Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,118

all walks of life: mothers who work to supplement their family income, college students who support themselves, fathers who juggle two jobs, grandparents who can’t survive on social security alone, military men and women on reserve (even a couple of marines and Navy Seal officers), veterans, farmers who no longer find farming a lucrative business, an anesthesiologist who lost his license, small business owners who filed for bankruptcy. They’re folks like you and me, just trying to make a living.

Oh sure, there’s the occasional child molester and crazy meth addict. Pocatello is the meth capital of Idaho, after all. But for the most part, they’re good, honest, hardworking people.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time here is that there’s humanity in this place. We’re not machines. Most of us have good intentions and genuinely want to help our callers.

Despite our best efforts, all too often callers forget that we’re human. They say things over the phone that I’m positive they’d never consider saying face to face. And if a caller said half of that crap to my face, there’d be two decks—me decking the caller, and the caller hitting the deck.

Or is it two hits? Me hitting the caller, and the caller hitting the ground.

Either way, it’d be an aftermath of blood and guts.

Out of my peripheral vision, I spot a group of new hires in ‘nesting.’ And I find myself smiling in spite of myself. Little do they realize what they have signed up for. They are probably just treading water at this point, but soon they will be flailing away in shark infested waters. The waters I’d swam in for over a year.

And without a doubt in my mind, I know that some of them will drown. The turnover rate here is exponentially high. This job is clearly not for everyone.

It’s a dirty job, even worse than scrubbing toilets.

A toilet doesn’t talk back. But the callers do. And they throw feces at you. Okay, no more ‘bodily function’ metaphors.

Metaphors aside, when callers are being verbally abusive, dropping F bombs and threats, and we’re on the receiving end of a constant bombardment of complaints, rants, and negativity, it somehow affects us after a while.

Trust me, I’ve seen my co-workers break down in tears and suffer from nervous breakdowns. But I guess I can sort of see both sides of the equation. Oftentimes the customers’ complaints and frustrations aren’t without merit. They don’t call us when they’re happy or satisfied; they only call when there’s a problem and they’re pissed off. And Lightning Speed only adds more fuel to their raging fire by forcing them to go through a barrage of prompts: If you need help with your password, press 1. If you need help getting online, press 2. If you need help with your cell phone, press 3. If it is a billing issue, press 4. And it goes all the way up to prompt number 12.

The highly annoying automated attendant harasses the callers with a dizzying tree of numbers. Not surprisingly, some callers get confused and punch their way into oblivion. And then when you add on the interminable hold times—Sheesh! By the time the callers get to me, their blood pressure is skyrocketing through the roofs; they’re ticking time bombs ready to explode!

The callers unleashed their rage on me when they were upset with Lightning Speed, and yes, I was forced to swallow the brunt of the blame and take the flack because I’d represented the company. But I wish I could’ve said, “Yes! I agree with you! This company sucks! And it’s not me. It’s them. I’m handcuffed by this demented system! Screw Lightning Speed. Leave. Don’t give them your business!”

On top of that, management never stopped breathing down my neck to get my calls wrapped up in two minutes or less, because the shorter my calls were, the more calls I could take. And the more calls I could take, meant the more I could sell!

It’s sick.

I was stressed and pressured from all sides—from the callers, from management and from the QA bastards. It is no wonder call center jobs rank among the most stressful in America, on par with firefighters, cops and paramedics.

Squaring my shoulders, I start for the elevator. As I turn the corner, I walk by the Quality Assurance Assholes for the very last time, the brainless KGB squad who delighted in chipping away at our humanity.

Making my way down the narrow hallway, the blinding lights from the Sales