to wait.
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, how can I help?” I flip through my new tabloid magazine; it’s a much needed distraction from this scandal that Karsynn’s purportedly embroiled in.
The caller demands in a distinctly British accent, “Oiiii! AM I CALLING BLOODY INDIA?!?”
“Yes sir, you’re calling India. And I’m a slumdog living in the slums of Mumbai,” I inform him blandly. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” he says with contempt.
Sheesh! Right this minute, I wish I was actually Indian so I can rant ‘And you’re a bloody British Imperialist who colonized my country for centuries, exploiting my good people.’
“And I’ll bet you’re reading some daft tabloid magazine like People,” spits the hoity-toity, Earl Grey tea drinking bastard.
Bwarhahaha! I’m laughing inside. Yes, I happen to be reading a gossip mag. But it’s not People, it’s US Weekly.
Nevertheless, I refuse to dignify his asinine question with an answer. I mean, c’mon already. What does he expect me to say? That I’m reading Hemmingway? Nietzsche? Rushdie? Or Dostoyevsky? Shakespeare perhaps?
D’oh! I can’t focus on heavy lit when I have a job to do.
Reading tabloids uses zero brain cells; hence it is very work appropriate.
“Go on. Tell me,” he taunts. “You’re reading People magazine, aren’t you?” he repeats snidely.
Disdaining to answer him, I get straight down to business. “Sir, I’ll need to ask you a few questions to verify you.”
“WHAT?” he barks and goes ape shit on me. “BLOODY NORA! THIS IS BOLLOCKS! SHITE MAN, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? YOU WANT MY FARKIN BLOOD TYPE??? MY DNA?”
Cor Blimey. Holy London Bridge Is Falling Down. This bloke swears like Gordon Ramsay. In training, I learned the term for what this dick is trying to do. He’s trying to ‘hook’ me by pushing all my red buttons, hoping to get some sort of a reaction out of me.
And, I’m supposed to stay calm by not taking his ‘bait.’
This jerk is such a class act that I simply refuse to give him the satisfaction of taking his bait. Over my dead body!
Taking a sharp intake of breath, I press on, “No sir, I do not need your blood type, nor do I need your DNA,” I say in a calm and collected manner. “But what I do need is your first and last name.”
The fact that I do not take his ‘bait’ only serves to infuriate him further. He continues hurling obscenities at me.
“FARK MAN! YOU HAVE ALL MY INFORMATION YOU NINCOMPOOP! I PUNCHED IT ALL IN BEFORE I EVEN GOT TO YOU!”
“I apologize sir, but I never got it. So I will need to verify you again,” I say breezily.
“YOU FOCKIN IGNORANT MORONIC TWAT! YOU’RE RUBBISH! RUBBISH! THIS IS A FOCKIN CHARADE AND I’M NOT DEALING WITH THIS FOCKIN SHIT! SOD OFF AND GET ME YOUR SODDING SUPERVISOR!”
“One moment please,” I sing-song sweetly.
Sure thing you filthy, foul mouthed bloke! Swearing every two seconds just showcases your limited vocabulary. But I do find it mildly amusing when Brits use the word ‘sod.’ Although I am fully aware of its intended meaning, it always reminds me of a chunk of lawn.
I jab the HOLD button and saunter to The Führer’s lair.
She’s not there, and so I wander through the maze of cubicles, trying to track her down. It doesn’t take long, since she is Hillary the GIANT Not Ready Nazi after all.
I spot her chatting with another supervisor.
Standing ten feet away, I linger and lurk.
When two supervisors are in the middle of a conversation, you don’t interrupt, you just lurk in the background. Just as I’m doing now.
Lurking.
Oh brother! Tuning in to their conversation, I discover it’s the same topic I’ve heard over a gazillion times. Hillary is regaling stories of her glory days, competing in the Beijing Olympics on the U.S. Volleyball team.
Oh God. Here we go again. Hillary continues to brag, brag and brag, while the other supervisor, Stalin, tries unsuccessfully to ingratiate himself into the conversation.
Poor Stalin can’t seem to get a word in edgewise.
Ten minutes later, the brag session is finally over and Hillary turns her attention to me. “What’s going on?” she asks frostily.
“I’ve got an escalation.”
“What’s it about?” she asks with a significant lift of her brow.
Every time I see her caterpillar unibrow, I have the strongest urge to pluck it out. “I tried verifying him, but he won’t let me; he’s pretty irate and hostile and, um...he loves dropping the F bomb.”
Hillary seethes with rage. She absolutely loathes it when the callers curse and she hates it