Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,60
and grabs her things. “You know what? Thankfully for me, my shift ends right now. And I am so glad. I simply cannot stand to be in the same vicinity as the two of you!”
“Likewise,” I say eloquently.
“It’s too bad you girls are stuck here on Christmas!” Tori rubs salt into our open wounds, then storms off in a fury, leaving a cloud of horse hair in her wake.
“Bye bye, Seabiscuit! See you at the Kentucky Derby!” Kars hollers after her. “That horse sure poisoned our peaceful night.”
The plume of horse hair travels my way. “Ah-ah-CHOoooo!” I sneeze, clearly allergic to it. “Hasn’t she heard of a lint remover?”
Kars crosses her arms. “My Christmas wish is for something large and heavy to fall on her airbags and deflate ‘em.”
“Hear, hear,” I grunt in approval, raising my Snapple bottle filled with cheap red wine.
“Amen to that,” affirms Ingeborg, lifting her Hello Kitty water bottle filled with vodka.
Seeing my near empty bottle, Ingeborg totters over and tops it off. “Here, have some vadka.”
I give a gracious nod at her generosity.
And so begins the bijonga discussion: Real vs. Fake.
Kars muses out loud, “I wouldn’t mind getting implants if they’d actually look natural. Heck, I don’t want to end up looking like I’ve got David and Goliath for chesticles.”
“No, don’t do it!” cries Ingeborg. “You are beautiful just de vay you are. I had a breast veduction; they hurt my back too much.”
Waving my bottle in the air, I claim their attention. “All right, here are the cons so far—they look fake and they hurt your back. What about the pros? Other than the obvious of course.” I take a swig. “Holy shit!” I gag and hack. “This shit is strong!”
Blargh. This vodka has killed just about every germ in my body. Hell, maybe even a couple of my organs. I’m pretty sure my GI tract is blitzed into oblivion.
“What the hell is this?” I splutter.
“Balkan 176. It iz 176 proof.” Ingeborg grins impishly. “It iz a Bulgarian vadka, and it iz dee varld’s strongest.”
I stare at her for what seems like several minutes. “Ingeborg, I don’t think this vodka is meant to be consumed neat.”
Ingeborg simply knocks back another belt of her vodka.
“Give me some of that!” Kars orders. “I’ll drink it straight.”
Obligingly, Ingeborg tops off her bottle. “Dar ya go.”
“Merci mille fois,” Kars tinkles gaily, and for a little while she looks thoughtful as she nurses her potent drink. Suddenly, she bursts, “Oh! I’ve got it!”
“Got vhat?” slurs Ingeborg.
“Another reason to get airbags—for identification!” Kars cackles derisively. “It’s like a fingerprint!”
I shoot her a puzzled look.
Kars explains, “Didn’t you guys hear about that murder case in the news? This poor chick was murdered by her ex-husband. He mutilated her face, cut off her fingers and yanked out all her teeth so the cops had no way of identifying her. But guess what? They did!”
“How?” I ask, befuddled yet riveted.
“By the serial number on her boob implants!” Kars practically yells, all hyped up about this CSI-like case.
I take a swig of my turpentine.
Yech. It tastes like shoe polish, but I gulp it down anyway.
“Now that could be a pro, but it could also be a con,” I say objectively. “Say your murderer knew about this, you know what’ll happen? When the cops find your dead body, you’ll have no face, no fingers, no teeth and no baby feeders!”
“Yikes!” Karsynn’s eyes pop open in a horrified sort of way. “That would be awful.”
“Zimply terrible,” seconds Ingeborg.
For the next several minutes, we lapse into a deep silence and remain poignant. The mood is morbid and macabre to say the least. “Enough about murders and mutilations!” I slap my thigh forcefully. “It’s Christmas guys. Christmas.”
To lighten the mood, I flick on my radio.
“Yessssss,” I cheer as my favorite Christmas song plays on the airwaves. My whole face is animated as I listen to Baby It’s Cold Outside. I’m being extra cheesy, snapping my fingers like Sinatra, grooving to the tune, swaying to the melody—
Karsynn butts into my reverie, “You do know, don’tcha, that this is a date rape song.”
“Quit ragging on my song,” I cry huffily. “I do not need you psychoanalyzing it.”
*DA* *DA* *DA* *DUM* *DA* *DA* *DUM* *DUM* DUM*
The wavy, synthesizing hum of a digital keyboard emanates from my radio.
“Ack!” shrieks Ingeborg. “Last Christmas. I love dis song!”
“We love this song too!” Kars and I squeal with delight.
Last Christmas is Wham!’s best hit ever, although, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go trails closely behind.