THE SIDE JOB

By Ina Rometsch

                  

      A dimly lit wine bar, just off Colorado Boulevard. No one notices when he slides the envelope across our table for two, past the half-empty glasses. I pick it up and let it drop into my handbag. He always pays in cash.

 “You will have to give me a raise,” I say, flashing him my boldest smile.

 He is unfazed. “I would love to. Really. But I don’t think that is possible at this moment.”

 “I’m valuable.”

 “You are invaluable,” he corrects, crooning flirtatiously.

 “Of course that comes at a price,” I croon back.

 “My hands are tied,” he shrugs, dropping back into his normal voice.

 “I take risks for you. I break the law. I operate in complete secrecy. That should be worth more than 200 bucks a week.”

 “Look, we appreciate the favors you do us while you’re at your office. I wish we could be more generous. But my company has limited financial resources. I cannot change that. It’s love it or leave it, baby.”

 He holds up his glass of California Chardonnay, as if to toast me.

 On the following day, my supervisor at Instant Internet Inc. customer service comes in after my lunch break.

 “Please see me in my office when you are free,” she says with her best poker face. When my supervisor calls me to her office, she usually wants to discuss the scheduling of my shifts. Yet I always worry that she suspects something. That my performance at work might have suffered, due to my little side job. Ten minutes later, I knock at her door. Not waiting for an answer, I open it and walk in.

 “Have a seat,” she says.

 “What’s up?” I ask innocently.

 “As you know, we frequently make recordings of our representatives’ interaction with customers as a means of quality control.”

 Shit. I fake a smile and nod approvingly.

 “I would us like to go over a recent recording of your customer interaction. I think your performance could be, uhh, improved.” She does not look happy.

 She presses a key on her computer keyboard and I can hear my own voice come out of the little white speakers on her desk.

 “Hello, this is your friendly Instant Internet Inc. customer service twenty-four hour helpline. My name is Heavenly Moonbeam.”

 I speak ridiculously slowly, like a child learning to read. This is something I started a few weeks ago, shortly after I received my first envelope in the bar.

 My supervisor leans forward and strikes a key.

 “Let me just pause here for a moment. Since when is your name actually Heavenly Moonbeam? Would you fill me in on that, please?”

 “I changed it recently.”

 “Changed it,” she repeats.

 “I wanted it to be a more authentic reflection of my personality. Hey, this is a free country!”, I smile. It feels so forced it hurts my cheeks.

 She starts the recording again. My voice is back.

 “How can I help you today? Don’t tell me your internet connection failed, haha!”

 I try not to look at my supervisor. A male voice comes on.

 ”Hi, my internet connection has failed this morning, and I can’t get it to work again. It looks like the modem you sent me has broken.”

 “Your name, sir?”

 “David Hay. Hay as in Straw.”

 “And your customer number?”

 “91030228”

 “One moment please, while I bring up your service file on my screen. Here we go. You live on Mill Road in South Pasadena?”

 “Yeah.”

 “And you can’t access the internet?”

 “Correct.”

 “OK now, have you checked that your computer is switched on, David?”

 “Yes.” He seems annoyed now. “There are no lights blinking on the modem. It is connected to a power outlet, but the lights are off. It’s been out for four hours now, and I need it for my work.”

 “Oh, yes. Let me think.” I hear my voice take on a dreamy air. “No internet, huh? I’m pretty sure I have had a case like this before. Sometimes, all sorts of unexpected things happen with technology. I’m so glad my husband deals with it at home! I myself wouldn’t know what to do!”

 “Ah, this is customer service, right?”

 “David, this is your friendly Instant Internet Inc. customer service twenty-four hour helpline. My name is Heavenly Moonbeam.”

 “OK...” He makes it sound like a question.

 “Well then,” I hear my voice again, now unexpectedly animated. “Let’s fix your problem! Get a toothpick and press the tip into the emergency reset button on your modem.”

 There is a pause in the dialogue. Then David Hay is back.

 “OK. I’m doing it. Nothing happens.”

 “Good. Now do it again and at the same time hold the modem up over your head.”

 Silence, then his voice:

 “OK. Nothing.”

 “Very good. Now lift your left foot to your right knee, and move your right arm through the opening under your left kneecap. Now push the button.”

 “Say, what is this?”

 “Is it working?”

 “No!!!” He is yelling now.

 “David, let me suggest we send our highly qualified team of high-tech magicians and self-certified network architects right to your home!”

 “Well, that would be great.” He sounds exhausted.

 “Just let me tell you, sir, that if we send our highly qualified team of experts out, and they find that the problem could have been fixed over the phone, we will have to charge you a nominal fee of 18 dollars and 99 cents per minute for our time.”

 “Look, just send them over, will you?!” He seems highly aggravated.

 “As you wish, David. Our customer is king. The next available appointment will be 35 days from now, on September 24th at 6.45am. Would you like me to put you down for the next available appointment?”

 Silence.

 “David?”

 I hear him hang up with a discreet “click”. 

 “Could you please explain this?” my supervisor asks quietly.

 “I must have had an exceptionally bad day.”

 “That is not a very satisfying explanation. Especially since you did it again the day after. Would you like me to play that one for you, so you can refresh your memory?”

 I shake my head. I wonder what is going to happen next.

 “You’re fired,” she says.

 I do not stay to finish my shift. I drive home and go online to find the phone number of the Los Angeles Times. I feel angry and vindictive. Whose fault is this disaster, anyway?

 Two days later, they print the article. My article. It runs over half a page, and it even has my photo in it. 

 Internet Provider Pays Moles to Destroy Competitors

 by Dean Backet, Times Staff Writer

 The Southland internet provider Online Forever is allegedly bribing customer service representatives under contract with its competitor, Instant Internet Inc.

 The Los Angeles Times obtained exclusive information regarding their business practices from a whistleblower who ended her relationship with both companies. According to the woman, who has left the state for fear of revenge, the workers receive up to 200 dollars per week for their services. In exchange, they treat customers so badly that they are likely to switch providers.

 According to experts, the ex-worker’s revelation offers new insight into the formerly inexplicable behavior and diction of customer service personnel. Some insiders even suggest that these tactics might have infiltrated diverse businesses around the country, unnoticed by the public (...).

 I’ve been out of state for six months now, and I have changed my name again. I now work at the checkout at Rite Aid, I can’t tell you which city. I think it has potential.

Copyright 2007 by Ina Rometsch

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Ina Rometsch is a writer and freelance journalist with a German
passport. She writes for the magazine GEOlino and the German daily
Hamburger Abendblatt. Her essays about life in Los Angeles have
appeared in Szene Hamburg, a city magazine. This is her first English-
language fiction story. Ina lives in L.A. and – in summer – in rainy
Hamburg, Germany.