Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,50

desk. “You ready to roll?”

MUTE. “No, you go on,” I say miserably. “I’ll be stuck on this call for a while. It’s a relay call!” I sob theatrically on her shoulder.

Kars shoots me a sympathetic look.

We carpooled today, like we do on most days. But it’s okay, I won’t have Kars suffer alongside me.

She slides off my desk. “Are you sure?”

I nod despondently.

“Okay, ciao!” she tinkles and sashays off. I watch her disappear down the hallway, headed back to our cozy apartment.

“Now,” instructs the relay operator, “repeat again what you just said, only this time, say it much, much slower so I’m able to type and keep up with you. Go Ahead.”

I slow it down to a snail’s pace. Thank—you—for—calling—Lightning—Speed—Communications—This—is—Maddy—how—can—I—help? Go—ahead.”

Long pause.

All I hear is the operator’s acrylic fingernails clacking away at her keyboard.

Another long pause.

And finally, “My name is Tina Connor and my internet is not working. I can’t pull up any sites. Please help. Go ahead,” relays the operator.

After spending way too much time going through the verification process, I ask, “What—browser—do—you—use? Go—ahead.”

More keys tapping. More silence. “The internet. Go ahead,” relays the operator noncommittally.

I bury my face in my hands.

Somebody please put a gun to my head and just friggin’ BLOW MY BRAINS OUT!

I silently count to ten and grit my teeth. “Do—you—see—a—blue—E—on—your—desktop? Go—ahead.” I draw in a ragged breath and resign myself to my abysmal fate.

More pause. More waiting.

And then...“What is a desktop? Go ahead,” says the operator, suppressing a snort.

Oh yeah, I’m sure she’s enjoying this. She thinks this is such a lark, but I’m not tickled by this. Not in the least! And why does this caller even own a computer? It should be downright illegal!

Deep breath. Find my inner peace. Yoga. Chi Kung.

Think tranquil and serene thoughts.

Think Japanese botanical garden.

Think pristine koi pond.

Ohm…Ohm…Ohm…

After my meditative hiatus, I press on, “When—you—boot—up—your—computer—the—very—first—screen—that—comes—up—is—your—desktop—Do—you—see—a—blue—E—on—it?—Go—ahead!”

Sheesh. I simply cannot wait for this call to end, but getting this caller off the line is like trying to pass an Act of Congress.

Fifty minutes go by and I fail to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Not even a flicker.

One hour and thirty-seven minutes later (oh yeah, I’ve been keeping track), the call finally comes to an end.

Feeling completely drained, I grab my bag and drag my feet to leave. Spinning around, I spot Mika lounging at an empty cubicle. He’s reading a book, and his forehead is slightly creased from rapt concentration. I bite my lip. He looks so endearing, it hurts.

Glancing up, he catches my eye and smiles.

I tilt my head to the side. “You waited for me?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, like he’s proud of the fact.

My heart skips a beat. “Oh.”

Surreptitiously, he stows the book away. “Kars called my cell and said you might need a ride home.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me; that call took forever. But, um, thanks though...for waiting.”

“No problem,” he shucks. “So, you want to go grab a bite?”

“Sure!” I hoist my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s go!”

As we stroll out into the frosty night, there’s a noticeable spring in my step. I’m quite positive I look like the cat that just ate the canary topped with whipped cream. And this is not even a real date! Kars you sneaky little devil. I owe you one!

Ever the chivalrous one, Mika opens the door to his low rider Impala and I slide in. The first time I rode in Mika’s car, I was pleasantly surprised; it may look like a fishing boat, but it rides like an airplane.

We speed off and I feel buoyant, like I’m floating on a hot air balloon. Riding over speed bumps is like bouncing on clouds.

I steal a glance at him. “What year is this baby of yours?”

“Nineteen sixty-four,” he says, beaming like a proud daddy.

“It’s older than my rust bucket. Mine’s an eighty-four.”

He gives a respectful nod to my relic of a Subaru.

Feeling rather restless, I start rubbing my arms.

“You cold?” he asks at once.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, but he cranks up the heat anyway.

“You feel like pizza tonight?”

“Pizza sounds good,” I say with an easy smile.

“Cool.” He fishes out an iPod from his coat pocket. “I know of a good pizza place.” Expertly, he plugs in his iPod and seconds later, my ears are treated to a brand of music unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It sounds like Indian hip hop music.

But instead of Bollywood, this is Bollyhood.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Panjabi Hit Squad; this track is from Desi Beats,” he says in a highly animated