Free Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel by Lisa Lim Page A

first, he wanted to speak to the CEO. I gave him the standard spiel, but he didn’t like it and spelled for a manager.”
    She gnashes her teeth. “Transfer him to me. Extension 4444.”
    My poor little Spelling Bee. Little does he realize what he is in for. The Führer will chew him up and spit him out like the tobacco she chews.
    Sigh. He should have just stuck with me. We could’ve gone places. I just know that we could’ve formed a meaningful kinship and spelled the night away.
    Reluctantly, I release the Hold button and conference the call.
    “Mr. Wright, thank you for holding. I have Hillary on the line now. She’s my supervisor and she’ll be assisting you from here,” I say with a deep sadness in my voice, and drop off the line.
    Bye-bye my little Spelling Bee.
    Be safe, keep on spelling and buzz, buzz away.
    Beep!
    “Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy, how can I assist?”
    “Hello, I’m just calling for shits and giggles. I’ve got a complex question for you, since you’re supposedly a tech whiz.”
    “That I am not, but go ahead, what is your complex question sir?”
    “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
    I consider this briefly and pose this question to Mr. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Well sir, if you did not have sexual intercourse with your wife and she’s pregnant, did she have an extramarital affair or is she just the Virgin Mary?”
    Click!
     
     
    We’re in Janis’ basement and as usual, Karsynn and I are glued to the tube, watching the MTV Movie awards with a mixture of titillation and boredom.
    I know. We live pretty sad, pathetic lives.
    In my defense, Zac Efron is at the awards show, so really, that should explain everything.
    Jon Hamm struts on stage to present the next award.
    Karsynn swoons. “He is simply bootylicious.”
    “Quit talking like Beyonce. By the way bootylicious and booh-tay are not real words.”  
    Karsynn blanches. “For your info, Beyonce is now known as Sasha Fierce. She can sing, act and dance. That sista is a triple threat! And by the way,” she adds. “Booty is a real word, it’s in the dictionary.”
    “Which one?” I challenge.
    “The urban dictionary,” she states matter-of-factly.
    “The urban dictionary doesn’t count,” I counter. “You can’t use it in Scrabble.”
    “Hah! But I’m pretty sure that in Webster’s dictionary, booty means pirate treasure or prize. So it is a real word,” says Kars triumphantly. Then out of nowhere, she lets one rip.
    It is mammoth!
    Unlike her usual Mount Saint Helen eruptions, this one is a Krakatoan explosion. In fact, it is so massive that the aftershock tremors resonate through the lumpy sofa cushions.
    “Your farts stink!” I choke through the fume of flatulence. “It smells like something crawled up your ass and died.”
    She looks at me with an expression that says she’s inordinately pleased with herself. “What? Yours don’t stink?”
    “Nope! Mine’s all air and packs no punch. But yours, yours are silent killers.” I shudder. “And I even felt it,” I add, cringing with disgust.
    KAPOW! She swats me with a pillow. “ Feel this !”
    “OW!” I squawk, half laughing. “You really outdid yourself this time; that one tipped the Richter scale. It was a magnitude of 20.0.”
    While I’m no stranger to breaking wind, Kars actually trumps me in this sport. We’re in such a comfort zone that whenever I let one loose, Kars will let one rip and announce smugly, “Mine was better.” I’m always happy to concede.
    But tonight’s fart episode has got me thinking…maybe we’re getting a little too close for comfort. Maybe we need some space.
    Maybe it’s time I move out.
    Janis and Kars have been nothing but kind and generous, giving me shelter and feeding me for two months. They’ve offered me unlimited hospitality, making it very clear that I can stay for as long as I want. And the last thing I want to do is