Call Centre Confessional : Monday, 1st March, 2010

“When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter.” Groundhog Day. Bill Murray. Being sarcastic. And surrounded by people he thinks are mostly cunts.

“I told you. I wake up every day, right here, right in Punxsutawney, and it's always February 2nd, and there's nothing I can do about it.”

Every day is the same. Each day, as I clock into my computer and my phone turret each morning, I have to ask myself, How did I get into this awful mess? Like Bill Murray, I am forever destined to wake up, in a cold, miserably gray Northern city, and go to work in a call centre. Any call centre. Forever and ever. Amen.

My name is Abbas, and I am in my early 30s. Just about. It is 2010. In the decade that has passed, I have lost my youth, my looks, and some of my sanity, but mostly I’ve lost a decade, wasted in about 15 different call centres, in between trying to escape from my dire circumstances by developing careers in journalism, sales and the law. Nothing has worked. I keep coming back to the same dry well to get a few, precious drips of water, ekeing pennies, condemned forever to spend my days repeating inane phrases like “Hello, my name is Abbas, how can I help?” for a succession of literally thousands of people, princes and paupers, who do not care whether I live or die.

The call centres of this town.....they are places, factories where hope and the human spirit is crushed. People are forced to conform, tied to their desks and monitored via stats churned out from the activities conducted on their phone turrets and PCs. This is prison for the free.

And talent, well, that is no guarantee of freedom, no sir. I know one man who spends every single minute of his waking life thinking about or performing poetry outside of his job answering financial services calls for a bank, and another, one of the most gifted musicians and artists I have ever met, who has worked a succession of call centres across this cold wet land over a the course of nearly 20 years. Visit these places, and you shall meet countless people who deserve more, but because of some mysterious force which crushes the soul in these offices of banks, insurers, and retail services, they end up setting for much, much less than they deserve.

So, consider this the diary of an imprisoned, condemned man. I tried climbing out, but the harder I tried, the more stuck I became, like quicksand into a spiral of huge debts. I ask myself, if I'm so smart, why am I not free?

Anyway, so here I am. I currently work at the RAC. It's week 3. And here's the setup. Plain as you like. I'm going to give things one last shot at escape. This is my last call centre, so help me god. I'm going to get out of here, if it's the last thing I do.