Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,84

definitely submit a customer feedback for you. That is, um, if you’d like me to,” I say, consumed with hope.

“DO THAT. And capitalize the word FUCK!”

Click!

Wow! I feel like I’ve just hit the jack pot.

I’ve been waiting to tell the Quality Assurance Assholes to go fuck themselves since day one.

And now, I can—on a customer’s behalf!

With glee and utmost pleasure, I click the Customer Feedback link located on our internal website and begin feverishly tapping away at my keyboard.

Department: Quality Assurance

Subject: Customer Feedback

Notes: Customer is very upset with our policy Re: Selling on every single call. Sometimes it is simply not appropriate. Per the customer, you people (meaning the Quality Assurance group) need to go FUCK yourselves.

Rubbing my palms together and with a million dollar smile plastered on my face, I click submit.

That felt sooooooooooo good.

The Quality Assurance agents in this call center are like the Sicilian Mafioso. They run amok on a power trip, terrorizing us with failed monitors and shoddy quality scores. It’s a classic case of an over abuse of power. Instead of helping us perform our jobs, they hinder us.

Seriously, I get marked down for every petty, ridiculous and egregious thing. The Quality Assurance agents go through a long check list:

#1. Did you thank the customer for calling?

#2. Did you say, “Yes, I can help you with that.”

And on and on it goes.

Recently, I got marked down because I said, “Yes, I can look into that matter for you.” Essentially, it’s the same as informing the caller, “Yes, I can help you with that.”

But nooooooo, not to the QA mob and their convoluted logic. They struck me down hard for not using the exact and precise wording. My failed monitors used to anger me to no end, but now I just find it downright laughable.

The QA Assholes don’t use their brains, instead relying on a stupid and restrictive check list. The check list is merely there to serve as a guideline, and it’s certainly not meant to replace their brains. But in the QA mob’s case, I guess you can’t replace something that you don’t already have.

Truong calls them the KGB, and quite aptly so. They’re the secret police of this fascist regime. Every single word we utter is subject to their scrutiny.

We’re held hostage by the KGB and their crazy cronies; they suppress our voices, our ideological subversion, and worst of all, they suppress who we are as human beings.

Consequently, my calls end up sounding scripted, like a robot with no life, no emotions.

I’ve already been slapped with two failed monitors this month. What’s next?

“Maddy,” growls The Führer. “Log out of your phone and come see me at my desk.”

Egad! I spoke too soon.

I march to her cubicle with a sense of foreboding. “You wanted to see me?” I hover anxiously by her side.

“Sit!” Her face hardens and she whips out a black folder.

Cautiously, I take a seat.

She yanks my Performance Review out of the black folder and slams her fist on the desk like a sledgehammer. “Look at this! Just look at this will you? You have NOT made your sales quota this month, and you barely scraped through last month!”

A cry of fear escapes my lips.

“On top of that, you’ve had several failed QA monitors. When your stats look bad, I look bad!” She gnashes her teeth. “So far, I’ve been very lenient and merciful in spite of your unacceptable performance. But not anymore!”

I manage a feeble smile. Merciful? Um, if that’s her mercy, I’d hate to see her vengeance.

“Your quality has to be on par too!” She shoots me a vicious look. “Remember, SERVICE OVER SALES!”

I bob my head up and down, obediently playing along.

Riiiiight. Then how come seventy percent of my Performance Review—which incidentally, is what determines my raise next year—is based entirely on sales? Only ten percent is based on my quality scores.

Service over Sales? Pssh! Horseshit!

“And your handle time is way too high! Keep your calls within two minutes! Lower handle time equals more calls. The more calls you take, the more you can sell. Get it?” she shrills.

“Uh-huh,” I squeak.

“And explain all this tardiness!” she barrels on. “How come you logged in from your break one minute late yesterday and two minutes late on Tuesday? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

Heck. I’m not going to tell her the real reason. You see, I have a hard time going ‘number two’ on the floor I work on (the third floor). I’m a very private person and try as I may, I just cannot