Calling all Klingons

While tossing ATM receipts, table napkins and other junk from my workbag last night, I realized that I had not received a monthly statement for one of the services I subscribe to. So I called the service’s 24-hour helpline, where an automated voice enunciated the amount of the payment due. The amount struck me as excessive, so I decided to talk to an operator.

After a short wait — it was close to midnight — an agent took my call.

“Hi,” I said. “I didn’t receive my statement this month. How much is my bill?” Just to be sure.

The perky male voice said something that was rendered incomprehensible by a fake American accent. I am told that many call centers have their agents put on American accents because if the caller is American, she will prefer to communicate with someone who sounds American. It is not enough to be fluent in the English language, one must speak it the way they do in Idaho.

This is why the rest of the world has a problem with the USA, and why the international community is grateful to have the cosmopolite Barack Obama to deal with. So grateful that they give him the Nobel Peace Prize to encourage him toward improving relations among countries. Relations among countries cannot prosper if one country insists that everyone should think and sound like them. Among other things, the Nobel Prize is the Norwegians’ way of telling Obama, “We really hated W.”

Back to the actual conversation.

“Excuse me?” I asked the call center agent.

“Wrshwrshwrsh number?” I had already typed it when prompted by the automated voice, but this must be their procedure. I gave the number.

“Wrshwrshwrsh name?” I gave the name.

More wrshwrsh. I wanted to say, “Tagalugin mo na lang kaya para magka-intindihan tayo” but that would hurt his feelings and bring up class resentments I don’t want to deal with while I’m getting my bill. I am in the income range that worries about bills. Also I should try to be sensitive to others.

If you speak English fluently in Manila, people will automatically give you a class upgrade far above your socio-economic capabilities. Thank you, Sesame Street, for the proficiency, and Woody Allen movies of my childhood for the intonation. I started with Take the Money and Run.

The agent repeated the amount the automaton had given me. “That’s twice the amount I’m usually billed per month. May I know what extra charges I incurred?”

“Wrshwrshwrsh nyernyernyer.” Suddenly I missed the Swedish chef on The Muppet Show. But I thought I was getting the agent’s drift: he was saying he would look up my payment history.

Then the light bulb went on above my head. “Oh, I know, that bill must be for two months,” I told the agent, thus resolving my own issue.

Over the years I’ve learned that the role of the call center is like that of a college lecturer: to prompt you with questions that make you rack your brain and come up with your own answers.

“Sir, wrshwrshwrsh generated in February 2009.” Yes, I am customarily referred to as “Sir.” It’s because my voice is low. It comes from having grown up among people who were yelling all the time. They took up the higher frequencies that hurt the ears of dogs, so I was left with the lower register. Also I have been told that my tone is... autocratic, which may explain why I am sometimes accused of oppressing my fellow humans. Not that they ever tell me directly, they just slink away and tell other people I have oppressed them. Which is funny because I am not in a position to oppress anyone. It’s a good thing I can’t afford a housemaid, or she’d be running to an AM station on a regular basis to report on how I’ve maltreated her. With my voice.

“February 2009?” I said. “Isn’t it already October 2009?” You never know when you might walk into a time warp and land in the past.

“Yes, sir, but if you look at your monthly statement in February 2009…”

“How am I going to look at it when I don’t have my February statement? I paid it, then I threw it away. I don’t keep my bills for souvenirs.”

I do “file” the receipts, i.e. I stick them in a drawer and try to make sense of them later.

The agent said, “Generated in February 2009 nyernyernyer.”

“Are you saying that I incurred a charge in February that I’m being billed for only now?”

“Urghurghurgh March 2009.”

I interrupted him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.” On at least two levels, though I didn’t say so. “If you’re saying I didn’t pay my bill in February, wouldn’t you have disconnected me by October?”

“Wrshwrshwrshwrsh nyernyerner urghurghurgh...”

Was that Klingon? Where’s my Klingon dictionary? No, it’s not guttural enough; Klingon’s more like “Hshlaaakh.” Maybe I was in that Twilight Zone episode where you wake up in the morning and the meanings of all the words have changed, so “lunchbox” is now “dinosaur.”

“Stop. Please stop. Did I pay that February bill you keep talking about?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then why are you even bringing it up?”

He launched into long explanation that was completely lost on me because it was obscured by accent. Halfway through he switched to Tagalog and I saw the end of the tunnel.

“So you’re saying that I’ve been paying the bill after the due date, and it stacks up, hence this current bill is actually for two months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why didn’t you just say so? I asked you if this bill is for two months. You could’ve said yes right there and spared us both this conversation. No, no, don’t answer that! Thank you. I’ll pay my bill tomorrow. Goodbye.”