Snapshot

by Kay Cove

“N-O-E-L.” I say the letters individually. “What?” she asks. “How would you pronounce that?” She narrows her eyes but plays along. “No-Elle.” “Right.” I agree with a quick nod. “That’s what I said when the caller script came in. ‘Good afternoon, am I speaking with Mr. Noel?’” I mimic, in my customer service agent voice. “I was wrong. It was pronounced ‘Noll,’ like rhymes with toll.” “Lennox, where are we going with this?” “Well, I apologized for mispronouncing his name, corrected myself, and asked how I could help him with his policy.” “Okay…” “Then he proceeded to call me an illiterate, uneducated cunt, and told me to use whatever few brain cells I had to transfer him to someone who spoke English. I had his policy details in front of me. He’s seventy-two years old.” Mom’s jaw drops. “That was unnecessary of him.” “No, Mom,” I grumble. “It was actually very necessary. It helped me pull my head out of my ass. I’m not going to spend one more minute at a job that cares more about metrics than their employees getting bullied and harassed. It’s not only today. I have a dozen stories just like it. Every single day, I’m getting metaphorically spit on and slapped in the face. I’ll work the long hours. I’ll come in on weekends. I’ll even scrub toilets. But I’m not going to work a job where I’m not respected like a goddamn human being should be.”