Human Services

sure, call it a complex

Photo by Michael Jasmund on Unsplash

“Answer the phones, record the calls, transfer callers to the attorneys. That’s all you have to do David! And you can take a break every 90 minutes.” The HR lady’s voice was too cheerful, her fluffy hair too red for the room.

David pulled on the headset she offered and craned his neck to look around. Cubicle walls led away in every direction, a sea of miserable little squares. In each square, the top of a head bobbled, all wearing the same headset. The hum of hushed voices and the soft beep of phones with muffled rings filled the air.

Beige walls, beige ceiling tiles, no windows. Beige carpet, with a grey track worn down the middle by thousands of shoes. The office— at least this part of the office— looked like it needed to be scrubbed. Maybe there was white paint under there, yellowed to that unappetizing beige by age and suffering. David wondered where “the attorneys” worked. He doubted their office looked like this.

The screen in front of him lit up with a name and phone number. He looked over his shoulder for help but HR was long gone. He watched her bright red hair bouncing around a beige corner.

When he pressed the button to answer his phone, the screen displayed a scrolling list of questions. David read the questions out loud and the caller tried to answer. Everything she said was transcribed on the screen in front of him, so he heard and read her words at the same time. Her story enveloped him.

The caller barely spoke English. She was working as a nanny but it seemed like they were cheating her wages. Her husband had been arrested or maybe deported. Her kids were out of school because the school had asked them for social security numbers and they didn’t have any. In the back of his mind, he wondered if this was a training call— surely no one could experience every single one of these problems concurrently.

He made it through the list of questions, some of which she couldn’t understand or answer, and when he finished he transferred her call to “the attorneys.” At least she had called the right number. At least she would get help.

As his computer screen lit up with caller after caller, David learned that the number of issues a person could experience at once was actually infinite. The ways the world could hurt stacked up, new problems balancing precariously on top of the problems that had already taken root.

Each person who called was having the worst day of their life, and each day was worse than the one before. Families were about to be evicted, or had just been evicted, or had been evicted months ago and lived in a car. Mothers had children who were suicidal; children had mothers who were alcoholics. People lost their dogs and their jobs and their marriages. Apartment buildings burned down and boyfriends couldn’t manage their tempers. Old people broke apart in all sorts of ways. Babies got sick, got lost, got stolen.

When they asked him their desperate questions, he answered with more questions. The struggling callers struggled to answer, and the endless probing script stuck in David’s chest.

About when did that happen, to the best of your recollection?

Do you still have that paperwork, to the best of your recollection?

Did the landlord threaten you, to the best of your recollection?

By the time his break came, David was inside out. He felt mechanical and invasive asking the canned questions on the screen. He felt helpless, going through his stupid script then sending the caller to someone else so they could tell their story again. In ninety minutes he had experienced more human suffering than in the entirety of his life until that moment.

The break room was appropriately wretched. An ancient vending machine, half full of Nutri-Grain Bars, blinked on and off. Grim legal notices papered the walls: Your Guide to Workman’s Compensation and Disability Benefits, Prevent COVID-19 in the Workplace, Sexual Harassment Is Not A Joke, an HR newsletter from 2020. He skimmed the newsletter, pressing flat its curled corners, hoping it would explain how this place worked. He wanted a success story, someone’s life improved in some real way because they called in. But it was only deadline reminders, donor appreciation, and someone’s recipe of the month.

Two other operators were huddled around a coffee pot. He could tell because of the way the headsets had permanently dented their hair. He saw the puff of white smoke as one dumped powdered creamer into her cup. The other one looked at him and smiled, but it was a smile from the bottom of a well. She seemed so exhausted, he couldn’t bear to ask her any more questions about this horrible job. The two women dragged themselves back to their desks, paper cups in hand, nodding at David on the way out.

At the far end of the break room, a door was marked Emergency Exit. David craved fresh air and sunlight. Honestly he had never needed to vape so hard in his life. He hoped there wouldn’t be an alarm on the door, but given the state of the place he thought he could take the risk. He looked behind him and the break room was empty. The worst thing that could happen is he would get locked out.

No, the worst thing was he could get fired. David’s chest swelled with self-righteousness at the imagined firing. What kind of fascist organization would fire a human for needing to see the sun? He secretly hoped it was this one.

He pushed against the door and it flew open, causing him to lose his balance. The door shut behind him with a quiet click. No alarm, but he wasn’t outside.

He was in a dark room, but he could make out that it was very large. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he noticed it was full of people, all lying on their backs on identical mats. Some kind of yoga or meditation class.

The people were mostly older, white hair and skin to match, dressed in loose white robes. Everyone was wearing noise-cancelling headphones.

He reached behind him for the door but he could not make himself leave. More of the room came into focus. The ceiling rose to a dome shape and the air smelled like flowers and herbs. The floor was pleasantly cushioned, bouncing against his feet. The rounded walls were covered in soft, sound-dampening tiles. He wondered if it was supposed to be for managers only.

Along the wall, a row of robes hung on hooks, with a neat line of shoes underneath. David was not into yoga, but after the stress of the morning, he welcomed the chance to lie down and rest. He slipped off his shoes and pulled a robe over his clothes.

As he did, a man near him slowly emerged from his trance and sat up on the mat. David froze, his back pressed to the wall. The man sat cross-legged for a moment with his eyes closed, then bowed to himself and removed the headphones.

He regarded David with sleepy but kind eyes and whispered, “Afternoon, partner. I guess you have this station after me. You’re certainly punctual.”

David nodded and mumbled thanks. He wasn’t going to ask questions that would get him fired.

The man approached to hand David the headphones, but he paused when he noticed David’s pants sticking out of the bottom of the robe.

“Gets chilly in here, right? But I do recommend taking your street clothes off. You get a much more immersive experience.”

“Oh. Yeah.” David said with a forced smile.

“You know what, it really doesn’t matter, does it? There is nothing more restorative than an hour in the dome— pants or no pants. You simply cannot get a better perspective on life, amiright? What donor tier are you? Do you get an hour?”

David looked at him blankly.

“You know what man, you’re right. That is a rude question. We should all just be glad we’re here. Appreciate the feedback, partner.” He squeezed David’s shoulder and left through a different door.

David stood still for a moment, headphones in hand. So this room was for donors. Kind of a weird perk, but whatever brought in the bucks was fine with him. These people were paying his salary.

He knew he would definitely get fired if he got caught in here; no self-righteousness would save him from creeping into the donors’ lounge. But he found he couldn’t resist. Sure, give me a different perspective on this hellish world. He lay on the mat and pulled the huge headphones over his ears.

The sound was not monks chanting, gentle bells, or ocean waves. It was a woman crying. He couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then he heard another voice.

“Who was in that meeting with you, to the best of your recollection?”

Nausea rolled over David as he heard the caller struggle to answer the question. He sat up but no one around him stirred. They all simply laid back, beatific smiles on pale faces, and listened peacefully to the music of suffering.