Green Minitch Time

 

Newly minted call centre with inexperienced representatives and inexperienced supervisors – a formula for some really entertaining moments. Prepaid cellphone customers were a snap to deal with. Most of the calls were just to add time to their phone. The upset callers invariably had some issue with how their minutes all got used up so fast.

It must have been within my first couple of weeks on the job when I got a guy complaining about the call log. The time stamps on our call logs were all in Greenwich Mean Time. Whose bright idea that was, I have no idea. That was an invitation to confusion. He said he could not have possibly made those calls because he was asleep at the time those calls were made.

With my several weeks of experience, I explained to him that we used Greenwich Mean Time, which was a great deal different than the corresponding time in the United States. I thought I was making sense, but he didn't want to buy it from me. He demanded a supervisor.

My supervisor, of course, was almost as green as I was. He took over the call, and I got to stand around waiting to get my seat back, listening to the supervisor's end of the conversation. He sounded totally full of crap. I probably did too, but at least I knew what Greenwich Mean Time was called, even if I didn't know how many hours different it was from say, Eastern Standard. He kept telling the customer over and over about Green Minitch (rhymes with spinach) Time. I thought it was so funny that by the time he finished, I was fit to bust.

Several other employees and I teased him about it mercilessly. When, for morale, the company wanted us to create team names, I suggested the Green Minitch Morons, putting several of us in stitches. The supervisor was a good sport about it, though. Those were the days when call centre work was still fun for most of us.

Drunk Credit Card Application

 

This call came in late at night. The phones were so quiet that the whole department got to listen to me in action on this one. It lasted approximately an hour (Way longer than it should).

The man was obviously drunk, and I doubt he even vaguely remembered the call in the morning. I wasn't allowed to point out that fact and refuse to help him. I wasn't worried. What are the chances a drunk is going to get all the way through the process?

The first thing we have to do is collect the necessary personal information. He argued belligerently for a while about giving private information over the phone, not because he didn't want to provide it but because his addled mind found giving me a hard time highly entertaining. I'm surprised we even got through that. Every time I offered to bail out on him, he calmed down and continued on.

After filling out the initial form, sometimes the system will offer security questions provided by the credit reporting agencies. He had to go through that. I smiled when they came up, figuring there was no way he would agree to answer the questions or he'd get them wrong, and we'd be done. He again was deliberately difficult, but he passed the questions.

The last step was reading the legal disclosure before submitting the application. This is long and boring. He kept interrupting me, asking idiotic questions. At the end, I thought for sure he was going to decide not to submit the application; I've had lots of customers bail out at that point. He surprised me by saying he wanted to go ahead.

Everybody sitting around me about fell on the floor, first in shock and then with laughter. The man's application came back fully approved. I wonder what he thought when his card arrived in the mail.

Several teammates congratulated me on not losing my cool on the call.

Amazon Delivery To Nowhere

 

Last evening, an Amazon delivery truck whipped on past our place like he knew where he was going. My wife is expecting a package, so we figured he missed the street number and would soon be back. Delivery truck don’t normally come here, unless they are bringing us something. We are the only full-time residents living on our road, and we are at the edge of civilization. 

About a half hour later, I asked if anyone remembered that truck coming back out again. Nobody saw him leave but he couldn’t still be out there. Could he?

My wife went out for her evening walk with my youngest son. On the way back, they met an Indian fellow with a blaze orange safety vest walking down the road. Turns out he got stuck way back in there, and was walking because he couldn’t get any cell service.

While Francine went inside and got on our phone to call the local farmer to see if we could find someone to fish him out. I got to talk to him. He showed me on Google maps where he got stuck.

“What were you doing all the way back there?”

Turns out he had instructions to deliver a package to an address on St. Andrew’s Road. I think maybe Amazon has a new program for getting rid of immigrants. St. Andrew’s Road is a short snowmobile/ATV trail connecting two other snowmobile/ATV trails. There are no civic addresses out there at all. Most people living in the area have never heard of it. Fortunately, he didn’t run into a mother bear with cubs (it is the time of year for that) on his thirty minute walk to our place. In my experience, these Indian Amazon drivers don’t like to go far off the beaten path. Kudos to this guy for making that much of an effort. I happen to know that if they get stuck like this, Amazon is no help at all. They’re on their own.

One of the farmhands was available to go get him with the tractor. We’re pretty redneck back here, but we aren’t intentionally cruel to strangers.

I Could Not Possibly Make This Up

A young man called me to apply for a credit card and told me his last name was Fryingpan. Fryingpan? Are you kidding me? I initially thought he was putting me on. He passed security identification questions, though. Out of curiosity, I did a search of that last name on Facebook. Sure enough, there are a whole bunch of Fryingpans living in Alberta, Canada.

That by far isn't the only unusual last name that I've come across, Little Moustache, Weasel Fat, Big Ornery Horse, as well as a few that can't be printed in this kind of article without risking offending someone. How do people end up with these names? It was a challenge to keep a straight face while serving some of these customers.

I have decided that Mr. Fryingpan and Ms. Weasel Fat could possibly end up in an interesting relationship.

Bump Set Spike

 

I played volleyball with a small church team, part of the youth program. As the team leader by default, I was the oldest, the biggest, and the most athletic, so I tried to take the role seriously. I was vocal (I’m blessed with a loud voice) with my encouragement, and that often worked in our favour. There were times when we really rose to the occasion, and there were other times when my lack of maturity shone through.

Opposing teams often figured out that keeping the ball away from the tall, skinny guy was a good strategy. A few of our games turned into a frustrating game of keep away. I had one of the best spikes in the league, but I can’t set the ball for myself. My teammates struggled to set me up for the intimidating kill shot. I got frustrated, and one day I learned to keep my mouth in check by embarrassing myself.

We were playing a match in front of a churchgoer audience, and keep away was the name of the game. I started to get frustrated. We might even have been winning, but I was feeling uninvolved. “C’mon, let’s set it up!” I would yell, trying to encourage my teammates. Things devolved from there. My encouragement started to become increasingly more bellicose. At some point, because no one seemed to be paying much attention, I started yelling, “C’mon, let’s have some sets!” I started getting annoyed sideways glances from some of my teammates. I got louder. People started looking at me funny. 

Finally, one of my younger brothers, who was on the team, had had enough. He stomped over to me. “Will you shut up. It sounds like you’re yelling, let’s have some sex!” I was real quiet after that.

I Don't Want To Help!

Recognizing root words across different languages can be useful. I can get by in French, and I understand a great deal of Dutch. Studied German as well. Sometimes it allows me to understand what's going on when I'm listening to another Romance or Germanic language. It is not a perfect science, though.

My wife, who was carrying our twin boys at the time, went into labour, and we rushed to the hospital in St. Hyacinthe, Quebec. The doctor advised us that the babies were oriented feet first and there was a danger of the umbilical cords getting tangled and losing one or both babies. The decision was to transport her to Ste. Justine Hospital in Montreal, and perform an emergency cesarean.

They packed Francine up in an ambulance, and I headed home to leave instructions for my parents-in-law to take care of our oldest before following. The ambulance had trouble with traffic, while I came by a different route. In spite of my stop, I arrived only minutes behind them.

I was directed to follow an orderly who didn't speak a word of English. He asked me if I wanted to "assister" with the operation. Assister in French actually means to attend, but that isn't what I thought. I'm sure my eyes went as wide as soup bowls. I was having horrible thoughts about cutbacks to Canadian healthcare programs. I'm a woodworker, not a doctor. I want her to survive this. I was responding with "juste regarder," which means just look. The orderly was nodding yes, while I was shaking no. I went into the operating room anyway and talked to the conscious end of her through the whole thing. 

Stressful situation, which is funny now but not at the time. It did have a happy ending, as the above photo can attest

Who's On First? - 911 Call

 

Just to avoid any misunderstanding, the French-Canadian woman in this story was not my wife. Francine would keep her cool enough to clarify the situation all by herself. This little gem was recounted to me by a friend. This is my paraphrase of what happened.

The easternmost corner of the province of Ontario, between Ottawa and Montreal, is a mix of French- and English-speaking communities. L'Orignal is a French community along the Ottawa River. L'Orignal, translated into English, means The Moose. The English in the area had similar town naming proclivities. A nearby town is called Moose Creek.

The aforementioned French Canadian lass was driving on a main road, minding her own business, when a moose bolted out of the bush onto the road. She hit it. Hitting a moose is no joke. A lot of people have been killed in collisions like that. She was lucky, though. Her car was badly damaged, but she was unhurt. The moose wasn't so lucky.

Parked on the side of the road, shaking and emotional, she pulls out her cellphone and calls 911. Keep in mind, this entire conversation takes place in French.

She tells her story, and they tell her they will send help. All is going well until they ask her where she is parked. She tells them she is close to L'Orignal (the moose). The operator does not understand that she means the town of L'Orignal, not the beast she accidentally killed. He tries to soothe her emotions by telling her not to worry about the poor departed moose. He asks her again for the name of the nearest town. She replies with L'Orignal again and starts crying. The operator still doesn't get it, and this goes back and forth until another motorist stops and explains it all for her.

This, to me, is hysterically funny. Don't name towns after large animals, or this is what could happen.