‘Good afternoon, sir. How can’t I help you?’
I’ve been on hold for so long that I’ve celebrated a birthday and my hand has formed a permanent claw around the phone. I need answers but now I can’t remember which bit of technology was refusing to obey me. Must be that computer thing.
I have proved my identity to four generations of call centre workers in as many continents. I have recited 70-digit codes from the back of every blinking light-covered box in the house. My journey has led me to you. Please, please tell me which button to push to make this thing work.
“Yes of course sir. That will be impossible.”
Who are you, you evil robot? Where are you? You sound Scottish, maybe Asian. I can almost see you there in your veal-fattening pen with your headset embedded in your skull, being irradiated by the glow of your VDU. I don’t hate you, but you’re making my life hell.
If I knew how to work this thing I would not be on the phone to you in the first place, so please talk to me like I am a child, tell me everything is going to be okay. Do not ask me questions that would require a degree in computer-type things to answer. And for god’s sake do not transfer me to another department in an other time zone.
Call Centre Robots are a fact of life, but what sort of life? Every time I attempt to communicate with them, I try to picture the person I’m talking to. I see a face as featureless as an egg with a speaking slit, sitting on top of a grey jumpsuit. I’m not brave enough for this new world.
by Rory O’Keeffe
Illustration by Eoin Coveney
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