My heart palpitations accelerate and I feel a flock of ice beetles crashing against the walls of my stomach.
“Kill me because I’m dying, kill me because I can’t”, Caifanes.
My heart palpitations accelerate and I feel a flock of ice beetles crashing against the walls of my stomach.
It reminds me of the feeling it caused me, as a child, when I had a math assessment and, although I had studied very well the night before, a sadistic bug of doubt corroded me inside, and I could not stop biting my nails, and swallow hard, laboriously, as soon as the teacher began to distribute the exam sheets.
-Calm down, it’s not that bad, nobody forces me to do it, at the moment in which I feel like I can’t take it anymore, because I’m going to retire and that’s it-, I have repeated myself, in recent months, before getting off at my bus stop. bus. It’s 35 minutes from my house, during which I sweat oil imagining what awaits me in my next eight working hours, as part of the Catharsis Connections Inc. team. I hate my job, but I admit that it gives me a twisted pleasure, similar to that of he finds in removing the little skin of his fingers, with teeth and nails, despite knowing that it will hurt, and that there will be blood; but, precisely for that reason, one only stops when he sees the red film, which confirms that one is an idiot and that, finally, the obsessive-compulsive task of ripping off the damn piece of leather was achieved.
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The only difference is that in my work it is the users of a telephone line who skin me, mentally and morally, with teeth and nails, with claws and jaws; savagely, with thick white slime, probably dripping from the corners of their mouths, while they utter all sorts of expletives against me. Because that’s what it’s all about: being the bag of blows, auditory and imaginary, of a NN, on the other end of the phone, who pays three dollars a minute to insult you.
Everything is allowed: they can make fun of your accent, they can yell rude words at you, they can question your mother’s honor, in all unimaginable ways; They can use profanity, sexual, eschatological, they can even threaten you with death, but the golden rule is that the client does not hang up the phone for anything in the world. You have to endure, I am the nearsighted boxer, from so much blow, who only waits for the redeeming kiss from the canvas. One more punch, come on, just one more, the customer has to stay on the line, billing, your monthly payment depends on that, the beer you drink this Saturday, the movie ticket on Tuesday.
Follow the news of El Espectador on Google News-This job is not for ultrasensitive girls, it is for rude with an armor proof of everything, that makes them see many dollars beyond, away from the wall of insults of the client on duty. They spit on you, but I pay you-, I remember Eric, the supervisor of my group, said in his ‘welcome’ speech, a little boy of no more than 20 years old, with an outlined mustache and a ring in his ear, who is take turns listening to the black rants of our users, and verify that we do not break the second golden rule of the company: do not insult our users in return. However, I once saw a beginner, who on his first day on the phone yelled, “Your f … mother, great son …” to one of our beloved clients. Obviously, he was fired on the spot.
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At Catharsis Connections Inc. they pay me $ 10 an hour for letting me be insulted. If I can handle eight for the full shift, it’s 80 a day, 400 a week, 1600 dollars a month. From the outset, everyone and everyone say the same: -I don’t care what they tell me … They are people you don’t even know … They’re just crazy hps … Easy money … –
But once on the air, with the first madman in the line calling you “stupid bad-spoken Indian, you piece of shit, go back to your filthy country …”, things change. Crying, anger, uneasiness, anxiety, insomnia and even loss of appetite come. At four months old, I am one of the oldest on the payroll. If we even make bets on who, of the newcomers, will go first. We have a very graphic cataloging system, also at the height of our job: “I bet on the dock”, “no, the cross-eyed”, “the face of a psychopath in heat”, “the fat woman badly stuffed”, “the bearded woman “, etc.
My friends call me a masochist and, my girlfriend, stupid and mediocre, and they are right, it is the worst job I have ever had, even worse than when I worked in my brother-in-law’s fishmonger, on the night shift, as’ auxiliary ripper ‘. I don’t even understand it myself, I just feel that I have found an endless streak of twisted taste, also of eager to know how long and how long I can endure, like the insensitive pear that the boxer whips, over and over again, waiting for it to harden bones, muscle and tendons, with every hit, and be the best meat grinder around. Sure, most likely this pear will throw in the towel very soon, and that’s it, because being a professional vituperative is not in my priorities. I guess there are worse ways to earn a living.
In my own way, I consider myself a marathon runner of the frustrations, and the barbarities of others. One more kilometer, one more expletive, one more humiliation, one more reference to the sexual bestiality of my parents or something like that, come on, make an effort you bunch of misfits!
At 8:00 am sharp I enter my password into the computer and go online, the phone rings, the spankings begin, my flesh opens and bleeds from bruised lips that resemble a rotten smile, from the side, on the back of my self esteem. I can’t finish my welcome speech, the user lashes out with a “shut your nose, son of the great p …”, the bull goes out into the arena and unfurls the shield for this type of customer, the vulnerable one, “but sir, I I just do my job… ”, which further infuriates him and attacks me with renewed rage, the billing, and the fracturing, are just beginning.
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