CARTER'S DUTY: WILLIAM CARTER
III
Chapter 07 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
It was Monday morning, and like any other morning of the week
Will wanted to shoot himself a dozen times before he brushed his teeth. There
was a morning ritual that Will went through each day and it usually started
with a bleary-eyed stumble down two flights of stairs to the coffee pot in
the vain hope to beat Andrew to it so that he could prepare a real pot. More
often than not Andrew was up first, his well-developed habit of being up at
the crack of dawn had to come from being raised on a farm. Will just couldn't
do it; he came from a household that had existed on coffee, stress and late
night TV. If he had his way it would be rare he saw the crack of nine, let
alone dawn.
Andrew had liberated the paper, much to Will's annoyance. He
wasn't in the best of tempers before his first mug of coffee and his morning
paper; it allowed him to gather the strength he needed to face the day. He
shuffled to the table, sat down and accepted the mug Andrew pushed over to
him with a grunt of thanks. He couldn't manage articulation at that moment,
his head throbbed painfully and he needed the kick-start caffeine gave him.
Andrew was used to Will's reluctant acceptance of mornings,
especially Mondays. He returned to the Citizen's sports section and his bagel.
He generally preferred to wait until the first cup of coffee had been ingested
before he even attempted conversation with Will. While he was engrossed in
an article that sang the praises of the Sen's potential to bring home the
Cup, he missed Will's look of distaste as he sampled the coffee, and the glare
of accusation that blamed Andrew's rural upbringing for all the woes in the
world.
The front door banged, as Peter charged his way into the house,
already making a bee-line right for the X-box and the couch. Summer holiday's
were in full swing for him and since he was practically part of the family,
this meant he had a right to stake a claim to summer fun his way.
"Don't you have a home to go to?" Will commented with
a shake of his head as he tried desperately to keep the coffee down.
"Yeah, but Mom nag's me to go out," Peter said booting
up the latest video game he had bought, "Says its too nice to stay in."
Will blinked and looked over at Andrew who was laughing, "Did
I miss something?"
It was only after he had showered that Will began to feel more
human. He actually developed what passed for a good mood on a weekday morning.
That mood soured however almost as soon as the Jeep hit the Queensway. It
was hot, Andrew was being particularly aggravating as he flipped through the
radio stations, and the car had moved exactly three feet in the last half
hour.
Highway 417 or the "Queensway" had been built to allow
easy access to the downtown core, but engineering oversights when it had been
built, a decided lack of vision on the part of city planners and the near
unending cycle of construction and servicing had turned it into Ottawa's largest
parking lot. If Will had any sense he would put the car in park and walk the
rest of the way to work. At the rate they were going it would take him all
day just to get there.
In frustration, he turned the car into the emergency lane on
the side of the highway; he tried to get to the St. Nicholas street exit ramp
before a police cruiser saw him. Andrew stared at him curiously; it was rare
Will lost his temper, let alone drove recklessly, and Andrew tried not to
laugh.
Will ignored him, angry that he had to take this route to work.
He took malicious joy in cutting off a Mercedes with red diplomatic plates
as he accelerated up to the intersection, glad to finally make some progress
that morning.
When they pulled up at the School, Andrew couldn't hide the
humour at Will's sour mood. "Woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning
then?" He asked cheerfully leaning over to kiss Will good-bye, "Can
you pick me up after you're done work?"
Will's face softened a little as he looked at Andrew, that was
always the case when he looked into those eyes, Andrew just had a way of defusing
anger with a look. Grumpy or not, Will couldn't help but smile at the man
he loved, "All right, I'll try to be early."
When he finally arrived at work he noted he was still on time
as he slung the car into visitors parking. It was a quick sprint through the
security doors and along the endless aisles of telephone stations to his office.
He tried not to think about the environment. There was something generic about
call centres the world over, a total lack of aesthetics that seemed to draw
the life out of anyone who spent too much time in one.
The Ottawa call centre had been put together seven years ago
and hadn't been maintained since. The yellowed ceiling tiles sagged as they
threatened to spill the hidden miles of cables lurking in the small crawl
spaces above their heads. The paint on the walls was more yellow now than
white and marked in places by the scuffmarks from an agent's sneakers left
there years before as their idea of a legacy.
The trenches, as Will liked to think of them, because the cubicles
were the exact height of the trenches in Northern France, were manned by so
many young faces. They leaned on the battered partition walls scarred by so
much graffiti that it was nearly impossible to tell what they had looked like
in their prime so many years before. Their faces lacked any expression of
emotion and they watched him walk past with half-hearted nods. Shell shocked
and fatigued.
He couldn't help but wonder what it had been like for his great
grandfather in the real trenches. War weary troops under his command that
waited for the dreaded order of up and over just for a few precious feet of
land. But there had been a purpose to that conflict, a noble cause. Here,
in these trenches there was no such redemption. There was only the knowledge
that when you lost, a piece of your soul was lost as well.
He realized he was tired as well, bone tired. The kind of tired
that came with the knowledge that what you did day in and day out would yield
nothing. No one would write a poem about the telemarketer, no one would remember
the souls that died in those trenches day after day. They traded their lives
for a bi-weekly paycheque that barely covered expenses. And he put them there.
He cursed when he saw his boss, Scott Anderson standing by the
door eying his watch. It wasn't that Will was late, he always allotted two
hours of commute time to reach the office, usually that was sufficient for
him to arrive half an hour early each day, and if the traffic was bad he would
arrive on time. Scott Anderson didn't understand that, he expected Will to
be half an hour early every day, he did not particularly care that he didn't
pay Will for that time.
Will navigated his way around Scott to enter his office, and
he set his briefcase on a chair. He picked up a clipboard of figures that
his assistant Alicia had left in his inbox and tried his best to ignore Scott's
impatient looks as Will walked to the wall charts he meticulously maintained
and began entering each number. It was the same each morning; Scott would
have to wait impatiently until Will entered each number. Will took his time
with it, as he made Scott wait. He laboured over the number charts a moment
before looking at the operations manager.
"Are we set for today?" Will asked as he set the clipboard
aside and smiled politely.
Scott seemed agitated, but Will reflected that the man was always
agitated. Scott seemed to live with paranoia for his own job; he always seemed
to be looking over his shoulder. It was as if he knew that all the incompetent
decisions he made lurked behind him and just waited to pounce on him when
his attention lapsed. It wasn't that Scott was a bad manager; he just lacked
the people skills needed to do his job. Despite all his intentions, it just
seemed that his actions always had the opposite and ultimately detrimental
effect. That day was no different; he was under the microscope as the top
brass were expected to put in an appearance to maintain the illusion that
they actually gave a damn about the service centre, Scott needed them to see
that he was in control, even though he never was.
"Yes, I've loaded a fresh calling list so we should have
a busy day." He sat down in one of the chairs without invitation, a habit
that bothered Will immensely. "I need you out on the floor today coaching
people."
Will rolled his eyes as he picked up his appointment book, "I'll
do what I can," he replied as he looked down at the full schedule, "I'm
doing interviews today though." Will vainly hoped Scott would remember
that he hired him on as a Human Resource Manager, but as usual that fact seemed
to elude him.
"I need you out on the floor today," it was as if
Scott believed that by repeating his request he would persuade Will to do
it.
It didn't, and Will was reminded of a child's that demanded
candy, repeat it enough and you will convince them.
Will had no intention to repeat the argument they had daily
on the duties and focus of a Human Resource Manager. He looked up and gave
a resigned incline of his head, "I'll join Ken and take the red side."
The trenches were divided into two sections, Blue handled the
residential sales, and the red the business sales. While Blue was a mixture
of agents Red was reserved for the veteran salesmen, and Will had come to
know that it required less attention to coach.
"See that you work with as many people as you can."
Scott said as he turned and marched away, leaving Will to slump into his office
chair and stare out of the large bay window at the street beyond.
"What did his majesty want?" Ken asked as he leaned
on the doorframe, the monitor headset askew like the rest of his appearance.
Ken was in his late forties and had been a part of the Ottawa
call centre almost as long as there had been a call centre there. The man
was an excellent sales coach and the new hires truly loved him. Unfortunately
he lacked the one key skill that allowed people to rise to management in a
sales environment: ambition. Will had been promoted over Ken to run Human
Resources, but he still relied heavily on Ken's experience to ensure that
things ran smoothly. There was a bond between the two men, a shared camaraderie
that came with fighting a loosing battle together.
"The usual," Will replied as he turned his chair and
put a foot on the brace of the broad desk, unorthodox, but it made him feel
marginally better. "He wants me out on the floor today rallying the troops."
"As if you don't have enough to do." Ken was sympathetic,
he knew better than anyone how much work Will battled through in the course
of a day, "I booked four more interviews for you for this afternoon."
He walked to a shelf and pulled out a yellow binder that contained the training
schedule and he showed the four names he had added.
Will glanced at them and nodded, "More meat for the grinder,"
as he humourlessly made a correction in the book.
The turn over rate of the call centre was almost as high as
a world war one attrition report. One of his wall charts tracked the people
hired against the people terminated. So long as the blue equalled the red
they would be all right, there were a couple of weeks around Christmas of
the last year where the red numbers doubled the blue.
Scott Anderson had decided to substitute pink slips for bonuses
that year. A demented Christmas elf that merrily chortled Happy Christmas
you're fired as he handed out his stocking stuffers. Everyone in the call
centre had wished for the same thing that year, and unfortunately that was
one Christmas wish that hadn't come true.
But for the most part, the numbers balanced, which Will took
to mean he was doing his job, and Scott Anderson took as an excuse to criticize
the hiring process and cut the advertising budget again.
"Stations!" Brad, the agent supervisor's voice boomed
over the top of the call centre. It was that dreaded moment when the day would
start that sent agents scurrying to their seats. For a brief moment it was
pandemonium, as everyone seemed to move at once, the cafeteria emptying of
as a rush of people reluctantly made their way to their stations.
Will looked reluctantly at Ken, who adjusted his head set on
his head, and the pair made their way to the stand beside the supervisor's
console. Will reached down and recovered a second agent monitor headset that
he slipped on as the agents quieted down to listen to the kick off speech.
It was the same each day; Will had memorized the completely
useless speech that was supposed to motivate the hundred or so agents that
had bothered to turn up, and galvanize them into sales people. Most of them
just looked bored.
"I have exciting news," Brad said loudly, "we
hit our sales target yesterday, give yourselves a hand." One lone person
clapped, but Brad pretended he didn't notice the lack of enthusiasm and carried
on with his speech, "Today we have brand new leads on the circus campaigns
and I want to see some good sales out of each of you."
Will rested on a cubical partition and allowed his eyes to wander
around the room at the employees. They were a cross section of the strangest
people. Most looked like the belonged in an inner city high school or a jail,
Will couldn't tell the difference any more with all the bars, barbed wire
and security guards. Some looked like out patients from a mental ward, complete
with unwashed clothes two sizes too small and nervous twitches. And others
looked like they would rather be anywhere else but where they were. Motivated
was the last word Will would use to describe them.
Brad continued with some sales tips that he must have read somewhere
and felt would help the agents close deals. Will could see that Brad tried
to emulate the boiler room speech, pump up their excitement and prepare them
for their day. As usual the effort was wasted on his audience. When Scott
decided to interrupt and take over the speech Brad fell silent and Will caught
the look of annoyance he exchanged with Jamie the other supervisor.
Scott enjoyed stealing the show from Brad; it gave him the perverse
pleasure to remind Brad who ran the call centre. It might have worked had
Scott been able to motivate anyone, or even say something new. Instead he
spoke verbatim the same speech he used every day. In five minutes he turned
a lack of motivation into a state of catatonia.
"I think he just loves the sound of his own voice."
Ken murmured equally unimpressed.
"A king holding court," Will agreed as he checked
his watch, and noted that a half an hour had elapsed he desperately needed
to get started on with his work.
"...And remember to show excitement, smile as you dial,
let's get logged in and make lots of sales!" Scott rounded, in his own
opinion utterly triumphant.
Will didn't meet his gaze as Scott walked out into the trenches;
instead he beat a steady retreat back to his office to get organized for a
full day.
As he sat down he looked straight through the office door to
the main entrance, an advantageous position for an interviewer who had to
keep an eye out for potential employees that looked lost when they realized
there was no reception. But instead of a lost soul he saw his personal assistant
slip through the doors unobserved and try to scurry to her desk before the
operations manager saw her and commented on her tardiness. She had no idea
that he circled the floor and her present course would bring her directly
into his path.
Will had to act quickly, he stood up and punched a station code
into the monitoring head set; an agent was trying to convince a little old
to donate money to send some needy child to a baseball game that summer. That
or buy the shareholders upstairs more of their favourite coffee, but she didn't
need to know that.
"Stand up!" he ordered, as he thumbed the talk button,
knowing that only the agent could hear him.
Duncan, Will's teammate from Sunday cricket and consequently
the sales rep, didn't miss a beat in his presentation as he rose to continue
his pitch. Scott Anderson stopped his patrol to clap Duncan on the back, his
attention diverted he didn't see Alicia make it to her desk and stuff her
jacket out of sight. She had seen the manoeuvre and mouthed the words "Thanks"
as she collected her files and walked into his office.
"Alicia says thank you, Duncan." Will relayed, looking
to where Duncan threw cheery thumbs up in his direction as Scott continued
his prowl of the phone country.
Will clicked off the monitor and sat down, as Alicia perched
herself on the edge of his desk, "I mistimed the Buses." She offered.
"I don't care," he replied honestly, "It's not
me you have to worry about."
Alicia was a Goth, punk, skater girl who was an unusual choice
for a Personal Assistant. Will hadn't hired her, his last PA Joanne had trained
her and assured him she was reliable. She had yet to live up to that glowing
recommendation, consistently late and her work was often hurried, Will would
have commented on it had he cared about her work. Alicia was a friend and
one of the few people that ignored his stuffy British "I'm the boss you're
the employee" attitude. He enjoyed her company as well; she was one of
the few intelligent people he worked with.
"Did he ask where I was?" she asked, a note of fear
crept into her voice as she looked towards Scott who was trying to offer advice
on how to sell to someone that didn't want or need the advice.
Will shook his head, "He is too busy pretending to be important.
The board are making an appearance today."
"They're not on the golf course?" She asked incredulously.
"Not today, it's their bi-annual "I think I'll go
to work" day." He said as he flipped open the email program on the
computer "Did you tally yesterday's absentees?"
"Forty-four." She replied, "Out of one hundred
and fifty scheduled. Only five actually bothered to call in with an excuse."
Will rubbed his forehead exasperatedly, apathy was the worst
cause of call centre attrition and when he lost nearly a third of the staff
to it on a daily basis, it was a source of much of his own frustration. He
reached across his desk to the pad of termination slips, he hated this part
of the day, it was the part where he tallied the daily staff losses. He knew
they simply didn't want to come back to work, and he knew the reason for it.
Scott Anderson was still circling the call centre.
"I don't suppose I could get you to fetch me a cup of coffee
could I?" he asked hopefully. Alicia had never, as long as she had worked
for him, actually brought him a cup, but he lived in hope.
"You drink too much coffee," she replied as she began
to update the figures on the clipboard, "how's Andrew?"
Will began to really hate that question; too many people were
using it as a way to change the topic of conversation on him. "He's Andrew."
He replied testily, "He is the same today as he was yesterday and the
day before!"
"I'll go get you a cup of coffee," holding up her
hands as if to ward off his anger, "sorry Mister Carter!!!"
He was astounded; he had never raised his voice to her before
and was shocked to actually see it make her run to get work done. He would
have to try that more often, it was effective.
He returned to his computer, opened his mail and responded to
the important pieces. He ignored the endless stream of spam that promised
him everything from a mortgage to an extra three inches. He wasn't sure how
they had found his work email, but they had and now his PC was under daily
siege from the one form of advertising more insidious than telemarketing.
It was retribution he supposed for the fact that he trained and hired droves
of telemarketers to disturb the dinners of millions.
He personally hated telemarketers, they usually chose to wake
him up at nine o'clock every Saturday morning to offer him a subscription
to a paper he already had or for him to donate money to causes great and small
where sixteen cents on the dollar actually went to the charity and the rest
went to putting gas into the managing directors Bentley or to pay people like
him. After working in a call centre he never again fell into that trap. Charity
was nothing but big business in sheep's clothing.
The company he worked for prided itself on the fact that it
sent children to shows. They charged thirty dollars per child and raised about
thirty grand in revenue a day. Will had seen the send out list; three hundred
children had been selected to actually attend the event. When he considered
the campaign had lasted a month, the maths didn't add up, where did all the
excess money go? The answer left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was his
job, it paid the bills and that was the only important thing.
He rested his head on his hand and stared at the computer screen
a moment before he got up, his first interview was due and there was still
no sign of Alicia with his coffee. But even if it had arrived, he wouldn't
have had a chance to drink that coffee. The large doors that separated phone-country
from the managers had just opened to admit the board of directors. Will uttered
a curse, put on his best smile and walked forward to great them.
