After entering it to the system Bryson pressed enter and came
up empty handed once again. He rubbed the back of his head and tugged on his
hair in frustration. “I'm sorry,” the lies he told to keep his job, “but I
still can't find you in the system. Do you have an account with us?”
“Yes,” the
interpreter replied for Paulo, “I'm calling about my credit card.” Believing that Paulo
was talking about a card that was being billed for his account, Bryson pulls up
another program to search for Paulo's account by credit card number. This is really starting to get ridiculous,
he thinks as he asks for Paulo's credit card number, why no one is ever
prepared when they called in to talk about their account will forever remain a
mystery to Bryson. He hears some rustling around in the background through his
headsets as he lets out a sharp exhalation of breath.
Finally, the interpreter relays the full credit card number
to Bryson and he enters it into the system, once again coming up with
absolutely nothing. Zilch. Nada. What the hell was going on here? Bryson runs
his frustrated hand through his frustrated hair as he tells Paulo through the
interpreter that once again there is absolutely nothing on file to prove the
client should even exist, and by comparison maybe the client shouldn't exist if
he was incapable of giving Bryson the proper information. Now he's curious as
to the exact reason this client has called in today and why it was that he,
Bryson, had to be the one to receive such a call. “Well,” the interpreter
relays, “I just received my credit card statement and I had a few questions
about some charges that appeared on there.”
Incredulously, Bryson asks, “Were you trying to reach the
credit card company?”
“Yes,” the
interpreter interprets, “and I tried calling the number on the back of my card
but they don't have a menu in Spanish I could follow, so I got a number off the
statement and tried calling it.”
Bryson slams his hand down on the desk. I'm now late for my break because this fudge
packer can't speak English, Bryson thought. Seriously, are you kidding me? “Sir, this is not the credit card
company,” Bryson said. “I’m fairly certain if you call the number on the back
of your credit card again, you could possibly keep hitting one or zero and
you’ll eventually get someone that can get an interpreter to further assist
you.” But don’t you ever call here again,
chum bucket.
“Thank you,” the
interpreter said for Paulo, “I’ll try calling the credit card again. Have a
good day.”
It’ll be much
better when you’re off the line. “You too,
is there anything else I can help you with?” Bryson felt no point in asking
this, but it was still unfortunately protocol.
“No,” the
interpreter said, “that will be all for today.”
“Okay,” Bryson
replied, steeling himself for the next lie he had to tell, which at this moment
felt like a whopper. “Well, I hope you have a great day,” and don't get hit by a car while crossing the street, or get the shit
kicked out of you in the local gringo bar, or die of a massive myocardial
infarction while taking a crap.
Paulo hangs up and the interpreter inquires, “Is there
anything else I can do for you?”
“No, that'll be all for today, thanks,” Bryson responds. As
the line goes dead he takes his headphones off and tosses them next to the
monitor on his desk and just sits for a minute. In his head he's musing over
the fact that the sound of every call that comes through those stupid little
headphones seems to be the sound of the requiem for the death of his career and
his dying life. Twenty-eight, and with every call he takes he sees his life
flash before his eyes. This rut, this murderous rut, how would he ever escape
it?
There's more that he wants out of life but he can't seem to
find out what it is, doesn't the world owe him more than this? He knows the
answer is no, but as long as he looks around and sees others take take take, he
no longer feels he needs to give give give as a member of society. Unlike some
though, he has a conscience, he feels, and he must continue to work as a
functioning member of society. The real question is how can he get out of this
funk. He can go back to school. But then where is the money and the time going
to come from? He can look for another job. But what skills does he have to
market to a new employer? He could drop out of the race and become a wino
sleeping on street corners and park benches holding signs begging for money for
food. Unfortunately he doesn’t like wine, and has never been one to rely on the
kindness of strangers because strangers are rarely ever kind
He reaches over to his phone and pushed a button marked Aux
and then tapped the 1 button. Finally, Bryson gathered the energy to stand up,
and walked down the aisle past the rows of empty cubes that earlier held other
representatives, trapped in their rooms within the customer service prison.
Following the walls past more cubicles, formerly stacked full of
representatives like hens in a hen coupe, there to take the never ending string
of calls from the cretins who can't figure out things themselves, he made his
way to the break room.
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