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10 Responses to “ The Weekly LitWit Challenge 5.1: Brrrrring! (Updated with Yucch-meter) ”

1. # 1 Askaniclan Says:
   March 8th, 2011 at 17:56

   Hi. I am Michael, prince of Volcania and defender of the secrets of Castle Boniface. I am now doing some sort of public service. I do this because I am delightfully congenial as I am charmingly handsome.

   It is easy to lose your temper when you were not rendered the services you expected from a listed and reputable local company that spends a fortune on overblown TV ads while scrimping on customer service. This becomes apparent when your online complaint is addressed five days later and your call to their hotline gets cut off in the middle of your tirade nine times. Into the tenth call, however, please refrain from smashing your phone to the nearest toaster or spouting your favorite four-letter endearments to whomever is receiving your call. Do be reminded that in most cases, what sounds like an obnoxious call center lad or lassie who keeps telling you to “For a while” was merely given a script with which to deal with unhappy customers who bought a product or service that was crummy in the first place. Also note that your call may be recorded or a supervisor may be listening in to ensure that call center agent follows through with crummy script. You’ll merely add material to collection of sputtering subscribers that will amuse call center team during coffee, loo and other breaks.

   There are several courses of action that will achieve results. One is the proactive way where you work your network and make the right connections, thus strong-arming your cause with people at the top, if not the potent influence of shady organizations such as the Triad, the Mafia, or the Senate. Another is by venting your indignation through your blog and social network accounts. Lastly, you can always terminate your subscription or patronage and channel your resources somewhere else, like supporting your Philippine rugby teams.

   If none of those suggestions end up making you feel like a better human being, I personally will set fire to places such as this and hunt down those puny troglodytes one by one, ripping their headsets from their heads before scalping their ridiculous combed-over shaggy bangs. For I have the power. Bye now, I’ll see you next week!

2. # 2 rice_cooker Says:
   March 8th, 2011 at 19:11

   Sally (aka Claustrophobic Call Center Romance)

   On our floor, three cubicles to my left and four down is Sally. Sally – twenty-four years old and five feet five inches tall. Marlboro reds chain smoker Sally.

   She hates those minty fags and she doesn’t carry a lighter because she claims she’s only a social smoker even though she goes through two packs every day. She doesn’t like kids, doesn’t like animals, thinks that the only cute things in this world are lace underwear. Sally flips her hair an average of twenty times a day, does this thing where she clears her throat then runs her tongue over her teeth after every meal because she’s afraid she’s got leftovers stuck in her teeth.

   Sally… I don’t get to talk to her anymore. I don’t know how she feels about the new trainee the company hired even though I know she forms opinions on everyone. I don’t know what her favorite color is right now though she told me once that she liked changing her favorite color, it all depends on her mood. I just don’t know anymore…

   But still I keep checking her Facebook page, perking at scraps of Sally-data, and continuing to look from faraway – three cubicles to the right and four up. Looking at her hips sway as she walks towards the elevator during lunch break, looking at her lips move as she answers calls, looking at her piano-long fingers as she adjusts the headphones on her face.

   Sally isn’t that pretty actually. Sure she had a coke figure – tiny waist and a set of rack as juicy as the prime rib they serve at Wagyu’s. But her feet are too small, her calves too short, her waist-length hair too brittle. She smells of smoke all the time and her laugh is braying like a donkey. But worst of all, she’s mean, so heartless, laugh-in-your-face-when-you-confess-your- crush to her heartless, sleep-with-you and promise-to-call-but doesn’t heartless and how is this possible?

   Everyone says she’s a slut but how can they all think she’s easy when I’m but flavor of the month – calendar boy April of last year. A has-been, a mistake, a random boy in her string of relationships and why is it I still think about her? The smell of her skin after morning sex, her braying laugh at my corny jokes, that crinkle in her eye whenever I wear something unfashionable…

   I tried, you know. One Friday evening, cool as cucumber, who do I think I’m fooling with this casual approach? I came to her, palms sweaty, feeling hot then cold, gulping away my fears then I asked her if we could still be friends. Cause I wanted to be friends, am willing to settle for that, have long accepted I’m not exciting or dangerous enough to hold onto a girl like her. She merely looked at me, irritation settling on her face before telling me, “I already have friends,” then that quirk of an eyebrow – salt ground on my flesh wound.

   Sally…

3. # 3 angus25 Says:
   March 9th, 2011 at 00:07

   -My gaaad, Michael, I can’t believe you did that!
   -TL, this is coaching time! Not sermon time!
   -Funny. How long have you been here? Three months?
   -Four months.
   -And who told you to drop calls just like that?
   -No one. But…
   -But were you trained to do that?
   -Everybody does it, TL!
   -But it doesn’t mean you have to.
   -TL, you listened to the recording, right? How would you…
   -If I were the cardholder, I would have reacted the same way. You should have been empathic.
   -I know. But you listened, right?
   -Empathy statements! And you can always fake it. Empathy and sincerity. Okay, it’s understandable. You just got out of training. With more calls, your call-handling skills will improve. But the way you handled the call, my gad!
   -TL, TL!
   -You could have just muted the phone, calmed yourself, breathed in and…
   -TL! That is exactly the problem.
   -And you didn’t probe enough. What is?
   -My… voice.
   -There’s no problem with your grammar. And you have a good accent.
   -But my voice is… asexual.
   -Huh?
   -I mean, the cardholder was confused. She said, “I don’t know if you are a Sir, or a Ma’am, or an It.” She even said that I might be a leprechaun!
   -That’s not the point. You provoked her. And you’re not supposed to do that.
   -No, I didn’t.
   -So why did you ask her to spell leprechaun?
   -Because she provoked me.
   -What?! My gad!
   -And…
   -And?
   -Because she’s stupid.
   -So you think you’re smart then?
   -I…
   -Do you know that you could get terminated for this?
   -I know, but…
   -Tsk, tsk.
   -But I’ve been able to collect payments! I’m almost there. It’s just one call, TL.
   -You have to treat each call as if it were your last.
   -And she wouldn’t be making a payment anyway. It’s just a really bad call. And a cardholder from hell. TL, listen to my other calls.
   -That’s the problem, Michael, you won’t listen. That pride.
   -TL! It’s not a pride problem!
   -If you won’t listen, this behavior will affect your regularization, the whole team, and even all of us. Do you realize that?
   -TL, I need to log in now.
   -I am not pulling you down, okay? That’s not the purpose of coaching sessions. I’m just helping you to be good at your job.
   -I’ll be late. I only have two minutes to set up my tools.
   -Alright. Review this monitoring sheet and make an action plan. Sign it down here, and then give it to me later.
   -Okay.
   -Yosi break?
   -Tara!

4. # 4 Askaniclan Says:
   March 9th, 2011 at 02:02

   “… Then Prince’s ‘Horny Pony’ will segue to ‘Cream’, which will be my cue to jump off the cake so I can perform the finale on that pole over there.” :D

   Okay, will go to sleep now.

5. # 5 aimubear Says:
   March 9th, 2011 at 02:23

   Ok, so today’s casual day Friday and dressing to kill all week has bought me the right to dress down a bit and go lax on my normally scrupulous grooming habits. Yep, today I’m rocking what I call the “just-rolled-out-of-bed” look. Wouldn’t you agree?

   I actually do have an explicit understanding with O’Neil to endorse their brand hence “this” emblazoned across my beefy chest. Between you and me though, I sense a bit of animosity from my colleagues – especially from the guys. The girls are definitely sweet, there’s this one girl who keeps shooting me amorous e-mails. I don’t mind. But the men, they just think I’m a spoiled brat, an extra paycheck, holding a position that could’ve otherwise gone to someone who needs a job more. This is my “night” job. You don’t understand, the Bondi scene has gotten old by now, too much exposure to the elements. I love the perfectly climate-controlled environment within the confines of the call floor. There’s something oddly comforting about this place.

   My lunch hour’s almost up. If you’ll excuse me, I need toget back to my cubicle. Gotta work on my pasty complexion. Ciao!

6. # 6 sirius black Says:
   March 10th, 2011 at 16:18

   Technical Support Associates.

   He liked the sound of that. The Western people who brought this toast-of-the-decade profession, this saving grace of Third World countries’ reeking under- and unemployment innards, are famous for this “sugarcoating”. Calling a matchstick man horizontally-challenged, a house for old people to die home for the aged, a woman suffering from bulimic gluttony someone with mild case of having sweet tooth – what does it make a difference? A spade is a spade and it never changes even if you call it a darn, shitty shovel.

   But how he sort of liked his job description being perfumed into Technical Support Associate he cannot say the same about society’s wrong notion of how they’re effin’ worse than the flesh peddlers of the biblical Sodom and Gomorrah. His friend, one tedious time, told him about how the slut he fucked viewed those nocturnal, American-accented yuppies as worse than them, the original hawkers of the oldest profession in the world. She said nocturnal folks like him are class-A sluts in baggy pants and tight skirts, smoking their sexual urges in Marlboro Reds under an impregnated moon, when the night is as stiff as a throbbing cock and the midnight air as damp as a fingered vagina.

   There were stories of sex scandals done in haste inside enclosed elevator doors, of bluetoothed quickies in call center cubicles – he was aware of these exhibitionist acts filmed within the confines of his work place via 3gp-capable cellphones but this, in his opinion, does not suffice to call all of them worse than bitches of the flesh underworld. Perchance some promiscuous “call boys” and “call girls” do have such insatiable libidos, and he may justify everyone else does anyway, be it in the open or secretly so, but he thought it was unfair to come up with such hasty generalizations. At the very least, not all of them live and breathe one-night-stands and three-minute quickies. No sirs and madams, he swears by the kinky knot of a necrophile’s pubic hair, not all of them do.

   But last night, what happened unexpectedly last night, seemed to have mocked his fervent idea of his profession’s uprightness. Perhaps there is some truth to judgmental society’s dictum after all. Perhaps, like the rest of the nocturnal urban blatherskites, as the slut his friend fucked for half a thousand grand professed, he’s just one slutty piece of fake American-accented crotch.

   Last night he celebrated his 30th birthday swigging the night away in some random bar with a select number of friends, the slut-fucking friend included, and he surprisingly got a good head as an unexpected birthday present. Thirty, for crying out loud. Thirty! You know how much some people loathed, nay, dreaded, getting past the calendar mark? He was one of them age-conscious freaks, paranoid over finally reaching the end of the line, or at the very least the last line of a typical calendar anyway, having gone through innumerable depressions and rejections and quarter-life crises and all that sentemotional clusterfuck.

   For most people, reaching this age means officially belonging to the serious, bill-laden adults club who are better off preoccupied creating house expense pie charts rather than breathing the obnoxious AC blast of thriving malls and spotting scrumptious behinds in string-thin T-backs to combat Manila’s delirious heat. Gawd how he wished to be eternally twenty. If he had to throw a coin at a wishing well where the hellish Japanese freak in ghastly white robe might have crawled out, he’d ask to be twenty once again, living out the Hakuna Matata way of adolescent living, gulping a shitty atmosphere of raves and rants and digressions, just being the twenty-year-old bastard that he once was.

   But thirty he was last night and at the very least, he got a delightful, under-the-table blow job as a consolation. There was this young girl, by his gauge around 17 or 18, who very much looked like that Meteor Garden doll and he never thought she was up to the job, never thought she was one wicked cock connoisseur. She almost looked like someone who just had her first bouts of menstrual flow to tell you the truth and her reticent smile exuded that child-like naiveté, like a young girl whose young mind knows nothing about penis size and condom flavors and Catholic-banned sex education particulars. But looks, as the cliché goes, can be quite deceiving and last night, oh yes last fuckin’ night, he had to surrender to the deception of this ambidextrous girl’s shaft expertise.

   The place was a haze of second-hand smokes and beer bottles gone dry, a swirl of lips smack of malice and lies and bodies agonizing for friction of the flesh. The night had become inebriated and it was a convenient way for her to chameleon a sleep on his lap, pretending her intoxication was getting the better of her for she had one too many drinks already. His band of brothers didn’t mind as all of them fuckin’ sex bastards were pretty much busy caressing taut tits and waterfall pussies hidden beneath thin blouses and scrimpy skirts. Inebriation had sunk in and manners had to be shoved aside for bastardly barbarism.

   She unzipped his fly and he cupped the startled penis inside the boxer shorts, alternating between her left and right hand, proving right there and then how one bloody gifted ambidextrous she was. She ran her fingers along the above-average length of his shaft and he let out an uncalled wince for the unexpected gesture, like how a slight tap of a mallet propels the knee to jerk in reaction. But she knew better, of course. She reassured him with tender kisses at the base, caressing the bare terrain of clean-shaven pubic hair, and stranger he was no more.

   On the table everything seemed to be quite as what you expect a table in a bar of cheap thrills on a Saturday night ought to be – cold beer bottles swaying like mad, their thirsty orifices locking the lips of some hungry young urban professionals from Third World hell. Under it there was a familiar ritual of primitive past, of Strength and Beauty sweating it out within the claustrophobic confines of a bamboo pole until it cracks out of their sheer intensity, conveniently hiding the actors away from the reproachful eyes of sinners and pseudo-saints. It would have been better if they did it within the walls of some cheap motels promoting the glory of fornication but he would have had it no other way; he liked the building suspense, the probability of unleashing his inner beast. The thrill of being caught in such a promiscuous act all the more ignited the passion of orgasmic emotions.

   Each throb of his penis was reciprocated by her tongue’s warm licking; each twitch compensated by her deep throat swallows. She bobbed up and down, up and down like how a San Fernando Valley blonde and blue-eyed bitch titillated you with her masterly lollipop licking in those syndicated porn videos your dad or uncle kept hidden in some faraway cabinet but still reached your hand in some future time anyway, as in some cheap porn you watched while home alone, every now and then ejecting and then pushing the tape back to the player, the sole witness of your mischief as a young man, for fear of whispered footsteps in the front door and a curious boy’s naked body in front of the TV set the fateful subject of your mom and dad’s shock bordering to revulsion.

   Up and down her skillful tongue slid until he could no longer contain the boiling climax. He arched his back with beer bottle in one hand and a tight grip on the slit-eyed cock sucker’s head in the other, jerking forward and back with the slightest trace of carnal movement, moans unceremoniously suppressed in the hope that his friends, circumstance demanding them full attention to fondling some bitches’ bodies themselves, won’t find them in such lewd sexual position.

   And then, as if the mythical Armageddon had dawned on the bar dwellers, all hell broke loose. Some seconds of drowning in coitus nirvana. Ecstasy. Eternal bliss. Delirium. And he could no longer contain it. He spurted spoonfuls of point-of-no-return semen, gawddamn cummed like one of those pathetic reality TV sluts of sick three-minute scandals and she swallowed all of it, not wanting to spill any minute drop. For a short moment, he felt the world shaking at his feet, stars in the galaxies bursting in defiance, the Final Reckoning blanketing his gaze. And then he was back to his old self, back to the company of his breast-fondling friends, back to the maelstrom of nicotine sticks haze and laboring beer bottles on some dingy bar table.

   Blame it on the impressive cock sucking of that San Chai clone or perhaps he just had one too many bottles swigged last night but earlier today, he felt like banging his head on the wall for suffering a skull-splitting hangover. He knew it’s not going to be a gawddamn good day but to hell with it; since when exactly did he wake up on the right side of the bed anyway, like some much-hyped boy wizard having a taste of Felix Felicis to make things right? SSDD, his friend would surely tell him. Same shit, different day.

   Indeed, not a good day it was for calls upon calls, at the call center production floor, he had to breathe in and breathe out for a couple of seconds just to get his sanity intact. The phone line was queuing and he had to fuckin’ deal with it. Deal with some phony Western customers on the other side of the globe who had nothing better to do than bitch about their gawddamn boring lives. It didn’t help that he wrongly chose a work station situated between one loud piece of headset whose mouth reeked of the most unbearable halitosis ever recorded in the call center history and another agent whose feet stank of fermented jock socks and ogre soles.

   “Thank you for calling Technical Support. My name is Jay, how can I help you today?” He was tired from blabbering nonstop technical diatribe but he still tried to sound professional enough.

   “I can’t connect to the Internet!” A voice in that distinguishable twang hollered on the other line. Whatever she was calling about, she was serious about it. And by the looks of it, how irately so.

   She was firing a verbal barrage of complaints upon fucked up complaints, about how the Internet service sucked and how the company promised it would give her high-speed Internet service but only ending up in contention with the slowest dial up connection in her area. In times like these, he knew the only way to pacify such type of customers is to have them vent out their frustrations over the service. He let the woman on the other line rant until she seemed to have lost her supply of saliva.

   “We do apologize for the inconvenience ma’am but don’t worry, I can definitely assist…”

   “Yeah, yeah…Yeah right. Cut the crap, will you?”

   “Ma’am, I…”

   “Oh sure, you’re sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s the same lousy excuse I’ve fuckin’ heard from you, useless tech support people.”

   “Ma’am, if you could just…”

   “You’re not from one of those stupid off-shore Indian call centers, are you?”

   “I’m from the Philippines, ma’am. Manila, Philippines.”

   “Oh motherfuckin’ gawd!”

   “If you’d just let me help you, I assure you I’m as capable as the on-shore…”

   “Well lemme tell you something. Your fuckin’ assurance does little to get me comforted. Mean what you say and get me fuckin’ connected, brown monkey!”

   Things were getting out of hand now. He was sincere about helping her, despite the weariness and exhaustion the queue had given him, but such crabbiness was a bit toeing off the line. What did she know about the fatigue brought about by twenty fuckin’ seven calls and counting that’s draining the life in him? People have limits and it does not do well to stretch one’s patience to the limit. Keeping his cool is too much to ask under such circumstances, especially when an unfair berserk customer hurls seemingly limitless cuss words and R18 invectives upon his already sullied person.

   He was shaking with anger.

   The profanity continued.

   An uncontrollable headache began to mound on his head.

   The bitching was unrelenting.

   A spark building up from within.

   Rant.

   Rant.

   Rant.

   A twitch inside his head.

   Yadda.

   Yadda.

   Yadda.

   “Die, you bitch!”

   Suddenly, a choking on the other line. The bitch’s ranting ebbed, only to be replaced by a gagging sound. A gagging sound as if someone was being strangled to death. A series of chokes. Some stifled coughing. Fading. Fading away. Gone.

   And then the bitch was heard no more.

   He spoke.

   Not in the manner that he professionally delivered his greeting awhile ago but in a way of fright and trepidation. He called the woman’s attention on the other line. Twice. Three times. The line was not dead but there was no response. He stood up, eyes wide open, the veins on his ball sockets throbbing fast and abnormally. Could it be?

   Terror gripped him like a vulture. Irrational comprehension dawning on him. Goose bumps on his flesh. Eyes wide open, still in contention with Ripley’s biggest ball sockets. Body as limp as a flaccid penis. Skin as pale as that sissy Twilight bloodsucker.

   He walked out.

   He walked away past the lifeless shells of RAMs and circuits, past the work stations of beeping AVAYA phones and nonstop murmurs from call center drones, past the sickening yadda yadda production floor. He took the stupid malfunctioning lift and after reaching the first floor, he walked past the scrutiny of the inutile guards, them fuckin’ A-holes, who are apparently paid by the company only to watch Internet porn at the lobby; past the nicotine addicts loitered in front of the call center building whiling away their fifteen-minute breaks, probably never getting fucked by the time they reach 60 because by the time they reach 60 they’re dead coffins consumed; past the beggar of brittle bones and tattered clothes curled like an ugly maggot beneath the neon street light, this one never ever going to be fucked because sluts can be choosers; past the eerie, hollow breadth of the urban street he had long since been used to, engulfing him in the fuckin’ shadows of the unknown.

   Life is a merry-go-round circus freak and its people fuck-me-Freddy whores.

7. # 7 shadowplay Says:
   March 10th, 2011 at 18:04

   Just for the record, I didn’t volunteer for any of this. I was told that if I would not talk to you for the next thirty minutes, I’d be transported in that ‘place’ without gaining the most essential element they said I would really wish I have before getting there. I’m pretty much psyched right now because they’re scary and stuff. Forgive me. Let’s start? What it is you’ve been dying to say?

   You’re a total ass.

   I know. Ah, that explains everything…. But you must have some other things you’d like to say before I go? We still have, um, 24 minutes.

   Sure. Tell me where you’re going.

   I still don’t have much idea about the specifics but by the way those scary man talks, I could only imagine some horrible shitland. Guess that’s where I truly belong.

   These men, you’re not talking about some kind of police, are you?

   No, that pales in comparison. I can tell that they’re not armed like most police but they have this haunting air that could kill you if you disobey, if I could have it my way I would never have wanted to meet them. But I guess that’s how fate works.

   Looks like you’re very sure you’re going to that other domain.

   I guess.

   Well, wait. I wonder why you chose to talk to me at this moment you could be saying your goodbyes to the people you care for.

   Like just what I told you, those scary man decides to those who I talk to. I’m guessing your the last living human I can converse with. They must have chosen someone brave enough to take in what I think about which, as I totally agree, perfectly suits you.

   But what about your family? Your girlfriend? Friends?

   I reckon that’s the purpose of us talking right now, please look after them for me.

   I will try my best.

   And please take care of yourself, too….for me.

   Thank you for saying something that wasn’t just to make me feel better or what but you’re so wrong, because I’m not brave. I guess you’ll live a good life on the other domain. I’m actually envious of your fate.

   No, no you shouldn’t. Correction, you’re brave and the other domain has no business with you. I belong there, you don’t.

   I can also see them.

   You, what?

   Yes, the men you’re talking about.

   …..

   I think it’s some sort of an introduction, the thirty minutes they told you to spend with me.

   ….

   Michael, say something!

   You can see them and you never bother to tell me that before we all this mushy stuff? We could save up our asses outta here! I bet you’ve been waiting for me to be mushy for you.

   Look, I didn’t know! Sshhh.. Lower your voice… here they are!

   “So you’ve seen each other again, we have given you the thirty minutes enough for the two of you to get re-acquainted. Welcome to the other domain… where you always have to take the calls.”

   You’re right, Michael. It’s some horrible shitland.

8. # 8 winnerific Says:
   March 11th, 2011 at 10:50

   “This is your 3rd this month. I have to say that I’m extremely disappointed. Performance wise, I have no complaints. Your quotas are always met, sometimes even exceeded. I was lenient on the last few times because of this. Plus, it does happen to most of us here. We sometimes drop the line even if the call’s not done yet. But in review of the recordings, you were in the middle of the transactions. You suddenly stopped and then the calls were cut from your end. What can you say about this?”

   ……(Blank stare)

   “Ok. I don’t know what’s happening with you right now but I’ve always said that you should leave personal issues at their place. Here at work we should only be thinking about our work. That’s how we reach our goals. Focus. Is this still because of your work area? I know it was somewhat inconvenient because of the A/C draft and the construction but that has been fixed last week.”

   ……

   “On your last call, you yelled at the client, told her to stop bothering you while cussing. Do you know the company you’re working for? Do you understand this industry?”

   “I’m quitting. Sir.”

   “What?! That’s what you have to say. You quit. And that will solve your problems, how?

   ….. (Gives an envelope)

   “What’s this? This is my picture. Where did you get this? What does this have to do with anything?”

   ….

   “You’re behaving like this because of me? Is that it? Do you… for me? I don’t know what to say to this. I can’t, I mean, I didn’t know you’re like that. I’m sorry but I don’t, I’m not like that. I’m sorry. That’s exactly my point. You should learn to separate work from personal things.”

   “I can’t stand seeing you, Sir. Your face. Can’t you see, Sir? (reaches out, clutches envelope) Please tell me it’s not impossible. They all just laughed at me. I told them everything and they laughed at me. They couldn’t see. Maybe you would, Sir. Please.”

   “I’m sorry. I can’t. Please submit your resignation if you really plan to quit. I’m sorry but I can’t do anything for you.”

   (Stands up and walks out of the cubicle)

   “I’ve been hearing voices, Sir. From that draft ever since it was left open. Yes, it was that day when it was left open. I tried ignoring it, Sir. I was flipping through office pictures one night when I chanced one of yours. I thought it was a trick of the light. I saw a hand from that hole in the ceiling. I had to go back and look at it again. There was no hand. I stared and nothing. I was clicking too fast, I thought. And then there it was. Slow hands and then a head. I was ready to scream and close it when I noticed it. Your face. It was your face. I quickly thought that it must be some funny joke, altering the picture and inserting a video. It could be easy. I don’t know. I smiled and scrolled down to look at you, to see and compare from the face in the ceiling. But it wasn’t you anymore. I saw myself…..and something else, someone else clutching my neck. I closed it immediately. But I could still see it in my mind. Everywhere I go. I was…….. whenever I see you, it’s all I remember. She was smiling.”

   “Would you look at it now, Sir? Please try to see, tell me I’m not crazy. Or better yet please tell me that I am. That I was just imagining it. That image is not real. I just lacked sleep. It happens in our work. When its late and you need to smoke. I mean, what would you do, Sir, if you saw yourself, blind. Your eyes all white, and yet you see fear and sadness.”

   “Really? Where is it? Haha, I’m telling you it’s not true. This is just a picture. Is that really why you’re quitting? No. I’m telling you, it must have been your imagination. Lack of coffee? Maybe you just need a break. Try to take a leave.”

   “Are you sure, Sir. Will you look at it again, Sir? It was just in my mind?”

   “Yes. I’m looking at it right now, staring at it. I will even pin this in my board. You just need a break. Believe me, it’s not true.”

   “And it would stop, Sir?”

   “Yes. Just get some rest.”

   “And you would stop sleeping with my girlfriend, Sir?”

9. # 9 Cacs Says:
   March 11th, 2011 at 19:02

   Babble

   Welcome to the Spoken Language Exhibit of the museum. I am Michael and I will be your guide. But first, kindly turn off your neurocoms so that you can experience the magic of spoken language. Ready? Can everyone hear me now? Good.

   I know most of you have lost the ability to speak and a human voice may sound strange to you. But believe it or not, this was how our ancestors used to communicate. And judging from the expressions on your faces, I can tell this is the first time most of you have heard spoken language. So I will try to speak slowly.

   What you are looking at are what the ancients used to call call centers. Most of them were located in what used to be India and the Philippines. Centers like these mostly handled complaints from ancient Americans. Say someone in America has a defective TV. What that person does is he dials a number and speaks to another person in a center like this to help him fix the problem.

   Primitive, right? But wait ‘til you hear actual recorded conversations later. All that screaming and shouting. It’s the most surreal thing you’ll ever experience.

   But I’m getting ahead of myself. How’s everyone, by the way? Adjusting to the sound of a human voice? Good.

   Now before neurocoms allowed us to transmit thoughts directly from one brain to another, the spoken language was as much an art as it was a primitive communication tool. Our ancestors were masters at picking up subtle hints. They instinctively knew when a person was already angry, sad or happy just by the vocal inflections of whoever they’re speaking with.

   Can anyone tell how I feel now?! No one?! Anyone?!

   Amazing, isn’t it? Here we are, thinking how primitive spoken language is, but the truth is, it’s a complicated, and sometimes, even hypnotic form of communication. The ancients went to war, participated in genocide, overthrown dictators, abolished slavery, elected the first black president of the former United States—simply because some of history’s greatest leaders were master orators.

   Now if you’ll just follow me to the next room, we shall listen to a typical small talk the ancients used to engage in and then I’ll let you listen to one our most popular attractions—the typical call center complaint call.

   This way please.

10. # 10 ouroboros Says:
    March 13th, 2011 at 00:14

    Tatlong oras na rin siyang nakaupo, nakikinig, mali, nagpapanggap na nakikinig, sa job orientation. Kasalukuyang ang head ng HR ang nagbibigay ng orientation tungkol sa company policy. Ngayon ang unang araw niya bilang call center agent para sa isang directory service. Ang mga tawag ay manggagaling sa United Kingdom. Sabi ng mga kaibigan niyang napasukan na ata lahat ng call center dito na raw ang pinakamadali. Hindi ganun karami ang mga galit na customers. Magtatanong lang naman sila ng telephone number o di kaya’y address ng mga establishments. May mga tumatawag din para sa private numbers. Nakakatawa nga daw yung iba kasi tumatawag para itanong ang telephone number at address ng mga magulang nila. Mahihirapan daw siya sa pag-intindi ng accent ng mga tumatawag. Malamang daw sa mga unang linggo niya sa floor, papaulitin niya ang mga sinasabi ng mga callers. Ingat lang daw kasi kung pikon at racist ang caller, maaring pagmumurahin siya at tatawagin ng kung anu-ano’ng di kanais-nais na termino. Pero huwag daw mag-alala dahil sa sandaling nang-iinsulto na sila o naninigaw, pwede na raw ibigay ang call sa supervisor.
    Sa nakaraang tatlong oras, isang pahayag ang tumatak sa utak ni Tonet: It takes 21 days to make habit. Narinig na niya ito dati, ngayon lang ulit napaalala sa kanya. Nasabi ito nung babaeng taga-accounting department matapos niyang ipaliwanag ang payroll system. Pang-closing remark baga. Para daw sa mga hindi sanay sa night shift, huwag daw mag-alala dahil it takes 21 days nga to make a habit.
    Naisip niya sana dalawampu’t isang araw lang din ang kailangan niya para tanggaping matatagalan pa bago siya makahanap ng trabahong gusto niya. Dalawampu’t isa. Kahit na mahigit isang taon din siya’ng nagbabad sa internet para maghanap ng job vacancies, naglakad, nakiusap, nakipila para sa job interviews at nag-teaching demo. Nalibot na ata niya lahat ng public schools, private schools, Catholic schools, Christian schools ng Baguio at Benguet pero kung hindi siya kulang sa karanasan o kulang ng MA ay wala pa daw bakante kahit pang substitute teacher lang. Kumuha siya ng karanasan bilang volunteer teacher habang nag-part time siya bilang English tutor ng mga Koreano. Ayos na sana kaso ang suweldo niya ay napupunta sa pamasahe at baon niya araw-araw pati na sa buwanang bayad sa kuryente. Maari namang huwag na niyang bayaran ang kuryente ng bahay nila dahil hindi naman naniningil ang kanyang mga magulang pero nahihiya pa rin siya. Wala siyang naiipon para sa makapag-enrol sa graduate school.
    “Wala ka’ng magagawa, ganyan na ngayon. Hindi ko rin maintindihan akala ko ba mas magaling kayong mga mas bata, bakit para sa entry level eh hahanapan pa kayo ng MA units?”
    “Aba’y hindi ko rin alam, Tay. Akala ko apat na taon lang ang kelangang tiisin para sigurado na ang trabaho. Typist lang pala ang skill na makukuha sa apat na taong gumagawa ako ng ng walang katapusang paper, lesson plans at reports.”
    Kaya nagpasya siyang sumunod sa mga kaibigan niya sa Maynila. Tama naman sila, isang araw lang ng interview ay nalaman na niyang kung tanggap siya o hindi. At natanggap naman siya, nagbasa lang ng mga fillers sa mga phone conversations at sumagot lang ng quiz kung saan isusulat mo ang mga script sa mga recordings na pinarinig sa iyo.
    Sa kanyang interview, tinanong siya kung sanay ba siya sa iba’t-ibang accent ng mga taga-UK.
    “I think so. I’ve watched a lot Hugh Grant films and also some Keira Knightley and Kate Winslet films.”
    “Those are in English accent. How are you with Scottish accent?”
    “I’ve seen Trainspotting, like, ten times.” Hindi na lang niya binanggit na tuwing pinapanood niya ito ay naka-on ang subtitle at na hindi niya kinayang tapusin ang libro.
    “That’s nice to know. But I wouldn’t worry because you’ll have three months of training before taking actual calls. You will also have training on your British elocution so you wouldn’t give your callers a hard time understanding you. Here are the requirements, the sooner you accomplish them, the sooner you’ll start.”
    At ngayon na nga ang unang araw niya dito. Hindi niya namalayang “lunch break” na pala. Hindi siya gutom. Dalawampu’t isang araw pa mula ngayon siguro normal na sa kanya ang kumain ng “lunch” ng alas onse ng gabi. Minabuti niyang basahin na lang ang employee’s handbook dahil hindi niya pinakinggan ang sinasabi nung taga-HR kanina.
    Alas dose na. Balik na ulit sila sa training room. Makikilala na nila ang magiging TL nila.
    Pumasok ang TL. Guwapo. Pamilyar. Hindi niya maalala kung saan niya ito nakita.
    Naisip niya, “Hindi pamilyar ang pangalan niya pero may kamukha siya.”
    “I am your TL and also your elocution coach. It’s pretty easy faking a British accent. To begin with, drop the ‘R’ and enunciate the ‘T’ but you also have to watch your Pinoy accent. Remember that ‘this’ has a tee haitch sound as in “THis” not ‘dis.’ Also…”
    “Hindi siya puwedeng kaibigan ng mga kaibigan ko dahil walang ganyang kaguwapo ang mga kaibigan ko. At lalo nang wala ako’ng ganyang kaguwapong kakilala, kaklase, kapitbahay o ka-barangay. Besides Briton siya.”
    “… I forgot to tell you. I’m not from the UK. I’m actually Australian. My first job was in a bank but one thing led to another and now I’m here. I can switch my accent from Australian and to British, English, actually so don’t worry if…”
    “Skate boarder? Pulis? Saan ko siya nakita?”
    Pumikit siya saglit. Nakita niya ang isang lalaki bumaba sa flag pole at mayamaya pa’y kumakanta ng “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” Nagising siya.
    “Heath Ledger!”
    Nabulabog ang buong training room, tumingin lahat sa kanya pati ang TL.
    “Sorry?”
    “Sorry…nothing.”
    “Heath Ledger. I get that all the time but please don’t ask me to sing that song. And no, I’m not gay or a cowboy nor do I make crazy antics just to see where your morals and principles are.”
    “Okay, nice to know.” Yumuko siya at hiniling na sana makalimutan ito ng lahat nang mas mabilis pa sa 21 days.