Down the elevator and into the
Boston
spring air he went.
In two strides, Gregg’s footsteps on the industrial carpet faded into the cacophony of perky, placating voices. Tones of assurance and stability emanated from the fuzzy gray cubicles that stretched to the glass-encased horizon. Marissa watched dozens of sleek black headsets bob confidently. Unseen fingers clicked plastic keys to contact the electronic oracle on the twenty-second floor. Marissa’s new computer screen and matching perfect-bound manual seemed mystical indeed. Four days training with Gregg had passed quickly. Calls had been answered, customers appeased, but somehow it had been surreal with Gregg at arms length. Alone now the LEDs on her phone lay dark, waiting for a multi-tentacled machine to decide it was time for her to join the clamor of forced-smiling voices, time to deliver efficient and caring servitude, time to prove she could earn her own way.
The red light flashed silently at first then was joined by a buzzing that sent her hands grasping for the receiver. Lifting it didn’t stop the noise. Finally, she remembered to flip the switch that activated her headset.
Fumbling, heart racing, she paused a bit too long after the line came live. “Thank you for calling Boston Financial Services. My name is Marissa. How can I help you
?
” She forgot to identify herself as a member of the client services group. Whoever reviewed her tapes would catch such a basic mistake on her first call.
“I’ll be amazed if you can, but you can give it a try. This is Hank Johnson and I have a problem with an order I placed on December twenty-eighth.” The gravelly, rumbling voice conjured an image of a large, powerful man.
“Can you describe the problem for me, Sir?”
“Glad to,” he spat. “Your company’s cheating me. Actually, my wife convinced me to give you one last chance. Honestly, I don’t see how you can straighten this out short of admitting you’re thieves. When you prove me right, I’m moving every cent to Fidelity.”
This had to be a test. Someone from client services, a supervisor or a manager, was hiding in another room and playing angry to see how well she could handle a difficult call. She vowed to shine.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sir,” she answered evenly. “Let’s walk through your order and figure out where we’ve gone wrong.”
He plunged in without a second’s hesitation. “I moved ten thousand dollars into your Penguin Small Cap Growth Fund. I bought it at nineteen point two five.” He spoke calmly, his anger bubbling beneath the surface.
Marissa wanted to ask for the ticker, but didn’t dare interrupt. The other CSRs would have known it offhand.
“I’d been watching that fund for months and when it finally dropped below twenty, I placed my order.”
“Ok.”
“Not really. My statement shows the shares were priced at twenty-three point five. I never would have paid that much. I won’t stand for this. I want the shares I have coming or you’ll hear from the attorney general.”
She’d heard the numbers, but his hostile intonation of ‘attorney general’ chased them from memory. Down by her mouse were several blank sheets of scratch paper. She should have been using them to make notes. She glanced up at the idle computer screen as time ticked by. Mr. Johnson was waiting for a reply. He wouldn’t stay quiet long.
Marissa quickly searched for an account with the last name Johnson. There were several screens full. She asked again for his first name, Hank, and found two Hank Johnsons. She asked where Mr. Johnson lived,
Marlborough
, and found no Hank Johnson there. Confused, she felt the heat building in her cheeks, a bead of sweat forming under her bangs, unsure what she had done wrong. When Mr. Johnson rudely suggested she could find him easier with his account number, which he rattled off from the printed statement in his hands, his information flashed up on the screen. The account owner was Elizabeth Johnson of
Marlborough
. Hank was listed as joint tenant. Each mistake, each delay, brought a harsher tone to Mr. Johnson’s voice as if her uncertainty were a mask for the company’s unwillingness to help him. If this were a training exercise, she’d failed. Unfortunately, the dread she felt affirmed that this was more important to Mr. Johnson than a mere exercise.
Seconds passed as she stared at the screen.
There was no transaction on December 28
th
, but there was a transaction for the 29
th
. Marissa reviewed a purchase of PSCX, the mutual fund Mr. Johnson was referring to.
“Are you still with me
?
”
“Yes, Sir. I was just reviewing your purchase on the twenty-ninth.”
“Damn it, I didn’t purchase anything on the twenty-ninth, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes. What’s wrong with you people
?
This is so simple. How can you get it so screwed up
?
”
“Sir, I see a transaction on the twenty-ninth. You purchased four hundred twenty-five point five three shares.”
Johnson hollered so loud Marissa yanked off her headset to save her eardrums. Whatever he said next was unintelligible with the headphones in her outstretched hand. He was still ranting when she re-fitted the earpieces over her ears. “…believe you can actually say that to me with a straight face. I have proof that I called on December twenty-eighth at two o’ seven precisely. If you can’t get that through your head, I’ll fax you my phone bill so even you can see it. I know how simple you are over there!”
The transaction on the screen showed the time of Mr. Johnson’s call as
3:45
p.m.
on the 28
th
, well after the
three o’clock
deadline for mutual fund orders. She was certain he was mistaken. This was the most common problem new customers had. They placed an order after the trading deadline and were annoyed when they were given the following day’s closing price. This should have been a simple problem. It would be for a seasoned CSR.
“Sir, it seems you placed your order after our trading deadline.”
Johnson exploded. “Aren’t you listening
?
I did no such thing! I placed this order at two o’ seven! What part of that don’t you understand
?
”
“Sir, our system shows–”
“I don’t give a damn what your system shows. I placed this order at two o’ seven and I can prove it. Your firm owes me three thousand dollars and if you can’t get that through your head, I’ll sue you along with your slimy, thieving company.”
Marissa stared at the transaction on her screen knowing that if she didn’t come up with some sort of answer, Johnson would start yelling again. She’d felt so proud at the beginning of this day, her last day of training, the day she would receive her first real paycheck. This job hadn’t impressed her parents or her college friends, but Boston Financial Services was a real company. Coming to the thirty-story building in a suit each day had buoyed her pride. An hour ago, she’d thought she was going somewhere, but now she stared numbly at her screen, terrified to speak, unsure about the problem she faced or what to do next.
Johnson lit into her again and she felt a tear inching its way toward the microphone. Strangely, the tears protected her against the stream of insults screaming over the line. Letting go of the professional status she’d been clinging to somehow gave her immunity. She asked him to hold on for her supervisor and set the headset down on the desk, dabbing her eyes as she stood up. She wandered through the blurry maze of gray cubicles to find Gregg.
An hour before, she was eager to win his approval and build from there toward affection. The half-dozen years between them were never a concern. Now she’d be glad for him to save her from the angry man on the phone so she could go back to being the young girl he supplied with fatherly advice.
When Marissa stood up the voices around her dropped to a murmur in respect for a wounded comrade. She retreated from the frenzy of the front lines, fighting to cover the signs of defeat. She refused to dab her eyes as she walked, crumpling the tissue deep inside her fist instead. She refused to sniffle or convulse under the weight of the tears she held back. They all knew. Had they expected her to wash out after ten minutes
?
Had they heard her fear over the low partition walls
?
Did her frustration and anxiety clang over the reassuring voices of the veterans
?
She wondered if this would be her last day at BFS.
The people behind the disapproving glances were no more to Marissa than the churning masses that bustled down the sidewalks. Gregg was the only person that mattered. He was the perfect intersection of potential friend, boss, and wistful after-hours companion. She hunched in his doorway with her eyes on the carpet and waited for him to finish his call. Everyone here seemed to be on the phone constantly.
The high partitions of Gregg’s cubicle made a U shape against the wall of glass that ringed the office. Far below tiny cars and people hurried along under a crystal spring sky. Gregg was secluded from the chaos inside and out. Even standing he’d be barely visible to anyone among the low warren of identical desks beyond. The only person who could watch Gregg work was Jane Wheeler, a manager whose cubicle also abutted the glass and opened toward Gregg’s. Her slow polite nod held more compassion than she’d felt from anyone she’d passed on the way here. Maybe compassion came with the position or vice-versa.
Once Gregg saw Marissa’s face, he abruptly ended his conversation and left his chair. Her makeup was a disaster, but Gregg was at her elbow and there was no place to turn except back through the maze of prying eyes. She wasn’t eager to make that walk alone just now.
“Tough call?” he asked without prompting. “Can I help?”
“He’s holding for you.”
Gregg reached for a notepad. “What do I need to know
?
”
She related the few details she could remember. An experienced agent would have come with the facts, but Gregg didn’t mind. His eyes held no disappointment for her failure just minutes after being left alone. He made no complaint about the sparse details she offered. He listened calmly, thoughtfully and when she was done, he led her back to her desk.
Gregg took her chair, put on the headset he wore around his neck, and plugged it in. He muted Marissa’s headset and handed it to her, tethering her to the conversation, but requiring nothing except that she listen. There wasn’t room for a second chair and her skirt wouldn’t allow sitting on the desktop. She stood silent and tall amid the cubes like a lone sidewalk tree attracting the attention of every dog that passed.
Gregg began in a strong, soothing voice, “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Gregg Turner, a client services supervisor here at BFS. I understand you’re concerned about a recent transaction. I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“I’ll believe that when I’ve got my money back.”
“Before we get to that, please help me understand something
?
”
“Why not
?
” he scoffed.
“Our records show that you spoke to one of our brokers on December twenty-eighth at
three forty-five
p.m
. Marissa
tells me we’ve got it wrong. Can you tell me how you know
?
”