1 Graveyard Shift

Pale green light kissing the entire room; icy air embracing my body; sweet old music coming from Sharon's desk. And Helga still expects us to be energetic in these unholy hours. She must be crazy.

"Hello, John. My name is Michael calling from Auto Care. How are you today?"

"What do you want!" The man's booming voice, almost as loud as a Boeing 747 taking off, embodies the highest point of impatience and hostility.

"John, I am calling-"

"I can't understand every single word you say. Say it slowly!"

"John, my name is-"

"Wait! Hold it right there. Are we friends? Do we know each other personally, eh?"

"No, John, but-"

"Then call me Mr. Smith, idiot!"

Breath, Fyodor. That's the key. Breath. Keep your voice steady. Just keep calm and make more sales.

"Mr. Smith, I am calling to let you know that we could help you get the best possible rate for your auto insurance. And-"

"Auto insurance?" John's voice becomes less hostile. Perhaps he finally realizes that I'm not calling from BIR or Federal Bank.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Smith. This is for your auto insurance."

"Fantastic! I was actually looking for an insurance to my car, son."

My heart beats so loud I can almost hear it drumming inside my head.

"Really, sir? That's so good to hear." John's other personal informations registered in the ViciDial, a cellular phone-like software plastered on the screen suggest that he is currently living in Austin, Texas. My tongue wets my already dried lips. "So you are still driving the 2015 Honda Civic, right, John? Mr. Smith?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Perfect! Do you have any other car aside from that car, sir?"

Silence.

"Mr. Smith? Sir?" I press my headset a little bit firmer against my left ear. John's laborious breathings become clearer and distinct. A dog barks. Helga also has a dog for a pet. Everybody finds their closely-knitted bond so sweet of them. A perfect example of dog and dog owner loving each other. They really look like family. They both look like dogs. After all, a puppy would have never been spawned without a bitch. And Helga is a total bitch. No question.

"Mr. Smith? Are you still in there?"

"Oh, yes, son. I'm still in here. What was it again?"

"Do you have other car, sir?"

"Yes, I have other cars."

"Can you give me the year, make, and model of your other cars, sir?"

"What? Why would I give you my other cars?"

"No, sir. I mean, can you give me the year, make, and model of your other cars?"

"Oh! Of course, son."

"Thanks."

"Give me a second. I'm trying to remember."

"Take your time, Mr. Smith."

"Oh, yes, I remember now."

"That's wonderful, sir."

"I also have five Lamborghini, seven Porsche, and ten BMW. I also have a Batmobile. I just bought it from Batman himself last night straight from his Batcave. Runs swiftly. Broom, broom!"

My right palm tightens it grasp around the cold mouse.

"Mr. Smith, I-"

"Now go to hell, you little shithouse rat! Damn you!"

"You too, sir. Have a nice day!"

"Why, you filthy-"

Using the cursor of the mouse, I quickly push the HANG-UP button in my ViciDial. With a terrible sense of foreboding, I wearily drop my shoulders and lean my back against the swivel chair. My heart goes on beating as loudly as a drum inside my ears, and that's more or less welcomed. It means I'm still alive. And it also means another call to survive and to deal with. Oh, jeez! I rather drop dead right now and be done with it once and for all.

If the client heard your last call with that guy from Texas, you're doomed, Fyodor. You just cursed him. Agents aren't supposed to curse customers. It's against the rules. Above all, you just hang up on him in his mid-sentence. Disrespectful!

My bony fingers touch the red coffee mug standing by the keyboard. Its porcelain surface is already dry cold even though I just took it here not more than two minutes ago. The mug is as empty as my stomach saved by those traces of black substances and milky stuff in it. Drawing a deep breath into my nose and blowing it out of my mouth, I gingerly massage my left temple and squeeze my eyes shut. Thousands of small knives constantly pierce and poke my skull. This is embarrassing. I already filled my stomach with hot coffee but still-

"Michael!"

My eyes flutter open.

A petite lady is heading my way. With her black gown, black pointy hat, and the rays of pale green light from the ceiling, she looks like the Wicked Witch of the West materialized into real life. Her elongated chin and her bulb-shaped nose speak for themselves and just reinforced my negative impression of her. Her cross-shaped silver earrings and black pearl necklace are all sparkling like precious stones lying on a rocky road.

Here comes the walking jewelry box again. Brace yourself, Fyodor.

As always, her face is crumpled like paper. Her horn-rimmed eyeglasses reflect the bright light coming from my monitor, concealing her eyes, but her furrowed eyebrows as thick as two fully-grown centipedes suggest that she is staring at me rather icily.

Perhaps she heard my last call? She sometimes eavesdrops our live calls through her headset, and maybe tonight is one of those nights. If so, then I'm doomed. I guess this is it. Goodbye, monitor. Goodbye, headset. Hello, termination letter. I'm dead.

Don't say that, Fyodor. Perhaps you're just being too paranoid. Let's just hope for the best. Get a grip.

She stops just right beside me, crossing her arms and boring her dark, calculating eyes into me.

I lower my gaze, my eyes now leveling on her not-so-considerable breast. Pinned between them, her ID is as big as a typical passport. A picture of a lady with an oblong face, bulbous nose, black wavy hair that is parted in the middle, pouty red lips, and big, corn-like but nevertheless ivory white sets of teeth eagerly smiles at me: A smile that is as fake as her jewelries. Helga doesn't look like eighteen. I'm a year older but she looks thirty.

On the upper corner of the ID, written in black bold font are the words Catacutan Contact Solutions. On the lower side: Helga Gandalera: TEAM LEADER.

Ah! The strong camphoric scent lingers under my nostrils. The knives that are torturing me since this morning come back with a vengeance. My eyes start to blur. Just what I need! What brand of mothballs is Helga using, anyway? It's too strong and–

"Now what, Michael? Still got no sales? If you're not going to be productive, you better resign."

I drop my gaze on the floor. Staring at Helga for a long time is like staring at that dreadful giant ball of plasma in the sky. I always lose.

"When are you going to bless us with an appointment, Michael? Oh, wait! Let me rephrase: Do you still have plans to make sales? Catacutan is not a charity. In the world of call center, it's a give and take process. Law of reciprocity is a virtue! Push!"

Strangely enough, the temptation to laugh seems too strong to resist. Things get funnier when you're not supposed to laugh. But laughing right now seems not a bad idea at all.

You're right, Fyodor. It's not a bad idea because it is a very bad idea!I'm fully aware that Helga sounds and behaves like Donald Duck and trust me when I say that there is a proper time for you to laugh on her face but it is not now. Get a grip!

"What if I hold your salary for this month, Michael?" Helga narrows her eyes. "You know I can do that, don't you?"

Helga can but she won't, Fyodor. DOLE is just one call away and she knows it.

"But Helga, I'm trying to-"

"TL Helga!"

"Sorry, I mean, TL Helga, I'm really trying to-"

"Mute!" Helga points at my headset. "Always mute whenever there is no live call, and also when you are speaking in vernacular, dimwit."

"Sorry."

"And speaking of live call..."

Oh, there she goes, Fyodor. Brace yourself.

Touching her eyeglasses and pushing it back up to her nose, Helga leans forward, eyes squinting exaggeratedly as she probes my monitor. Jeez, how she looks like a dinosaur escaped from Jurassic Park. A raptor with glasses. Cunning and dangerous.

"Michael! What the hell? You're still not doing the right disposition of your last call! Two minutes! Look!" Helga drops her gaze at me, her eyes burning with fury.