Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,11
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!”
“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