Sometimes you have to hear it out loud, I guess

“I just got a message that says ‘you have just received a message’, and it has an arrow. What does that mean?”

“It means you have just received a message.”

“Oh.”

Always, always ask the obvious question

“Sir, I’m now going to test that and see if I can now call you on your cell phone.”

“OK.”

[2 minutes later]

“Sir? It’s giving me a message indicating that you are unavailable. How many bars of signal are on your phone?”

“I don’t know, how’m I supposed to know that?”

“It would be indicated on your device. Bars. I’m looking for tower reception strength.”

“Well, it’s off.”

“It’s off? You mean your phone is off?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, you’re going to need to turn your phone on for me to be able to call you on it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

I fixed the problem, but boy oh boy did I have a flat voice for him after that.

“Do you only hire foreigners?”

I work in a call centre. I don’t hire anyone.

“I’ve spoken to several people before you, and they were all… I mean, why are you hiring blacks and indians and people with accents?”

I’m Egyptian. I happen to speak French with little or no accent, but I’m foreign.

“I live in Quebec. You should hire people in Quebec so I can understand.”

“Sir, what can I do for you.”

He seemed rather taken aback by my tone, but I didn’t care.

Moral of the story: when you are talking to someone on the phone, don’t assume that they look like you. And don’t be a racist pig.

I deserve a freaking medal for this one

(Originally published here.)

“Now that we’ve done that, I’m just gonna get you to try making a test call, so we can make sure it’s working just fine, okay?”

“Right, I want to add… I think I want to add another number to my plan. Cause you know, there’s me and my grandfather on this plan.  There’s my daughter! My daughter, too, I think I might want to add another number. I have a family plan, and there…

“Sir? Sir. Sir.”

“There’s… well, it’s just me and my grandfather… But I have a daughter. What I need this for, is for my daughter, OK?  OK.  So I need a new number, for my daughter, and with my initials.”

“Sir, could you just try making a test call, so we can confirm that the phone is working?”

“OK, yes, and I just got out of the hospital, and jail, okay, see? I was in an accident. Not in jail, but I was in an accident after jail. And I lost my phone, but I found out who stole it! And I got it back! And what happened is, oh! Oh! I found another phone, at the hospital!”

“Right. But sir, if you could –”

“And I tried to return it, you know, cause that’s the honest thing to do, right? It’s the honest thing to do. Not everyone is honest, you know. Not everyone. I told the cops. The police, I told them.”

“Yes, sir, that’s true. But if you could try turning your phone on and making a quick test call to anyone. I’m asking you to make a test call, sir, so we can make sure your phone is working now.”

“To make sure the phone… right, so I’m not drunk you know. I’m on medications, and not drunk or anything. And I told the police about the phone. They told me that after 24 hours I can keep it! But I was honest, I told them, I told the police all about it, and they said I could keep the phone after 24 hours. Why didn’t they call the phone? I would call the phone if I lost my phone.”

“Me too. I have no idea why, sir. Really. But sir, would you mind testing out your phone so I can make sure it works?”

“You’re very nice, you know that?”

“Thank you, sir. Can I get you to try making a test call?”

“Yes, all right, a test call.” He paused to dial. “Where are you, anyway?”

***

It’s surprising how often people want to tell you about being in jail.

For all sorts of nefarious reasons

(Originally published here.)

“Tech support, Thérèse speaking. Cell phone number, please?”

“What?”

“I’m asking for your cellular telephone number.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’ve reached the Technical Support department for cellular phones. In order to help you, I’m going to need to open your account.”

“Well I don’t want to give you my cell phone number!”

“Okay…”

“I just wanna know why I can’t call Europe.”

“Well, there could be a number of reasons. It could be that there is a block on international calls on your account, or possibly another sort of problem. I really won’t know unless I have a look at your account.”

“A BLOCK? Why would there be a BLOCK!?”

(Lordy! Surely not a dun dun dun… removable block!)

“Well, it’s company policy to add a standard block on roaming and international calls. You see, since we’re in Canada, many of our customers who live close to the border will lock on to a U.S. tower if the signal is stronger there. This racks up their cell phone bill rather quickly.”

“We pay enough money to your thieving company! Why the hell would you put a block on my damn account!?”

“Well, as I said–”

“WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING ME?”

“Madam, I’m explaining how things work so that we–”

“I WANT TO CALL EUROPE!”

“I understand that. If you could give me your number, I could–”

“WHY DO YOU WANT MY NUMBER!!?”

“You know, I would appreciate it if you would stop yelling at me.”

“WHAT?! I’M NOT YELLING, YOU STUPID COW!”

(Deep breath, Thérèse.)

“Just so you know, it’s a free block. It’s free to remove the block. Only thing is there might be a number of reasons you’re unable to call overseas. I won’t be able to know without opening the accoun–”

“I WILL NOT GIVE YOU MY PHONE NUMBER, WHY DO YOU WANT IT SO BAD??”

“Just to see if–”

“Transfer me.” She was seething.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Transfer me to someone else. Now.”

“I’d be happy to transfer you, but where would you like to be transferred?”

“OBVIOUSLY, this here? You and I? It is not working. We are NOT communicating. I want to speak to someone else.”

“Someone else in technical support? They’re also going to ask you for your phone num–”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH.”

*click*

I think that last thing she said was kind of like a death rattle. And this comforts me.

It’s the preferred method

(Originally published here.)

“Welcome to McDonald’s Drive Thru. I’ll be with you in one moment. (brief pause) I’m so sorry about the wait.”

“…”

“How may I take your order?”

“Hm… how about verbally?”

Not rectally, though, that’s for sure.

Vanilla

(Originally published here.)

“Hi, may I take your order?”

“Sure. I’ll have a chocolate shake,” said Doug. He turned to me.

“I’ll have a small shake, and could you make it half chocolate, half vanilla? I find the chocolate too sweet.” I smiled. The guy behind the counter looked at me in a panic.

“You… you want me to do what?”

“Make it half chocolate, half vanilla.”

“I don’t know how to put that in the cash register,” he said, fear in his eyes.

“OK… so charge me for a chocolate shake, and then just slip some vanilla in there.”

I gave him a winning smile. He looked like he was going to hyperventilate.

“I… I don’t know how to do that.”

I looked over at Doug. We both had had milkshakes at this fast food establishment in the past, and I had made my unusual request without anyone so much as batting their eyelashes. It’s a machine that spits out chocolate, strawberry or vanilla flavour. There is nothing else involved. No mixing. No programming. Just pushing different buttons.

“Well,” I said calmly, “all you have to do is push the chocolate button until the cup is half filled, then switch over to the vanilla one and push that one until it is full.”

“Push… the buttons?” He looked around at a coworker of his for support. The coworker ignored him. The coworker obviously did not care about this new person who was panicking, which kind of made me feel a little sorry for him. Despite the fact that he was obviously an idiot.

“Yes,” I said, deadpan. Doug, meanwhile, could not look at the cashier. Doug has a little bit harder time being patient with people who do not cotton on.

“So…” he squinted at the machine, which must have looked intimidating to him, and took one step toward it with a cup. He stopped. “I… I don’t think I can do that.”

I sighed. “OK. That’s OK. Just make it a small vanilla shake.”

“OK.” He looked like I do when I get off a treadmill after having run for five minutes straight: relieved, grateful, and a little bit in love with the still floor.

I waited patiently as he turned on the spot, reminding me of a dog chasing his tail. Doug walked away to get a couple of straws; he had received his chocolate shake within seconds of ordering it.

“So… medium?” He turned to me, smile at the ready.

“No, small.” I watched him carefully.

“Right! Right.” He shook his head ruefully, gave me a smile and headed toward the milkshake machine.

“Medium…”

“No,” I said. “Small. Small vanilla shake.” I looked at Doug for strength. I enunciated as I carefully repeated myself: “Small vanilla shake.”

It’s very difficult not to sound patronizing and condescending when you are repeating yourself, but I’ve had practice, and am proud to say that I managed it. Pretty sure it would have fallen on deaf ears had I been derisive, though, considering the recipient.

I may be one of those people who like things just so in a restaurant, but I feel like I generally make up for it with patience and courtesy.

“Small strawberry shake,” he told himself as he bent his head to the task.

“Vanilla!” I snapped, finally coming to the end of my rope.

There’s only so much patience a person can have with another person, after all.