Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,67
in the sink. “Good night, Kars.”
She jerks her head up. “You’re off to bed? Already?”
“Yep! I need to stay healthy. According to Doctor Oz, sleep is my best defense against the H1N1 virus.”
After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I tuck myself in for a restful night of sleep.
Ahhhh, I dream of Mika dressed in nothing but a kilt.
I’m encircled in his strapping arms and he’s whispering sweet Gaelic in my ear...
Gaol ise gaol i, Gaol ise gaol i,
E o hao-o hao o,
Ro-ho i o hi o,
Hao ri ri o hu o
Gaol ise gaol i, Gaol ise gaol i.
Morning arrives much too soon. My throat feels scratchy, my joints ache and I am running a fever so high that my brain is scalding. With Herculean effort, I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom.
I inspect my appearance in the mirror only to groan with displeasure at the reflection staring back at me. God. I am one hot mess. I look like shit and feel like shit.
Pssh! I can’t go into work like this. No way in hell.
I stagger out of the bathroom and rifle through my purse, in search of my PTO calendar.
PTO stands for Paid Time Off. In short, my vacation time and sick time are lumped together in what call center lingo refers to as PTO days. Ultimately, what it all boils down to is this: when I call in sick, I am sacrificing a day of vacation.
Fuck that. All of my vacation for next year has already been prescheduled. Two weeks in the summer, and another week for Thanksgiving. So that leaves me with zero PTO time for sick days. The reality of the situation slowly begins to sink in.
I have to go into work. I bury my head in my hands and make a muffled cry of despair, “Noooooooooooo!”
Hours later, looking bedraggled, like something an alley cat just dragged in for supper, I blunder to my cubicle and collapse into my chair with a weary sigh, as though all the strength has been leached from my body.
“Oh, Maddy. My, my, my, you look like shit,” Truong remarks with a satisfied smirk.
“You just shut yer swine face,” I snap.
Summoning up all my energy, I hunch over my keyboard and sluggishly log in to all my apps.
Dammit! What the hell is my password again? They make us change it so many friggin’ times that I can never keep track.
I type ZacLevi88
Your password is incorrect.
Zac8Zac8Zac8
Your password is incorrect.
Efron888
You are now locked out.
Just great! I breathe in hard through my clogged up nose and cough up a hail storm. Hack, Hack, Kak, Hack. CrAcK.
OWWWwwww! I think I’ve just cracked a rib.
Like a cripple, I press one palm over my rib cage and hobble to The Führer’s desk. “Hillary?” I croak.
Her eyes flash with irritation. “What?”
“My password is locked. Can you submit a ticket?”
She harrumphs. “I’ll get it taken care of in five minutes.”
“Thanks,” I mutter and let out a whooping cough.
“You’re sick too?” Her tone is angry, almost accusatory.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “Isn’t everybody?”
“I’m not sick,” she points out. “Only weak people get sick.”
I muster a feeble smile and limp back to my desk.
Sinking into my chair, I cover my forehead with both hands to quell the throbbing ache and skyrocketing temperature. For the rest of the day, I take calls in that exact catatonic position.
It sure is a good thing that we don’t meet clients face to face. Truong is hunkered over his desk, arms sprawled out, taking calls with his head deeply burrowed in his scarf.
Ingeborg is rolled up into a ball, both eyes tightly shut, but I know she’s not asleep because her lips are still moving.
Tiny is slumped miserably in his chair, chin resting on his chest, a fuzzy blanket draped over his shoulders. Still, he’s shivering and quivering, like he’s about to go into labor.
Lord help us, we’re a pretty darn pitiful, pathetic lot.
When our shift finally ends, Truong stares at me with his sunken eyes and says in all-seriousness, “Next time you’re sick, Maddy, do me a favor and stay at home like you’re supposed to.”
But Truong is incapable of keeping a straight face for longer than two seconds. He suppresses a loud snort, which triggers an intense hack fest.
Swaying with exhaustion, I choke with laughter, hacking and hiccupping along. Eventually, I manage to stop coughing long enough to say, “And waste a day of vacation? Hells no!”
He pats my arm and croaks hoarsely, “C’mon, Maddy, let’s go grab some coffee