Call Centre Hell

It had started so well.

They’d implanted the electrodes in her brain, then removed her eyes to cold storage, replacing them with miniature VDUs. She could see now in enhanced vision, overlaid with her current status in the firm, calls logged per minute, her rating, her line-supervisor’s rating, her likely prospects within the next five years, her physical location within the building, number of toilet breaks taken by day, month and year and her salary and possible (if she behaved) bonus.

As her bonus kept blinking on and off (line-supervisor G-grade’s idea, apparently, for motivation) she’d had to learn a zen-like state of Being to blank it out. Initially she’d complained, but soon after she’d learnt that her line-manager (H-grade) had reported it to HIS supervisor (I-grade) and the contrast and rate of blinking had actually been increased - so she’d kept her mouth shut from then on.

She needed the money, and obviously jobs were hard to come by.

Once, in the car-park, she’d been told that a man in a suit over THERE was an N-grade, but she didn’t believe that, no N-grader would ever come HERE.

It wasn’t so bad working in a call-centre. They’d once offered to replace her vocal chords when her voice had temporarily gone - titanium web, they said, the Human Resources Manager and the Line-manager (K-grade) both purring softly and offering her drinks - but she’d declined politely, saying she was quite happy with what God had given her, thank you.

She’d never seen either of them after that, so she assumed she must have done something wrong.
Mind, it could have been worse. She’d seen some operators actually glued to their chairs. She’d been able to snatch a quick word with a stranger in the toilets (after they’d turned the taps on and hidden in the cubicles away from the prying gaze of the cameras).

“Catheterised,” her new, instant friend had whispered to her. “They get an extra bonus, go up a grade, wear a little badge with an emerald in it. Fake, of course, but just so everyone knows. And they’re allowed extra portions in the canteen - free!”

Well, she was damned if she was going down that route, even for a fake emerald!

Still, the job had finally got to her. She’d been told that getting her eyeballs out of cold storage would be the sticking point, that this was where they liked to drag their heels, but they hadn’t been too bad about that.

She’d only had to ask twice.

Her pay had been docked, her bonus had disappeared, but it didn’t matter, she was out of there. She’d get a job as a cleaner next time - you did what you had to.

The electrodes had come out last. It was the rumours about THEM that had made her quit.

She’d been off to the toilet once too many times (heavy period, what can you say?) and her response to the young lad’s enquiries (line-supervisor, E-grade) had not been satisfactory. She’d watched her explanations and his disbelieving replies flash up on her VDUs even as he typed them into his hand-held.

“Don’t you believe me?” she’d asked, at which point he’d helpfully turned up the brightness on her VDUs.

Then he’d shrugged.

“Well, you know, it ALL shows,” was all he’d say, but it had set her thinking. She asked around after that, found out more than she really wanted to know.

It had taken a lot of talking to a lot of strangers in the toilets - the canteens were always monitored, they made you sit facing each other through glass screens - but eventually she’d figured out the way it was going to go.

“Happy now?” her husband had asked, and she’d nodded.

The wages were crap, but she was happy.

Networks - she wasn’t going to be a node in their experimental machine.