shake my head and pop a mint leaf in my mouth. “I only just applied a few days ago. Anyway, I’m not even sure if I’ll take the job if I get it.”
Mika reaches for his napkin and wipes his mouth with vigor.
I’m so glad he doesn’t dab. I find it so prissy when men do the demure dabbing thing.
After setting his napkin on the table, he startles me with his outburst. “Are you kidding me, Maddy? If you get an offer take it.”
“I’m still thinking about it,” I say, and promptly change the subject. “Shall we get going?”
He nods and whips out his Visa. Discreetly, our waiter Steve swoops in, slips the leather booklet in his hand and disappears around the corner.
“Thanks again for the awesome meal!”
“You’re very welcome,” he says graciously. “What’s next?”
“Well, it’s a good thing this place is downtown. I want you to feel the spirit of this city, so I say we take on Chicago by foot.”
He pokes his nonexistent belly and chuckles. “After all that eating, walking sounds good to me.”
Steve returns with the bill and Mika signs the receipt.
I sneak a peek and gasp, “Mika! That is too much. You can feed everyone in Botswana with that money. Let me at least pay for half.”
“No!” he protests.
“Yes!” I insist.
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“Okay,” I grudgingly give in.
After settling the bill, he asks, “Where’s Botswana?”
“In Africa.”
“So…” he regards me. “Is Botswana the poorest country in the world?”
“No, I think the poorest country is Zimbabwe; it has a ninety sextillion percent inflation.”
“Sextillion,” he echoes. “Is that like a billion trillion?”
I nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. “I think so. I know they had one of the largest bank notes in history—the one hundred trillion dollar bill!”
He laughs. “I’d like to buy some Zimbabwean eggs. Oh sure, that’ll just be one hundred billion dollars.”
I giggle. “They actually got rid of the Zimbabwean dollar last year. Their government got tired of printing new money.”
“Or,” he points out, “they could’ve just run out of paper.”
“True.” I smile.
He smiles back. “So if Zimbabwe is the poorest country in the world, then why’d you say I could feed the whole of Botswana?”
“I just like saying Botswana. Anyway, we should get going.”
Juan appears in a flash and pulls out my chair.
“Thanks, Juan,” I say gregariously. “Thanks, Steve.”
“Thanks for the excellent service,” Mika adds heartily.
Our tuxedoed waiters stand together with their perfect postures. With a cordial nod, they execute a final bow of impeccable grace.
What a performance!
Mika and I bundle up and roll out into the crisp, clear night.
“This area is also known as the Loop,” I say as we stroll down the strip.
Since Christmas is only a month away, Michigan Avenue has become a magnificent mile of lights. Christmas lights weave and entwine the trees and branches, illuminating blankets of white snow.
Macy’s and Marshall Field’s gargantuan window displays are dolled up with vibrant, colorful creations, unfolding the magic and splendor of the season.
We promenade side by side, absorbing everything: the throngs of people out shopping, a Salvation Army volunteer tinkling the donations bell, fantasy-like decorations that adorn every space, the jolly ol’