still talk to them if they’re not old enough—there’s no law against that—we just can’t give them a reading. If we hung up right away on every fourteen-year-old girl who called, our AHTs would suck.
And it’s not like I didn’t try to get that guy’s information, anyway. When I asked him his name, he was like, “Why do you need my name when you’ve already got all that information on the big computer in North Dakota?”
I need it because I’m supposed to address you by name at least three times, buttface.
Smeagol told me, out of the goodness of his heart, apparently, that he’d give me the option to go back to training. Two weeks in the classroom and then one week of on-the-job training. Or maybe it was one week in the classroom and two of OJT.
I’d get to spend some of that time sitting next to “more-qualified TSRs,” double-jacked into their phones, listening to their calls and looking like a total douche who can’t do the easiest job in the whole entire world. Or I can stay on the call floor and make sure I don’t get another Step Two PIN for the next two months.
Then he told me, if I choose training, my pay rate will go back down to the eight dollars an hour they pay trainees.
“Can I have some time to think about it?”
“Of course,” he said. “Next training class starts Monday. Just make sure you don’t get any PINs in the meantime.”
Fucktard.
That’s been my day so far. In twenty minutes, I went from being the perfect employee to being one wrong inflection away from getting fired.
Oh, and the worst part—I almost forgot: Smeagol gave the Floor Supervisor job to Liz. Liz! What the hell? She’s never had an AHT above twelve minutes since she’s been here. I’d be surprised if she’s even had one call longer than twelve minutes. Seriously. If I would’ve known I’d have to stoop to her level of brownnosing to get the job, I never would’ve gotten my hopes up in the first place.
It doesn’t matter. I’m probably going to get fired after this call, anyway. This lady on the phone now still hasn’t given me her age or date of birth. When she finally told me her name, I was like, “And, Samantha, how old are you?”
“Samantha, let me get your age and date of birth.”
“Samantha, can you tell me your age and date of birth so I can mark it down on my sheet here?”
Instead of answering, she just keeps talking talking talking about how my advice last year saved her life and how she thought I was crazy when I told her she needed to pack up all her stuff and move across the country that night, but she did it because I sounded so serious and so worried about her and, when she saw her ex on the news the next day, talking about the big gas explosion that blew up their apartment, she knew I was the most awesome telephone psychic ever and she’s been trying to call me back ever since and when it was always somebody else who answered, she started to think that I wasn’t real, that I was an angel or something, especially after she did some research on Tarot cards and found out that all the supposed experts said that the Star card represents hope and inspiration, not danger like I said, but now she’s really talking to me and I’m really real and now she can really thank me, for real.
Normally I’d be all about a call like this—Look! in that tiny cubicle!
It’s a bird!
It’s a plane!
It’s Superpsychic!
Unintentionally saving people’s lives one phone call at a time.
But right now I’m too paranoid to enjoy it, wondering if the QA’s listening, all prepared to give me another verification PIN.
I totally liked this job earlier today, too. I mean, it wasn’t like I was all thinking, Golly gee, I can’t wait to spend the next eight hours in this two-foot box, telling people what to do with their lives, but I rushed to work to make sure I clocked in on time. That’s got to mean something.
What sucks is, if I would’ve logged into my phone just thirty seconds later, I would’ve been deeper down in the queue and somebody else would’ve gotten that call from Angry Bible Guy and I would’ve gotten a caller who would’ve given me their name and age and date of birth.
I totally had my chance to get here later, too.
When I stopped by the Cool Spot to get my CornNuts, this gorgeous girl—dark hair up in a librarian bun thing, tight black business-y dress that went down to her knees, designer-type sunglasses—parked right beside me and walked in right behind me. I could hear her walking behind me and I wanted to turn around and get a better look at her but I didn’t. Then, when I got to the door, I opened it and turned around and looked right at her as I turned around—but I didn’t let her go first—and she looked at me through those big-ass sunglasses.
By the time I got up to the checkout line with my CornNuts and my Sobe Green Tea—which they moved all the way down to the other end of the cooler—the girl was right in front of me. And she had a bag of CornNuts, too.
I totally could’ve, I don’t know, talked to her or something. At least said, “Hey. CornNuts. Yeah,” or something.
But no-o-o-o-o.
I was all worried about clocking in by three o’clock. All so I can keep getting that awesome quarter-an-hour perfect attendance bonus.
I’m such an idiot.
Samantha’s still talking. She’s starting to worry about her ex. She wishes he could talk to me. He used to be so into his job, especially the data analysis part, but now, when she calls him, he sounds weirder and weirder all the time, talking about righting wrongs and putting the universe in balance.
“Like Batman?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
Mike leans around the cubicle partition and whispers in my ear, “I know what you’re thinking: from this angle, those vertical blinds look just like prison bars.”
They sort of do, when you think about it.
June 6
CHEW
MAIL POUCH
TOBACCO
TREAT YOURSELF TO THE BEST
* * *
Welcome To
WEST VIRGINIA
Wild and Wonderful
* * *
Virginia
Welcomes You
* * *
I don’t even know how I ended up here, wherever here is. Under a buzzing orange
