Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,65
have to consciously tell myself to use Doctor.
Unfortunately, Doctor Evil is not so forgiving. He blows his top at my slip of tongue. “DOCTOR Wood!” he screams like a lunatic and I flinch. “Young lady, you are not listening to me. That is an absolute pet peeve of mine!” He raises his voice ten octaves. “I did not spend years working to get my MD to be called Mister. I shall be addressed as Doctor every day, until the day I die. Even my tombstone shall bear the title bequeathed to me, and that’s Doctor Frederic Feingold Wood the Third! GET IT? Or is it too difficult of a task for simple-minded people like you?”
I’m stunned into silence. God. What an arrogant, portentous, pompous ass. I would certainly hope that he did not spend eight or nine years in med school solely for the title.
Okay. I get it. Doctors save lives and kudos to them for being a great service to the community. I’m even a huge fan of Doctors Without Borders. But c’mon already! Nurses, firemen and cops devote their lives to helping others and saving lives. They may not have spent half their lives in med school, but the jobs they perform on a daily basis are no less valiant, yet they do not demand to be called Nurse Betty or Fireman Johnny. Heck, even Jesus did not demand to be called God.
And while it’s certainly no secret that most doctors can’t keep their profession a secret for longer than two seconds, this caller actually tops the list of being the most narcissistic, self-indulgent egomaniac I have ever come across. I feel sorry for his wife. He probably needs constant praise and adulation on a daily basis to validate who he is.
It sickens me. This caller sickens me, and he’s a Doctor. If the only callers I got were stuffy, conceited, ostentatious doctors like this quack here, my whole body would just shrivel up and DIE.
Shouldn’t doctors be healing instead of killing?
I have to grind my teeth to refrain from calling him Mister.
But by the end of the call, my resolve wanes. He has been nothing but rude, running his mouth at me in a hostile way, his tone condescending whenever I try to interrupt him with pertinent questions.
Despite my best efforts, he just keeps on inferring that I don’t know how to do my job, and that he knows what he’s doing.
“I know what the hell I’m doing, what do you think I am? Stupid?”
“Err...”
“Don’t answer that!” he blasts. “You clearly have no idea what you are talking about! You people are fuckin’ useless! Good for nothing, towel headed, turban wearing Taliban!”
“Um Doctor Wood, I don’t live in a Taliban regime that forces me to cover up. And even if I did, women don’t wear turbans. I believe the headscarf is called a hijab and the garment is called a burka.”
Plus, I highly doubt the Taliban are operating call centers; they’re much too busy indoctrinating future terrorists in their madrassas.
“Burka, Buppa, Buca di Beppo, they all sound the same to me!” he scoffs mockingly. “Missy, let me tell you, I know exactly what I’m doing! I graduated summa cum laude from Harvard. But I’ll have to say, your website is horrendous! I highly doubt anyone can figure it out.”
Well then why the hell are you calling me? Go figure it out yourself if you’re so damn smart. I can navigate the site without ANY problems whatsoever and so can my five year old niece. So you are obviously very DENSE! Although I shouldn’t be surprised given that your last name is Wood. You graduated with Latin honors, but can you even tie your own shoelaces? Why don’t you go summa cum laude in your face! You should rightly sue your own alma mater!
“GET ME SOMEBODY ELSE WHO KNOWS WHAT THE HELL THEY’RE DOING,” he roars.
“Sure. No problem, I’ll get another agent on the line for you.”
I decide to amuse myself at his expense. “Thanks for calling Mister Wood, and have a nice day Mister Wood,” I babble happily and transfer him back into the queue.
Humph. That dipshit doctor really needs to shut up and eat some humble pie. What a vacca foeda!