by Lisa Lim
“Oh hells no,” he cries. “I mean, of course I want my peeps to be able to get married, but I personally do not want to get hitched. No, no, no. No marriage for me.”
This takes me by surprise. “But why not?”
“Why should I buy the whole pig when all I want is a little sausage?”
I let out a howl of laughter.
Kars perches on my desk. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Pigs and sausages,” says Truong without missing a beat. “It’s the mantla that I live by.”
I turn to Karsynn and explain, “Truong was just telling me all about his mantra in life.”
Kars purses her lips. “I’ve got a new mantra myself, thanks to Doctor Mares.”
Janis forced Kars to seek therapy shortly after her breakup with Bob. So once a week, Kars visits her psychologist and I’m all for it. It is high time she gets some help so she stops dating these pathetic Potato Head Players who aren’t worthy of her.
“That’s awesome Kars,” I enthuse. “What is your mantra?”
She crosses her arms. “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results each time. It’s an Einstein quote.”
“I have one along those lines,” I cry. “Burn me once, shame on you—”
“Burn me twice, shame on me,” Kars finishes with a smile.
“Ditto,” tweets Truong.
Kars appears to be doing just fine, when suddenly she makes an exasperated sound. “What the hell is wrong with me? I want to be released from the shackles of Douchebag Desire!”
I cast her a meaningful look. “It takes time Karsynn, but you will. You will,” I repeat with conviction.
“Do you think I’m a quack? I mean, I’m a psych major myself, and here I am seeing a psychologist.”
“No! Of course not,” I say at once. “Just think of it this way, a hairdresser always gets her hair cut by someone else and—”
“Not true,” Truong interjects and points out, “My cousin is a hair stylist and she cuts her own hair.”
“Oh shush, Truong.” Turning to Kars, I say, “He is missing my point. Kars if you need help, you need to keep seeing your psychologist. You can’t treat yourself and be objective about it.”
Taking my cue, Truong echoes, “Yeah, you should keep seeing your psychologist. I think it is helping and I just love your new mantrrra.”
I seize him fiercely by the shoulders. “Truong! You just said it!” I exclaim breathlessly. “You just enunciated the letter R. Say it again. Say it again.”
“Mantra,” says Truong, beaming at me like a baby who just uttered his first word.
“You did it!” I cry ecstatically and slap him a high five.
Kars thumps his back. “Respect, man! Big ups! Now say ‘shrimp fried rice’.”
“Shrimp fried rice,” says Truong, enunciating each and every syllable. It sounds as crisp and as clear as Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady when she recited The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly in the Plains.
Ahhh, his words are like music to my ears. Like a Puccini and Bellini aria. Like Hamlet’s Second Soliloquy. Feeling a sudden swell of emotion, I fling my arms around him. “I’m so proud of you, Truong!”
His face creases into a triumphant grin. “Speaking of which, guess what I brought today? And, I’ve got plenty to share.”
“SHRIMP FRIED RICE!” Kars and I whoop in unison.
“Correctomundo!” he exclaims. “Let’s go chow down.”
In a celebratory mood, the three of us sashay to the break room and nuke our fried rice in microwave ovens that can only be described as older than dirt. Seriously, these microwave ovens should be locked up in the Smithsonian museum. If I don’t die from this job, I’ll die from being exposed to the hazardous radiation that leaks out of these archaic ovens.
Minutes later, we scarf down our Chernobyl shrimp fried rice with gusto. After our satisfying, albeit radioactive, meal, Kars lets out a loud belch, not bothering to stifle the sound, whereupon Truong nods at her, recognizing it for the accolade that it is. “Good one.”
“Time for dessert,” I announce airily.
“Dessert?” My eating companions light up at the sound of that beautiful word.
“Uh-huh, I’ve got some popsicles in the lactation room. Stay right here, I’ll go and get ‘em.”
Truong looks at me with a slightly disturbed expression. “Um, why are you storing food in a room where these fertile women mutate into cows? Their boobs turn into milk udders! It’s utterly, correction—udder-ly gross.”
Kars leaps to my defense, letting Truong in on the best kept secret in this call center. “Dude, the lactation room has the cleanest fridge in the building. And no one will steal your food if you store it there.”
“Girl, it is so not worth it. It’s way too freaky deaky! Plus, I do not want to walk in on some grouchy woman with an alien device attached to her boob udder. Have you ever seen that shit? It’s frightening!” He shudders.
“Truong,” I say mildly, “even if you want to store food in the lactation room, you can’t. You’re a guy and that room is strictly for women. Anyway, wait here. I’ll go get our popsicles.”
“Strawberry for me,” hollers Kars.
“Lime,” Truong barks his order.
“Be right back,” I say and nip to the lactation room.
Bursting through the door, I stop cold in my tracks.
Mika is fast asleep on a lounge chair. Just great! He’s the last person I expect to see here, and the one person I’m trying so hard to avoid.
Spinning around, I’m about to make my hasty retreat when my BFF instincts kick in. If Angela walks in on Mika, it surely won’t bode well for him.
Angela walks around barefoot and pregnant all the time. She has twelve kids, with another bun in the oven. Not surprisingly, she’s constantly cranky and mean-spirited.
Honestly, that woman should consider getting neutered.
And she monopolizes the lactation room, treating it as if it were her own hotel room.
I must get Mika out of here before Angela sees him.
Standing next to him, I hesitate.
My heart softens just watching him in his deep slumber.
Poor Mika…he looks worn around the gills.
His hair is rumpled and dark circles rim his eyes.
Gently, I rouse him awake. “Mika, what are you doing here?”
He stirs and sits up. “Huh? Oh, I was up studying late for my finals.” He rubs his eyes. “I was so tired...yawn...I stumbled into the first empty room I could find.”
“C’mon Mika, we must go now,” I say with a sense of urgency.
“What’s the hurry?” A slow and lazy smile crooks his lips. He pats the leather chair, indicating that I should take a seat. “You should try this chair. It’s so plush. And it even reclines.”
He proceeds to do a little demonstration. Lifting the lever, he leans backward and forward in an exaggerated manner. “See?”
“Mika, this is a lactation room; that comfy chair you’re sitting on is for nursing moms.”
“Whhhhaa?” His voice is scratchy with sleep.
“This room is for women only. You can get in trouble for being here. It’s like a man being caught in the ladies restroom, and if Angela catches you in here, she’ll report you to HR,” I say in a hushed voice.
“But why are you in here, Maddy? Are you lactating?”
“No!” I blanch.
He rakes his hair. “So why are you here then?”
“That reminds me.” I throw open the door to the mini freezer and fish out my box of Dreyer’s popsicles. “Want one?” I offer awkwardly. We haven’t spoken in weeks, and here I am in the lactation room, offering him a popsicle.
He blinks.
“Um, it’s loaded with fruit, not fat.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “I prefer ice-cream bars myself. But sure, I’ll have a popsicle.” He holds out his hand. “Hit me with any flavor.”
“C’mo
n.” I steer him out. “First we need to get you out of here before you’re incriminated, then you can have a popsicle.”
Covertly, I pop my head out to make sure the coast is clear.
It is. I motion for Mika to make his exit.
Once we’re safely out of the milk room, I thrust a popsicle into his hand.
“Maddy,” he hesitates, “I hope this popsicle is a truce offering.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look,” he says, wearing a strained expression. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. And I’ve been giving you some space...but we really do need to talk.”
“Um, okay.” I avert his eyes. “Call me tonight? I have to run these popsicles to the break room before they melt. Kars and Truong are waiting for their desserts.”
His hand reaches out as if to touch my face, but he seems to think better of it. Dropping his hand to the side, he sighs. “What’s wrong, Maddy?”
“Nuh-nothing,” I stammer.
“I’ll call you tonight, then. Is ten thirty okay?” He scrutinizes me with his dark, penetrating eyes, and I suddenly feel very shy.
I nod in affirmation. “See ya,” I say and skedaddle off.
Twenty
“I’m on the phone!” I cry when Kars barges into my room.
“Still?” she groans and slams the door.
Mika and I resume talking.
“So...” I nibble my inner lip. “You were saying?”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry if I scared you off with the Valentine gift but—”
I interject, “Wait! What are you talking about? I loved my gift; I thought it was the most thoughtful gift ever.”
“Really?” he says, seemingly surprised. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you.”
“Yeah you have.” There is a slight hard edge to his voice.
I hesitate, “I just felt confused...about things.”
“What things?” he probes.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I certainly don’t want to come across like some fatal-attraction-bunny-in-the-stew-pot sort of woman.
“I...err, saw you with Tatiana,” I say in an attempt to gauge his feelings for her.
“Oh, you know Tatiana? She’s a sweetheart isn’t she?”
I find myself laughing hysterically. “Sweetheart?!?”
He adds, “I know she’s a bit different, but she’s grown on me.”
“Um-hmmmm,” I mummer with a trace of sarcasm, but Mika entirely misses it.
Yeah, I bet she’s grown on him—like a colony of e-coli bacteria that grows on a raw chicken carcass. She’s toxic!
“I’ve been giving her a ride to work. She lives on campus and she doesn’t own a car,” he says, still oblivious to the hate vibes I’m emanating through the phone.
Humph. From what I’ve heard, she has a DUI. That’s why she can’t drive. Tatiana has certainly got the wool pulled over Mika’s eyes if he seems to think she’s all THAT.
“Maddy, are you still there?”
“Yeah, I am.” I grind my teeth to keep from saying, “Tatiana is a snarky bitch! Why can’t you see that?”
“So...” he trails off.
“So...” I echo. “Um, is that the extent of your relationship with Tatiana?” As much as I try to keep my voice steady, it falters.
I know that it’s best to get it all out in the open, but a part of me is afraid to hear his answer. My stomach is in knots.
“What are you talking about?” He sounds a bit affronted.
There is a taut silence. My nails dig sharply into my palms.
Eventually, he says in a low and deliberate voice, “No, I am not dating her, if that’s what you mean.”
I cover the receiver so he can’t hear me whooping, “WOOT! WOOT! Mika is not dating that Orange Slut with Split Ends!”
“Madison,” he breathes my name, “are you jealous of her? Because there’s really noth—”
“NO!” I interject forcefully. “No,” I repeat softly. “Of course not. I mean…we’re just friends, right?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “Friends.”
Flopping back onto my pillow, I close my eyes in exasperation. “Of course...” I bite my inner lip, disappointment striking me like a blow in the stomach.
“So, are we okay now?” he asks softly.
A hint of a smile touches my lips. “We’re okay.”
“Maddy, I’ll stop giving her a ride to work if it bothers you.”
“Pssh! Why would it bother me? She’s a sweetheart, right?” I almost gag in the process. “So give her a ride. I don’t care.”
But inside, I do care. I’m afraid she’ll cast him under some voodoo spell of hers.
After a hesitant pause, he asks, “You sure?”
“Positive,” I say and clear my throat. “So, um what else do you think of Tatiana?” I ask in an innocent voice. “I mean, I know you think she’s a sweetheart and all that, but do you think she’s pretty too?”
“I don’t think about her. Period,” he says with such force and conviction it takes me by surprise.
Good answer. It is the answer I’ve been longing to hear. So I brush Tatiana off as just a minor hiccup in our fledging friendship.
We talk for hours, exchanging tidbits of this and that, covering every moment of our brief time apart. Burning up the minutes on our cell phones, we tacitly avoid any mention of Tatiana.
Unbeknownst to me, when I bragged on my resume that I was an excellent multitasker, I would actually turn out to become one; wonders never cease! Working in this call center has turned me into a multitasking queen. Here’s an example:
Beep!
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy. How can I help you?” I ask, while reading chapter eight of The Da Vinci Code. MUTE.
Then I listen to the caller, read a paragraph and crunch on a Hershey’s bar. After taking a moment to chew and swallow, I release the MUTE key. “I’ll be happy to assist with that,” I say briskly.
And if I get a caller who just wants to bitch, moan and listen to himself talk forever and a day, just like this caller that I have on the line right now, well all the better!
I jab the MUTE button, tune him out and read several more paragraphs. This part is juicy! Langdon has solved another enigmatic riddle and the Priory of Sion are on to him.
In the past few months, I’ve read the entire Shopaholic series, The Hunger Games trilogy, Khaled Hosseini’s novels, Paullina Simon’s The Bronze Horseman and all its sequels, Nicholas Sparks’ tear-jerkers, Jodi Picoult’s controversial books, and now Dan Brown’s mind gripping thrillers.
The problem is, Dan Brown has got me gung-ho on conspiracy theories—the secret brotherhood of the Illuminati, the fraternal order of the Freemasons. So riveting and such fascinating stuff.
And truth be told, I think there’s a conspiracy going on in this call center. Last week, this company spent millions of moolahs buying up air time space on TV and radio to launch their new ad campaign. Their new slogan: Lightning Speed Communications, We Service All Your Needs in Lightning Time.
Groan. I know. It is so stooooopid!
I brushed off that silly ad campaign, but I really should have paid more attention. It was the purveyor of bad things to come.
Today, everyone on the floor received this apocalyptic email:
From: Corporate Headquarters
To: All Customer Service/ Tech Support Agents.
Subject: Our new ad campaign.
We have proudly launched our new ad campaign—We Service All Your Needs in Lightning Time. In order for our campaign to be a success, we will focus on your AHT (Average Handle Time). This is something that all the Team Leads and Supervisors will be watching out for. If they see that your call goes over 2 minutes, they will come and check on you. We will also be watching Not Ready since every second of Not Ready will increase your AHT, and you should typically never be in Not Ready for more than 5 s
econds. Keep in mind that the AHT goal is 2 minutes. Please adhere to this policy; failure to do so will result in an informal warning, followed by a formal written warning, and subsequent termination. Thank you for all your hard work.
Siegfried Miles, CEO
Corporate HQ
I stare at the appalling email. “My AHT is seven minutes,” I cry. “What’s yours, Truong?”
“Mine’s six.” He exhales sharply. “We are so fucked.”
I pound my fist on the desk. “I got another relay call today so that will jack up my handle time!”
“Next time you get a relay call, just hang up.” Truong plonks a maki roll in his mouth.
I nibble my lips. “I’ll get fired if I get caught…”
“Well, that’s what I’ll do,” says Truong. “Hang up on the handicapped to save my job.”
My conscience immediately kicks in. “But I really don’t want to hang up on them. It’s not their fault that they are deaf or dumb, I mean mute,” I hastily correct myself. “Don’t you think dumb is such a degrading word?”
“You can call them whatever you want.” He sniggers. “They can’t answer you back!”
“Truong! You are going to Hell in a handbasket.”
Lurching forward, I playfully tug his scarf and he theatrically feigns his death. After goofing around, the reality of the situation begins to sink in.
“What they’re asking us to do is impossible,” he implores.
“I know! Troubleshooting takes time. Listening to customers’ complaints takes time, selling takes time. Let me have another one of those Spider rolls.” I reach across with my chopsticks and plunk a roll in my mouth.
Truong strokes an imaginary Confucius beard. “Just you wait and see. When they find out that no one can meet this ridiculous ‘two minute AHT goal,’ they will change it!” he proffers.
A week goes by and the Average Handle Time is still stuck at two minutes. It’s near pandemonium; everyone is in a wild panic. The AHT for the entire call center hovers at six minutes, give or take a minute. I know this for a fact because management sends out everyone’s stats on a daily basis. Last week, the overall AHT for this center was 6.5 minutes.