Category: Writers Block
Okay guys, thanks to all those who replied to my last story. I think more people will find this one interesting, in part because it's actually prose, and not a script. Word of warning, mildly strong language. This story is all true, though it didn't all happen the same day as the story suggests. Enjoy. Please let me know what you think
Guardian
Techie Turmoil
By Remy Chartier
There is nothing like an eventful snowy day in the world of a Microsoft Technical Support agent. You learn a great deal in this line of work. I am not just talking about being able to fix computer programs and mess with the heads of paranoid luddites all over America. This job teaches a vital life skill: the Zenful art of patience.
Picture this, if you will. It’s 9AM on a drippy winter's day. There is no bus service because the snow has taken on the consistency of a slightly squelchy mud slurpy. I get out of a cab that reeks of cheap cologne which is doing a terrible job of masking the stench of soggy week-old socks and boiled egg farts. After paying over twenty dollars for a trip that should have cost nothing if city transit was reliable, and after feeling the bone-rattling chill slap me in the face, I slosh towards the inviting warmth, and the ultimately locked door. The ankle-deep pseudo-snow squitters up through a small hole in one shoe. I left my keycard at home, and so I knock on the heavy metal door and look longingly through its paper-covered window.
After an eternal minute, the very chipper and very warm-looking security guard slowly opens the door. “You’re looking a little cold today Remy.”
“Gee, you think?” He beams at me, and for one blissful moment I picture him rolling around in the slush in his underwear. The squishing of my shoes follows me all the way through a carpeted and dimly lit hall, and into the vast sprawl of cubicles that only simulate privacy and security.
The air is filled with popcorn, perfume, computer hardware and of course dusts. Heaven forbid they ever dust. The dozen co-workers around my immediate area who aren’t muttering into the phone speak in the kind of sugar-sweet tone reserved only for fast-food workers and call center agents.
I am seated in the cubicle closest to the hall, right in plain sight of everyone. Behind me, my flirty and effeminate supervisor bounces a rubber ball. His name is Joe, and he’s been an addition to my team’s woes for three months. If you are female, he will flirt with you, but if you are male … well I’m sad to say that if you are male then he will still likely flirt with you.
My ailing snail of a computer grumbles lazily at me as I switch it on. As it grinds and strains to wake up from its weekend slumber, I log into the corporate network. The Windows XP logo, and then my log-on screen take an agonizingly long time to load, but after a few minutes crawl by, I am in.
Outlook Express politely informs me that I have one new message. It’s from Joe. Oh joy! I scroll through three paragraphs of corporate happy chatter that basically says: “Dear Remy, we value your services. Unfortunately we need our agents to be on the phone for less time per call, so we need you to care even less about solving people’s problems to the best of your abilities and just get them off the phone as fast as you can.”
Thank you corporate big-wigs for making people hate us more.
A flood of some cloying expensive cologne assaults my thaughing nostrils. ‘Perfume de Joe’. The perky douche bag isn’t more than a foot behind me, too close for me to turn and look at him without being in kissing distance.
“Good morning Mr. Latie-pants. Shouldn’t you be talking terrorized techno-feebs through terrible times by now?”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Does he rehearse this stuff? “Well Joe,” I say, “If my computer wasn’t as slow as Jesus’ second coming, and if I didn’t have to read over emails that will inevitably cause customers to sue us, then I’d have more time to do my job.”
“Oh wonderful! So you got my email did you?”
“I think I just implied that, yeah.”
“Listen sweetie, it’s your job to follow that email to a T. I’ll be the one in trouble if you don’t.”
“And I’d hate to see you in trouble, Joe.” No point telling him not to call me “sweetie”, he will anyway.
“That’s just what I like to hear. Might I say that you look very handsome today.”
“I what? Joe, my hair’s a disaster, my jeans are probably covered in what is trying real hard to be snow out there and I didn’t have time to shave. You’re buttering me up, and it’s creepy and worrisome.”
“Okay you got me. Here’s the thing, you’re spending too much time with customers on some of your calls.
“What? You’re serious?
“Like a broken nail, sweetie. I need you to tone it down a little.”
“Tone it down? We’re told to be nice, supportive and courteous. Always paraphrase, upsell the software and, oh yeah, ask them if there is anything else we can do for them after their issue is resolved. And you’re telling me I need to cut down? You know I’d love to Joe, but then that all-important quality monitoring score will fall ,and we’ll be having another discussion about how I need to be doing more on the call.”
“Oh I know.” He pats me on the shoulder. Can I please sue him for sexual harassment and get a huge settlement? “I agree it’s silly. But it’s what has to be done. You do what I say, and I do what the big boys upstairs say. Chain of command, sweetie.”
“Sure, Joe, sure.”
“Good boy.” I’m not a puppy you douche.
He goes back to his desk to talk on Windows Live Messenger. He turns the sound up just loud enough to remind the team that as lowly grunts, we are forbidden to use that distracting program.
I lean back in my soft swivel chair. It unceremoniously pushes its innards out for my inspection. It takes a great deal of effort not to slowly disembowel my faithful butt-supporter while I wait for the one penultimate moment before the ill-tempered sour-pusses strung out on morning coffee call with their world falling apart.
The hollow “ding” from my headset signals the arrival of that moment, and a forlorn male voice mutters “tech support” in my ear. I take a deep breath and recite the familiar opening mantra: “Thank you for calling Microsoft technical support. My name is Remy. Can I please have the phone number associated with your account?” There can be no deviations from the script. If I say it wrong– if I do not say technical support in a clear and concise voice, Master Joe will most definitely make me regret it by failing me if he is listening in.
Of course, the deeply disgruntled dingle-berry does not give his phone number, choosing instead to unleash an audio orgasm which quickly transforms into a top-of-the-line, genuine rant. He has the thickest accent I’ve ever heard, and for a moment I can’t help wondering if this is all a big joke.
“I sure do hope y’all can help me. I’ve bin gettin the run-around too long.”
I try to sound sympathetic. It’s the first call of the day, so it isn’t hard. “Well I’m really sorry to hear that, I’ll see what I can do for you. What seems to be the problem?”
“Problem is that I cain’t git connected to the innernet.”
“You also forgot the T in internet you dolt,” Thank god for the mute button. I take great pleasure instead in subtly emphasizing the word “internet” when I reply: “And what happens when you try to get on the internet, sir?”
“Damned if I know what’s goin on. I just start up the computer, click on the little butterfly thing on the computer, and usually it just signs me in. Now I’m getting this error, something bout a username and password, whatever that means.”
“Error 691?”
“Yeah, that’s it. This’s bin happenin ta me fer three days now! I don’t understand why! I kin get online with AOL, why cain’t I git on with your service?”
If I don’t act fast, my ears will begin to bleed. Before he can start in on how his grandmother’s cousin’s brother twice removed gave him the computer for Christmas before he died, I interrupt with the line that will get me good points if that flamboyant supervisor just happens to be monitoring the call for “quality” purposes.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly, sir. You click on the butterfly on your desktop –“
“My computer,” he interrupts adamantly. “I ain’t got no butterfly on my desktop.”
“The little screen with all your icons is called the desktop, sir. So you click the butterfly and get an error 691: invalid username and password?”
“Yeah I guess so.” They always guess so, never once do you ever hear “Oh yes, that’s exactly it. You’re so smart.” God how I hate dial-up.
“Ok, sir, I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Great, another wanker with no internet connectivity. If he had called in saying he was getting a no dial tone, I could have very cheerfully shot someone. As it stands however, I am fairly confident that this problem can be fixed in about five minutes.
I take a deep breath and ask the first dreaded question: “Which version of windows are you running, sir?”
“Virgin? Windows?”
“No no, sir, what VERSION of windows are you running?”
“Ohhhhhh, well … I dunno.”
Of course he doesn’t know. That knowledge would make him at least as smart as one of the thousand monkeys pounding away on one of the thousand typewriters. Unfortunately, I’m dealing with a baboon that probably isn’t married and who is probably making far more money than me. No doubt he lives in the jungle where DSL is a foreign concept.
After a few minutes, I manage to get the version out of him; it’s windows XP. Hallelujah! A two minute manual connection will fix this problem.
At first all is well. He manages to open his network connections, and I walk him through setting up the type of connection he needs. Now it’s time for him to use his keyboard with the fingers God gave him.
“So you need to type in a phone number here.”
“That’ll be my number?”
“No sir, I’m going to give you one.”
“What? How tha hell do y’all have my number?”
“No, sir, it’s an access number, it will let you connect.”
“You guys have my credit card number too? Am I even talking ta Microsoft?”
“Yes sir, we are a part of Microsoft, and I can only see the last four digits of your credit card number for verification purposes.”
Finally he accepts the number; now we’re getting somewhere. All he needs to do now is type in his username and password.
“What’s a username?
Oh come on! “It’ll be like your email address. Type in everything before the @msn.com.” God, Please let him get it right, pretty please?”
“It says error 680. What the hell’s goin on? It didn’t say that last time.”
“So it says error 680: no dial tone?”
“That’s what I just said, ain’t it? Why do y’all have ta repeat everything I say?”
Pressing “mute” again, I answer: “Because it’s part of our job you ungrateful cowboy”. Okay, just calm down. Remember your wife is counting on you to be the bread-winner while she’s hospitalized. Don’t lose your temper.
“Hello? Y’all didn’t hang up did ya?”
“No sir, I’m here. Sorry. What we’ll need to do now is –“
“I jist wanna git online ta check my email! I’m getting so sick a yer company doin this all the time! I kin git online with AOL just fine! I’ve a mind ta just cancel MSN altogether – now what the hell is this? System shut down in thirty seconds? Shit! I shot my last computer with my .45 magnum because the fuckin thing didn’t start up. It still didn’t start up so I had to buy another one.”
Well what did you think pumping a few 45 caliber slugs into it would accomplish? Joe, if you’re listening to this, surely you can see the absurdity of this call and will forgive me for ‘accidentally’ dropping it? “Sir, I know you’re frustrated right now, you have every reason to be. Your computer has a virus that causes it to shut itself down.”
“Virus? No no, sir, my wife has a virus, my son has had a virus before. My computer doesn’t have a cold! Y’all are probably sittin there causin my computer to shut down on me.”
Don’t I wish I had the power to do that. “It’s called the sasser worm, and it shuts down computers.”
“So now it’s a worm? First you say it’s a virus, now you say my computer has worms inside of it? What’s next, crabs? A brain tumor? Aw shit, Jesus Christ bull horns! Now it’s not even starting up. Aw hell! You bastards broke it!”
What comes next is a thump as something – probably the phone – drops to the ground. An inhuman grunt follows, and then the crash of breaking glass. “Piece a shit!” the caller bellows. Faintly I hear a tremendous thud and another inhuman grunt, and then the clank of metal on wood. For a moment there is only heavy breathing, sounding like Darth Vader with a smoker’s lungs. Then he’s at it again, and what follows is a rhythmic smack, smack, crunch of something plastic striking metal. What do I do? Hanging up on customers is strictly forbidden unless you issue three verbal warnings, which I didn’t do.
Before I can do anything, the man is back. He spits out a series of colourful expletives that would have made any Italian mafia Don in any movie either proud or angry, and in the midst of them, I can make out other words that sound distinctly like lawyer, and sue, and mother and finally abortion. Before I can consider a suitable response, I hear a fumbled smack as he hangs up. Praise be! One call down, just another seven hour’s worth more to go.
I long to just lay my head on my desk, close my eyes and hope that it’ll all go away. My headset dings twice. Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve just been monitered.
The end.
Wow! That had me in histerics. I've heard a few stories similar to that before but that was just priceless. rofl
only two words for ya... wow!!! and rofl!
Sorry, haven't finished this yet, been really busy.
My first problem with it is the diction/tone. It has both informal and formal words, which is it?
You mentioned that the character left that card at home, why don’t you have the character attempt to find it first
“I quickly searched through my pockets to find my key card, but was surprised that I couldn’t find it.
It’s good though!