Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,31
even more when they refuse to let us verify them. After all, security is paramount and we have nothing but their best interests at heart. COUGH.
Hillary elbows me aside and bulldozes back to her desk while I scurry behind.
Whoa! Look out! Hillary looks totally riled, like a raging bull ready to charge at a flapping red cloth. From my cubicle, I watch the bull in action as she jams on her headset, pounds the keyboard with fervor, glares at the monitor and signals for me to transfer the call.
With the utmost pleasure, I do just that. “Sir, thank you so much for holding. I’m sorry for that long wait, but I do have my supervisor on the line now, her name is Hillary, and she’ll take very good care of you from here.”
As I release the call, I catch this fiery glint in Hillary’s eyes.
It’s going to be a slaughterfest.
Yeah! You go get him Hell-raiser Hillary!
Trample him! Go for the kill!
Eat him alive and spit him back across the pond!
In times like these, I’m actually glad Hillary is my supervisor. When it’s time to go into battle and engage in enemy warfare, she’s a formidable opponent, and someone I’m very thankful is on my side.
Eight
Gasp! The rumors are true.
My head is spinning as I stare at my best friend in disbelief.
“Kars—you cannot go out with him,” I implore. “He’s married for God’s sake.”
She stares at the ground and takes a drag off her cigarette.
“You’re Karsynn for crying out loud. Kar-synn. With a K and a Y. You’re supposed to fall for guys named Kayson, River, Leaf or Joaquin. Not—” I break off. “Not Bob the Builder who looks like Joe the friggin’ plumber.”
She crosses her arms. “Stop talking like Sarah Palin!”
“It was McCain the Maverick,” I correct.
“What?” Her voice rises in irritation.
“John McCain was the one who brought up Joe the Plumber.”
“It wasn’t him,” she rebuffs huffily. “It was Palin.”
“Oh who cares! Quit changing the subject. We’re discussing Bob now. BOB—Bob the Builder,” I say, barely suppressing a snort.
Kars rolls her eyes and takes another drag from her Marlboro Light.
“Besides, you’re into the B guys—big, burly, beefcakes with bulging biceps,” I remind her. “You can’t turn around and date a P guy.”
Kars sputters, “What the heck is a P guy?”
“A P guy,” I repeat succinctly, “pudgy, porky, paunchy, potato head.”
“Bob is not a potato head!”
“Oh yeah he is,” I say with gumption and proffer, “and, here’s more Ps for you—he’s a pig-headed player who’s putrid, puerile, pathetic, and makes me want to puke!”
“Well you know what? At least Bob is circumcised,” she fires back with a vindictive smirk.
I blink. What the hell is she talking about?
Then the penny finally drops.
“First of all, I am not sleeping with Mika. How dare you even insinuate that? And don’t you bring Mika into this when I’m not even dating him.” After a pause, I add, “And what makes you think that all European men aren’t cut?”
Karsynn blows cigarette smoke out of her nose.
Humph. Little does she realize how ridiculous she looks when smoke is only coming out through one of her nostrils.
“Kars, that was a pretty low blow. You—you home wrecker!”
“Bob doesn’t have any kids,” she snaps. “So there’s no home to wreck!”
My voice drops to a solemn whisper. “The sanctimony of their marriage...of their love…is...was...their home. And you took that away.” I swallow hard.
“Quit being so pious and melodramatic! There was never any love on his part; he told me so! He doesn’t love her!”
I cannot believe she’s fallen for his line of bull crap. “Kars, if he cheats on his wife, what’s to say that he won’t cheat on you?” I beseech. “He’ll never leave his wife and even if he—”
“He will,” she interjects with surprising force and conviction.
Well, she certainly has some Pollyanna notions regarding this whole farce. I smile in an exhausted way. “Okay, let’s just say he does. Then what? You will always have trust issues. When Bob is out late and you’re at home all alone, you’ll always wonder if he’s with another woman.”
A beat of silence ensues.
“He’ll change,” she manages at last.
“Yeah right he’ll change,” I scoff theatrically. “When pigs fly.”
Karsynn chucks her ciggy to the ground and grinds it under her foot. “Well maybe I’m his Angelina.”
I guffaw and almost choke on my own saliva. “Puh-lease, Bob Seely is no Brad Pitt. And don’t you even go there.”
This topic has always been a hotbed of controversy between us. While my loyalties lie with Team Anniston,