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“Life in the Call Center Generation”
I skipped out on my college graduation ceremony. It didn’t matter that I’d spent four and a half years of my life working toward a degree; I just wanted out. I didn’t miss anything, anyway. I had been to friends’ ceremonies before, and I’d always bolted for the door as soon as they received their diplomas, thanking god that their last names occurred relatively early in the alphabet. I could barely stomach the thought of waiting two hours in a hot, cramped auditorium before they finally got to the letter “G.” Any sense of relief after getting my diploma would stem not from having accomplished something, but from finally being able to go use the restroom.
Besides, nobody pays any attention at those things – even the speakers acknowledge this. Indeed, it’s usually the only part of the speech anybody remembers. So instead of going through the charade of giving a damn, I just stayed home, slept in, and waited for my degree to arrive in the mail.
It was just after Christmas when the reality of my situation set in. I was living with my parents, back in my old room, and without a job. Suddenly it became hard to sponge money off of them, even though I’d been doing it, in one way or another, for my entire career as a student. The realization that it’s much more difficult to beg across the breakfast table than it is over a long distance telephone call sunk in with depressing speed. So I began to look for temporary employment – something to support me until a “real” job came along.
That is not to say, however, that I was going to take just any position that came my way. I couldn’t be called upon for anything requiring special qualifications, such as having “a winning personality,” or being the type who “loves to work with people.” This is not my forte. I’d sooner clean up after a dysenteric elephant than help somebody find a pair of jeans that fits.
In the end, I found something that seemed unimposing. Something that appeared neither stressful nor boring. A job, which, while it required interaction with the human race, it did not require that I actually see them.
In short, it was something even I was qualified for.
The ad was simple:
“Wanted: Communication Assistant ... We are an industry leader in providing telecommunication services to deaf, hard of hearing, and speech impaired callers across the nation. This position does not involve sales or telemarketing, but it does involve making a difference in the lives of others. Walk-in interviews every Thursday.”
I say with some pride that I was more moved by the mention of no sales or telemarketing than I was by the opportunity to make a difference. I don’t usually go out of my way to help the poor, needy, or disabled. When homeless people ask me for change I usually say, “Sure, can you break a twenty?” Even those sad-faced five-cents-a-day Angela Lansbury kids seem like too much work to me.
However, when the opportunity to both help my fellow man and get paid at the same time arose, I was more than happy to lend a hand.
I filled out the application as quickly as possible, only to have the desk-girl approach me several times with the question, “What does this say?” Stifling the urge to tell her, “Who gives a crap? You people would probably hire a chimpanzee if he knew how to type,” I would simply supply her with the correct information, such as, “Co. is an abbreviation that stands for Colorado,” and, “That says ‘Travis,’ which is my name.”
Soon, it was time for me to take a typing test. I and another applicant, a 50-ish woman who looked like she smoked too much and smelled like she lived with 12 cats, were led down a narrow, dimly-lit hallway to a table with two computers. “I’m so nervous,” the cat lady whispered to me. “I haven’t typed in about 20 years.”
The test moderator looked like a strange cross between Lisa Kudrow and some type of humanoid lizard, and had all the charm and efficiency of an evening with Martin Boorman.
“All right,” she said coolly. “Just type what it says on the top of the screen and it will register at the bottom. As you finish one line of text, a new line will appear. Keep typing until the computer tells you to stop. You have two minutes.”
She then left us alone.
As I didn’t care one way or another about being hired, I typed away steadily, with no thought as to whether I was doing a good job. Cat lady, however, would punctuate the silence with an occasional “Darn it,” or, “Where’s the delete key?”
“Don’t worry about deletions,” the moderator said impatiently from another room. “Just continue typing!”
Soon the two minutes were up. The moderator approached us. “I will go retrieve the results of your tests,” she said. “Please wait here.”
After she left, my companion said, “I don’t think I did very good. I’m so nervous!”
Apart from feeling annoyed that she felt the need to make such an obvious statement, I felt a certain sympathy for her. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure you did fine.”
I don’t think either of us believed me.
Soon, the moderator returned. It looked like she was trying to smile at me, but I couldn’t tell. It seemed as though she’d heard about smiling all her life, but had never actually seen one, much less tried one. The corners of her mouth were pulled out straight, rather than turned upward. She looked more scared than happy – like she’d just been told by Charles Manson that she was his long-lost daughter and didn’t want to offend him in case the girls were lurking nearby.
“You did pretty well,” she told me. “You typed 50 words a minute. To work here, you have to be able to type 60, but this is good enough to get into training.”
“Lucky me,” I thought.
When the moderator turned her attention to the cat lady, her mood changed. She spoke as though she were addressing someone truly unfortunate, like a child with terminal cancer, or a mime.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you did not do as well. You only typed 30 words a minute.”
“Aww,” the cat lady said, looking even less sorry than she sounded.
The moderator nodded her head, blinking slowly. I almost expected her to pull out a copy of “When Bad Things Happen to Good People” when she said, “You can try to reapply if you want. But you’ll have to wait six months.”
“Oh,” the cat lady replied.
“Maybe you’ll be able to practice your typing a little before then,” the moderator chirped, suddenly, inexplicably happy again.
I cringed, embarrassed that she could be so unashamedly cruel to a perfect stranger while in the company of a potential employee. It did not seem a good sign of things to come.
Minutes later, the moderator and I were chatting in her office. It, like her demeanor and people skills, was cold and efficient.
I hummed a few bars of Wagner to myself as she explained the job requirements: As the ad had read, I would be a communication assistant (a CA for short) and it would be my job to help deaf and hearing people communicate with each other over the telephone. I would type what the hearing person said, and the deaf person would read it and type their response, which I would read out loud to the hearing person.
Then we went through the usual interview questions, and in the midst of “Where did you go to school,” “What do you like to do,” and “Where do you see yourself in five years,” came a question I would never have guessed she’d ask.
“What are your feelings on profanity?” she asked.
I blinked a few times.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Do you have a problem with using it?”
At first I thought this could be some sneaky interview trick to fool me into dropping the F-bomb, but it was not so.
She explained, “As a CA, you will be required to say everything the deaf person types, and it can get pretty graphic sometimes. Do you have a problem with swearing?”
This is usually the point of the story where my friends start laughing. Now, I could lie and say that they’re too quick to confuse an occasional emotional outburst with a condition known as “potty mouth,” but I’ll be honest. When I heard that there was a job where I could be fired for NOT using an expletive or two, I felt I had found my life’s work.
This is because I am an idiot.
“No,” I told her. “That won’t be a problem.”
And just like that, she hired me.
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More tomorrow.
- TJG
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