Chapter 1
Kinds of Death
2029
"How dare you tell me to wait for the technician when I have been your customer for over ten years?!" The customer's voice blasted through my headset and reached alarmingly to my eardrums. More than five years of working in a call center and I still get affected when an entitled bitch yells at me.
I take a deep breath and answer as calmly as possible, "Ma'am, I really do apologize but the slots are currently unavailable right now. The technician will be coming over to your home in an hour to fix your tv."
"An hour? I don't know about you, but I'm sure as hell that you don't know what you are doing. I want the technician here now!" Her voice reached a deafening crescendo especially at the last word.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry but—"
"Stop being so stupid and get me your supervisor," she interrupted.
Supposedly, we are to give an attempt in deescalating the call. When a Karen asks to speak with a manager, we try to stop it first and offer to resolve it on our own, but not today. She's the fifth customer to call me stupid today and I would gladly connect her to my supervisor so she can have the same answer all over again.
Regardless of speaking with the manager, this woman is still going to have her technician come over in an hour.
I call the attention of Gary, my supervisor. He gave me a dirty look before taking over the call. Just by looking into his expression, I instantly knew that he'd be asking me to stay after work so he can discuss how I should do better with the calls.
Some things just never change.
- page break -
"Why are you crying, Hannah?"
It's lunch break and I always eat with Elizabeth and Hannah. Elizabeth is 30 and she's overeager to be promoted while Elizabeth's only 22 and is trying to earn here while trying out her luck in fashion modeling. We sit together in our table and Hannah cries like a baby while Elizabeth soothes her back like a mom.
"Why is she crying?" I asked Elizabeth.
She answered, "Well, Hannah had an elderly customer who called because his tv doesn't make a sound. While troubleshooting, he told Hannah how much he missed his wife."
"Why? What's happened to his wife?"
"She was shot by a robber in a subway," Elizabeth answered and Hannah cried louder.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I replied.
I always thought that Hannah's much too young and emotional for this job. She cries when she gets yelled at, she cries when she gets a kudos, and she cries when a customer shares his or her story especially when it's sad.
"Hannah, dear, listen to me . . ." Here we go again, Elizabeth starts to lecture her on how to maintain her composure again. There is nothing wrong with it, but Elizabeth is not doing it as a friend but as an aspiring mentor. She coaches her like a supervisor would and Hannah is too trusting to notice that.
I eat my lunch as Elizabeth finishes her speech, "You can't be promoted if you are that emotional, Hannah."
Hannah wipes her tears and blows her nose as she replies, "Don't worry, I am not aiming to be promoted. I will only be here until I book a huge gig and find success as a supermodel."
Elizabeth doesn't look convinced at that. She forces a smile and just eats her sandwich.
Hannah can undoubtedly pass as a supermodel for me. She's 5'11 and her dark complexion is beyond flawless. She is as slim as Victoria's Secret models and her hair is always pulled up to a slick ponytail further emphasizing her naturally contoured cheekbones and perfect jawline.
Yes, she has those qualities but if you venture into the real world of the industry that you aspire to get into, there you will see that the world is wide and there are so many, or just too many other people who has the same qualities and same desires that you have.
Last year, Hannah told us that she'll only be here for a few months since she hasn't booked any jobs yet as a model. She says she needed to pay the bills and she'll pass her resignation when modelling works out to give her more than enough. Twelve months passed and counting yet she still is here. I know Elizabeth doesn't believe she'll make it and I don't think she'll make it too.
She reminds me too much of my younger self. She reminded me of who I was before life gave me a reality check.
Hannah clears her throat and says without tears this time, "Mr. Sparks was nice, you know. He is unlike most customers and he really doesn't deserve to lose his wife that way. There could be other deaths, you know. She really should have died right next to him or they could have died sleeping next to each other like in The Notebook!"
"You should pray tonight and tell that to God," Elizabeth sarcastically says.
Hannah ignores her and replies, "There are just some better ways to leave this world, you know."
"I don't know about that," I tell her in between chewing my salad. I add, "If there really are better ways to die, then we still don't have any say about it."
There are different kinds of death and all of them bear the same amount of pain. You can die physically. That's when you unwillingly decide to leave your body behind and let it rot underneath rough soil. However, you can still be dead despite your not finding your way to your casket.
You experience death when you stare at the headstone of someone you love. You experience death when you realize that life has passed you by and has taken your dreams from you. You die when you hear the worst unexpected news that can turn your world upside down, twisted 360 degrees. You die when you are put in a situation where you don't have a choice and you die when the one you love doesn't love you anymore.
I have died over and over again. I have died long before I haven't reached my grave.
Looking at Hannah now, I only hope that ten years from now, when she's 32 like me, she will not taste of death the way I did.
- page break -
The day was long and New York in the afternoon was crowded as usual.
It is a fast-paced city filled with people with ambitions in their pockets and if you just try to look at every corner, you will see that not everyone shares the same story. I sighed as I tried to keep up with the pace of the rushing crowd. Work is all done and somehow everyone still seems to be busy.
This has been my routine. I only live just a few blocks away from the contact center I work in.
The jungle of tall buildings, the steps of the rushing crowd, the sea of faceless crowds, the honking of horns, and the rose-tinted sky above somehow made me want to rhyme. Words kept finding its way into my head just like it usually does. I find a way to step aside and find a corner where I can type a poem in my phone.
My fingers hastily typed all the words I imagined in the moment and I half-heartedly smiled at it when I read what I wrote myself in the spur of the moment.
A Poem After Work
by Ana Steele
Before the peak of sunrise, my alarm clock yells out loud
Then I find myself running late among the busy crowd
I'll spend the day with an arching back on paper works I hate
It will feel like tons of hours when it's only half past eight
I wanted to be an artist and chased the life I always dreamt,
But what about the mortgage? What about the rent?
I feel dead inside although my heart is beating still
For every day I wake up just for the sake to pay my bills
I smiled knowing that despite not being as sharp as before, I can still write a poem, but I stop smiling when the meaning of the poem sank in again.
- page break -
"Darling, I'm home!" I announced upon entering my house. I do not love my job but I can't deny that my job helped me get a house of my own.
"Hello, Mom," my daughter ran to me and I received her with open arms. I kissed the top of her head.
"How was your day?"
"It's okay," her answer was too short. She loved talking nonstop and for her to say two words about her day meant that something's wrong.
"Well, what do you mean by that? Is something wrong, Willow?" I asked her.
"Nothing," my little seven-year-old uttered before running back to her room.
I almost followed after her but my mother came to greet me. As usual, she wore her floral duster dress and gave me a kiss before she took my coat and things.
Mom's had a stroke and it's too risky for her to be stressed out. She doesn't work in a call center anymore. She stays in the house, keeps it clean, takes Willow to school, and keeps an eye on her.
"How was your day at work, Ana?"
"Same old, same old," I answered uninterested.
"I cooked dinner already. I cooked your favorite steak," she said joyfully.
"That's great, Mom! Thanks!" I faked my excitement that best I could. I know it brings her joy to see me happy so I might as well pretend that I am.
"Go and change then we'll have our dinner."
Before heading my way to my room, I turned around and asked, "Mom, what's wrong with Willow? Why is she so quiet?"
Mom looked uncomfortable.
"Mom?" I pressed.
"Oh, Dear, uhm . . ."
I waited almost impatiently for her answer.
Mom slowly answered with a pitiful expression, "They talked about genealogy at school today and she's upset that she doesn't know anything about her father. She doesn't even know his name"
And just like that, my day has turned out worse.
Christian will be around next chapter.
Thank you for reading. – Cloud