Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,71
year, a new man.
I need to force Mika out of my mind.
I hereby declare the Mika love fest over and done with!
I have a feeling it’s him calling. He’s been calling me every night. Sometimes to talk, sometimes just to say good night, and I’ve always looked forward to his phone calls.
But not tonight.
I refuse to answer and let it go to voice mail. Seconds later, the music stops and I glance at my cell. ‘You Have 1 New Voice Mail.’
Curiosity gets the better of me. I dial in and listen.
Mika’s deep timbered voice floods my ears. “Maddy, I hope you like your gift. I’m sorry I was tied up all day; it’s just been one of those days where every caller was upset about something.” Pause. “Anyway, call me.”
I delete the voice mail. And I don’t call him back.
This whole time, I have been grasping at the straws, hoping and searching for something that does not exist. Well, it exists, but only on my part.
Sigh. What more can I say? I am in love with a man who is in love with a citrus fruit.
Today, Cupid’s arrow has struck me.
But instead of going Ahhhhhh, reeling with joy and love, I am yelping Owwwwww, writhing from pain and yearning.
Oh how it hurts to be in love!
Eighteen
The next day, I find myself staring impassively at my cubicle wall. Resting my elbows on the desk, I silently brood while waiting for a call. It’s pretty slow today. It’s the day after Love Sucks Day and all these couples are just too darn exhausted to call in after spending the night locked up in their love boudoirs, caught in the throes of passion.
No complaints here.
At least something good comes out of that evil day.
“Truong, your Mikquisha is taken,” I say sullenly.
He fiddles with his silk scarf. “My Mikquisha? More like your Mikquisha.”
“Nope,” I say despondently, “not anymore.”
His expression softens. “Oh, what’s wrong, Maddy? Tell Mama Truong all about it.”
After a pause, I say, “I saw him with a girl yesterday.”
“Describe her,” he instructs firmly.
“Gorgeous. Long stringy blond hair. A bleach-o-saurus and a tan-o-saurus and—”
He cuts me off, “I know who that bitch is! Orange Slut with Split Ends. Her name is Tatiana Green.”
“Tatiana Green?” I snort briefly. “She’s more orange than green. Her name should be Tatiana Tangerine.”
Truong emits a gleeful chortle.
“But wait!” I cry. “How do you know her?”
Then I realize—how can he not? Truong is privy to everything that goes on in this call center. He isn’t called the ABC or the AP wire for nothing.
Truong studies his cuticles. “Oh, I have my sources,” he says with candor. Then he whips out a purple filer and sands his nails with vigor.
A plume of nail dust settles on my desk.
So annoying.
Truong also clips his fingernails in the middle of calls, which I find absolutely repulsive. I personally would never floss, pick my nose, use q-tips, pop my blackheads or shave my pits at work. That is why it is called personal hygiene.
I’ll be conversing with my callers, and in the background I’ll hear the maddening Clip Clip Clip Clip sounds resonating in my ears, sounding very much like Japanese water torture. And before I know it, fingernail shrapnel will be zinging in all directions. My work space is fraught with danger!
Seriously, I really don’t think I’m overreacting when Truong’s essentially sending large organic bits of himself my way.
I’m dreading the summer time; that’s when he’ll waltz into work in flip flops and clip his toenails. Ugh! That’s the problem with Truong. He brings in his whole grooming kit and operates Truong’s Nail Salon in his cubicle.
Although Truong’s grooming habits bug the hell out of me, I’m trying my darndest to act like a tolerant neighbor. Well, that is until a fingernail scrap lands inside my mouth while I’m in the midst of yawning.
“Truong! Cut it out!” I sputter and spit out his nail. “Please, this is not Truong’s Nail Salon,” I remind him for the umpteenth time.
“Okay, I’m done. I’m closing shop.” He stows the clipper and filer away. “By the way, that’s why you’re supposed to yawn with your mouth closed.”
“That’s technically impossible,” I retort.
“Whatever! Just cover your mouth next time,” he chides, like it’s my fault that his fingernail landed inside my mouth.
Moments later, Truong roots around in his Marc Jacobs man purse and fishes out a bottle of nail polish. After giving the bottle a good shake, he unscrews the cap and begins to give himself a manicure.