Midnight at the Furby Call Centre

[Editor’s note: ‘Better Next Year’ is an essay collection edited by Vancouver writer JJ Lee, published this fall by Tidewater Press. The collection features the personal essays of writers with a connection to B.C. Each essay reflects on a memorable winter holiday season in their lives.

This essay excerpt, which appears in the book as ‘Furby Call Centre,’ is a real-life account of Christmas Eve at a Metro Vancouver call centre during a resurgence of Furby mania in the early 2000s.]

Item #: 0103439482 / Subject line: Item Never Arrived / Date: 12-24-05 Time: 7:04 p.m.: To whom it may concern: my item never arrived! I placed the winning bid over two weeks ago. It’s now 7 p.m. on Christmas Eve! This is devastating! I want my item! I want my FURBY!

I was an “on-probation-waiting-for-full-hire-status-and-benefits” customer service representative (CSR1) for Team Canada at a call centre. Probation could last three to six months if your metrics were low. Technically, I wasn’t even an employee yet. I was contracting for a recruitment firm, without full salary or benefits. The pay was $12 per hour. So I was poor. I was worried I might get fired. But I wasn’t alone. The call centre had around 400 down-and-out employees working on four floors.

The reps did two types of jobs. CSR2s reviewed live seller listings and took down bad sellers. CSR1s, junior staff like me, answered emails regarding buyer and seller complaints. They worked late. They worked holidays. They worked Christmas Eve.

I didn’t know it at the time, but back in 2003, Furbies experienced a massive resurgence in popularity. They were small interactive furry pet dolls that could sing, talk and respond to touch. But their ultimate feature — to develop language skills and react to humans — gave them something special: apparent intelligence.

Furbies communicated with one another without eye contact, via an infrared port located between their eyes. We communicated via low whispers, Microsoft Outlook, Windows 2000 and state-of-the-art productivity metrics.

Furbies were designed to engage with their owners and the environment at all times. And as we moved deeper into the holiday season, we were responding to 30 to 60 emails per hour, 24 hours per day, for every shift.

So while Furbies were allowed to play games, dance and express emotions, we were asked to keep our seats and answer the endless barrage of email complaints with generic responses from Microsoft Excel macros, designed to make our correspondence appear human. Not that there were that many humans around this particular night.

‘You want to get fired?’

Seven rows of workstations away, I could see our supervisor step in and out of his glass-walled office to collect papers from the large printer. He was right next to the only sensor-active entrance door on our floor. This meant, along with the software, he could easily track our every move.

It was early in the shift, but I needed to use the washroom. I paused from my emails, changed my status to “Break_Washroom,” grinned as I passed him and swiped my ID card. I couldn’t tell what had been printed, but some pages were on official company letterhead. Those must have been job offers: full status, benefits and a raise. The other sheets were pink.

Under dimmed lights, I stared into the bathroom mirror. My spiked brown hair remained gelled in place, but my new bright blue collared dress shirt was slightly wrinkled. I tried to press the wrinkles out with a damp hand with minimal success. I used too much water. It soaked down into my new black pants near the groin area, which then required seven or eight paper towels that smudged shaker-sized white flecks across both top and crotch.

Rick had his office door closed when I tiptoed back to my desk. I changed my status back to “Active_Email_ Queue_Buyers_Canada” and then stood again and stepped to my left. At the end of our aisle, a communal basket was filled with silver-wrapped candy and chocolates. They sparkled under our fluorescent department lights. I grabbed a handful and dropped them on my desk next to my half-eaten dinner and began to methodically unwrap a piece of white chocolate wrapped in festive emerald-green tinfoil.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you? You want to get fired?”

Vince, only an arm’s length away, slouched in his chair to my right. He had recently arrived from Hong Kong and told me once he’d been cut off by his father and needed this job, for now. His black turtleneck matched his thick black-framed glasses, which, from my angle, hid his eyes. He remained focused on his screen while his shoulders strained and his fingers continued to type.

“It’s Christmas Eve. We can relax.” I popped another chocolate and sat back in my chair.

It didn’t matter that my current email stats blinked in red to display “20/hr” — 10 less than the expected minimum hourly response average — a number I’d struggled to maintain for almost three months since I arrived.

“You sure? You know who our supervisor is tonight? What he did last Christmas?”

“That’s a rumour. I don’t think he actually fired anyone on Christmas Eve.”

I ignored the pop-ups and live email on my screen and looked around. Gold and silver tinsel was wrapped around my workstation. It glittered and waved from the heat vents pushing much needed warm air into the office.

The main floor of our washed-out beige and diamond patterned carpet matched the mottled grey office partitions.

The day before, the floor was filled with the hustle and buzz of Team Canada agents but tonight most seats sat empty and quiet. On some desks I did see new oversized steel-plated name tags. I looked at a few. They belonged to people I interacted with in the coffee station or cafeteria. For the most part, they had limited social skills, some unable to hold a conversation. But the new name tags declared that some were in fact a class above the rest — those fortunate enough, talented enough, disciplined enough, to reach permanent employment status.

“I’m telling you, Rick fired someone over Christmas Eve last year. What do you think he was printing over there? Awards?” Vince continued with his emails and spoke in a low whisper.

I emptied the red and green Lindt chocolate wrappers from my slightly wet pant pockets and placed the wrappers into the plastic garbage bin only a few inches from my keyboard. “He was printing on letterhead too.”

“Great. So, what are your email stats now for the month?”

“Thirty-one,” I said, finally prepared to look at my next email.

“I’m at 65, aiming for 70. Does your 31 include tonight’s totals? Month averages never include the current day.”

I stared at my current stats and did some mental calculations. Vince was right.

I opened a different tab on my screen and looked at my stats again. If my numbers did not improve tonight, my monthly average would be around 28 or 29. I’d be eligible for dismissal.

‘How do I get a refund?’

Item #: 0100337442 / Subject line: Item Issue — Refund / Date: 12-24-05 Time: 7:40 p.m.: Hi, I received my Furby a month ago and it worked fine but now I think it’s haunted or really hungry. It wakes up at night, makes strange sounds and then asks for food. How do I get a refund?

Another Furby email. Before I could respond, my cellphone buzzed on quiet mode. I flipped my Nokia open. It was Mom. I hunched to make myself as small as possible.

“Merry Christmas, Gorane!” She used the affectionate, diminutive version of my name. “Oh my God, how are you my son? My poor son. Are you still working now? On Christmas Eve?”

“Merry Christmas, Mom! Yes, I’m at work. I told you I took the shift. It’s double pay and...”

“Oh my God, Gorane, I told you not to move to Vancouver. You should have just stayed in Calgary with us. All your friends have jobs in oil and gas now, and they’re married, and you don’t even have...”

“Mom. I’m good. I can’t talk long. I’m at work.”

“OK, OK. We are all sitting here at the dining room and thinking of you. Your sister is here with her family, the neighbours are over and, you know, the usual friends. We have so much food left over. I’m so sorry you’re not with us tonight.”

I pictured Christmas Eve dinner from a few years ago, the last time I was home: Mom and Dad’s dark-oak Queen Anne covered in one of Mom’s red Walmart tablecloths that should have been thrown away decades ago. Seated around it, family and good friends.

“It’s OK Mom, don’t worry. So what did you make for dinner?”

“Oh Gorane, everything as usual. My spareribs, cabbage rolls, ham, roast potatoes, the turkey, and Donna brought her bacon broccoli pasta salad that you love, and Anita brought a Skor bar cake again. Do you remember this cake? She said you loved it, but I can’t remember. I don’t think it’s very good.”

“Yes Mom, Anita makes that cake a lot. I think it’s Donna’s recipe. But Mom, your cakes are still the best.” I could hear my sister shout about cake in the background.

“I know. Thank you, Gorane. And as usual, your father is still arguing with Renato again about the best way to make homemade wine. Or olive oil. Or something about building cabinets. Or what the best deer meat is, and how to make it. It’s always something. They’re so crazy, those guys.”

I laughed. Dad and Renato. They both knew the answers to everything. Each Christmas they bickered non-stop but they’d always invite each other over, year after year.

“Gorane, what about you? What are you eating there tonight? I hope you’re eating OK. Did the company you work for make you something?”

“Don’t worry Mom. Yes... they made us a nice turkey dinner here, with all the trimmings.”

Still crouched to the side, I looked over at Vince, who paused on his keyboard and turned his neck down toward my sad and half-eaten microwaved Hungry-Man-Meat-Loaf-Gravy dinner. He turned back to his screen without eye contact and gave a sour smile.

“Ah, that’s nice, Gorane. I’m glad you at least got some turkey for Christmas, but hopefully it’s good. Did they give you lots of gravy? I know how much you like your gravy.”

“Yes Mom, they gave us gravy. I’m good. I told you not to worry. OK. I have to go. You guys enjoy your meal, and I will call you tomorrow. I’ll be here late, until midnight, so I’ll call whenever I wake up tomorrow. Don’t worry, OK?”

“Was it the powdered gravy? I hope it wasn’t powdered.”

“Mom, I have to go. Love you.” I looked back up at my screen and the buyer email queue.

More emails were in. My stats were even lower: 19/hr. The number was in red.

“OK, my son. You know I love you very much. Your sister is here. She’s wishing you a merry Christmas too. She’s asking if you used the money she sent to buy a proper bed finally?”

My sister had sent me $400 when they found out I’d been sleeping on an air mattress for the last six months.

“Yes Mom, tell Anita I bought a bed a few weeks ago. Tell her I said thanks again for the money. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Arrested development

Just then, I noticed a shadow. Someone next to me, to my left. Vince straightened in his seat while he continued to type. I corrected my position in the chair and ended the call.

“Hey Goran, the buyer emails have piled up. That’s your queue. Need to get back at it.” It was Rick, our supervisor. He had that strange smile on his face.

I could see Rick with a folder in his hand and a pink paper inside.

“Goran, get the queue numbers back up and then come by my office at 9 p.m. sharp, please. You have a little over an hour.” Rick looked down at the mess on my desk. The half-eaten food. A plastic fork with a tiny piece of meatloaf still on it, and down farther on the floor, Lindt wrappers that had missed their target.

Item #: 0100337442 / Subject line: Item Issue — Refund / Date: 12-24-05 Time: 8:20 p.m.: Hi, I need a refund. There’s some sort of battery drain issue with my Furby. Even after I put in fresh batteries, my Furby rapidly drains power. Like it’s half dead. Or in some sort of arrested development.

I had increased my email output thanks to Vince. I searched for keywords that linked to pre-written responses and merged them together into the emails with only a minimum amount of personalization. To my surprise, the work was now mindless and I daydreamed back to how this started. How I ended up at work on Christmas Eve in a place like this.

After two years abroad, I returned to Canada, but instead of going to Calgary where I’d lived most of my life, my destination was Vancouver. I had told myself it was a place of fern-covered forest floors, mountaintops, kelp, orcas and whales, green grass all year round and Peking duck.

But the truth was, when I first left home, I promised myself and my parents that I would be a great success. It didn’t go that way, so I couldn’t show my face. Not until I had something to celebrate.

After two months crashing at a friend’s place, sleeping on an air mattress on his dining room floor, I moved into a basement suite with two new roommates I barely knew. Steve had a photographic memory and was a massive Liverpool Football Club supporter with tattoos that covered his arms, legs and back. He preferred to be called Ste and explained that he had been part of a boy band in the U.K. with one radio hit called “Cream,” which he said reached the top-40 charts in Poland.

Ste also had a digestion problem, or at least he did on the flight over from London to Vancouver, where, by chance, I met him and his best friend, Baby-David. Dave received the “Baby” in this name from his sisters because of his boyish appearance and ability to never get in trouble, even when it was his fault. Baby-David was an all-around nice guy who could have been a chef, but had planned to find a job in IT once he settled in Vancouver.

When I called them a few months after my return to Canada, neither Ste nor Dave seemed to mind that I had a small pile of debt, no money, no job connections and little relevant work experience: they were happy to take me in.

At about the same time that I moved into the empty basement with Ste and Baby-David, I landed the job as a customer service representative.

But I was still poor, only just making monthly rent. I didn’t have any paid vacation, and couldn’t afford to fly to Calgary even if I wanted to.

Item #: 0100337442 / Subject line: Item Issue — Refund / Date: 12-24-05 Time: 8:40 p.m.: Hi, I need a refund. I bought a Furby for my kids. But now it’s exhibiting some erratic behaviour, like strange movements, and inconsistent reactions. Like it laughs when it shouldn’t. How do I get my refund? Thanks for your time. And Merry Christmas!

As the hour almost passed, I had fully replaced my overly personalized approach. No part of my emails was now personalized. To my amazement, I slogged through them in rapid succession.

The clock struck 9 p.m. With “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” in the background, I answered what might have been my very last Furby email.

I swivelled in my chair to look at the co-workers behind me and to my right, who typed, sneezed and coughed their way through more emails.

It had dawned on me that this place was the land of misfit toys: engineers, cinematographers, scientists, former math prodigies and other helpless people with communication, business or fine arts degrees had all been marooned here on this email productivity iceberg with no way off and no way home.

They said, like the rest of us here, this was just a temporary thing. We’d all be off to something better soon. And yet, I discovered four or five years had passed for some. It seemed, for many, this might have been the end of their road.

Better next year

I scanned all those seated beside me. I didn’t see any security staff. If I was about to get fired, one of these staff members might have already been assigned to come to my desk with a box they would pack while I spoke with Rick. Then the box would be given to me at the front door on my way out. That’s how it was always done. If it happened, it’d be the last time I’d see this desk, this office and possibly everyone inside it.

I placed my status on “Meeting_Other” and grabbed my cellphone and jacket. “Well. Thanks for all your help, Vince. If this is it, see you around.”

“Yup.” Vince turned his head slightly to give a nod and then continued with his emails.

Had I ever seen Vince’s eyes? I wasn’t sure. “Well, you can have my tinsel.”

“Right.”

“Seriously though, can you make sure they don’t throw my stuff away? They should put it in a box and bring it to me.”

“Yeah. I know. I’ll watch.”

“So, you think I’m getting fired... right?”

“Probably. Maybe.”

“Great.”

“Maybe if you’re lucky, you’re stuck here until midnight with the rest of us.”

“Win–win.” I stood and took one last mental picture of my desk, the empty rows, the half-lit lights and decorations, and our small group huddled together. I pocketed a few more chocolates and walked towards my 9 p.m.

Rick’s door was wide open. There were no Christmas decorations, no picture frames of family, no artwork on the wall. Only two chairs, a floor lamp and a large yellow desk with manila folders spread across. Rick sat, pen in hand, with one folder open.

“Hey, come in. Close the door behind you. Why’d you bring your jacket?”

“Oh, I might go outside after. For a short break.” I sat down in the chair across from him.

“OK... But it’s freezing rain right now. It might be a white Christmas after all. But anyway, thanks for the hustle over the last hour. Queue numbers are better.

“But listen we need to talk and I’ll keep this quick. You know your email stats haven’t been great. They hover right near the bottom of our benchmarks.”

I nodded and noticed the folder in front of Rick had my name on it.

Rick flipped to one page in my monthly benchmark score results. “These are your latest numbers...” He paused to show me.

“OK, I’ll cut to the chase. We’re not firing you. But your numbers are still borderline, so we’re not hiring you either. Not until we see some steady improvement. The good news is I was able to pull some strings, and we’ll be able to grant you another three-month probationary period. That means you keep your job through the recruitment company, but your pay stays the same, and no benefits yet. But you’ll have one more opportunity to get things in line.”

“Yeah. OK. Thanks.”

“I know this isn’t the news you are looking for, but I didn’t want you worrying over Christmas. Just keep those numbers way above 30. Get them to 40, 50. Keep working with Vince. OK?”

“OK. Thank you. I’ll get my numbers up.”

“I know this isn’t your dream job. But it’s your job. Just do better next year.”

“Sounds good.”

“OK, good. So, I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s cake in the kitchen. I brought it in. Could you help me hand it out tonight? We’ll bring it to everyone’s desks. Celebrate a bit together. It is Christmas, after all.”

“Thanks. But I got a bunch of Furby emails. It was strange. Are Furbies back or something?”

“I have no idea.”

With Rick’s permission we all placed our statuses on “Break_Other,” and for a glorious 20 minutes we cut cake, shared stories and ate together, the 10 of us, our little crew of misfit toys, who all worked Christmas Eve that night.

I finished my shift and scrambled across puddles of fresh ice as snowflakes fell.

Past 1 a.m., back at my basement apartment, Ste and Baby-David sat on our second-hand couches as they watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

Both had their feet up on our living room coffee table: a basement closet door we’d removed from a bedroom that we’d placed over two large cardboard boxes covered with one of Mom’s Walmart tablecloths.

Ste welcomed me back with a drink, while Baby-David explained he had decided to make a turkey. He had wrapped the leftovers in tinfoil and placed it in the oven. And to my astonishment there was homemade gravy in a pot on the stove.

In my room, with the radio left on, an old choir rendition of “Silent Night” played as I dropped my bag off and stared at my partially inflated air mattress with clean bed sheets and my pillow neatly folded on top.

I hadn’t been able to tell Mom I’d spent the money from my sister to pay bills and buy some new clothes for work instead — like the clothes I had worn that night.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d last at this job, or what I’d do next, but I was determined to dress the part, and to at least take the job more seriously until I figured it out. And I promised myself I would never work another Christmas Eve again.

I walked back to the kitchen, took my turkey meal with extra gravy, grabbed my ice-cold drink and moved to the floor in the living room next to Ste and Baby-David.

No one spoke for the rest of the night, in either English or Furbish. We didn’t need to.

We understood each other just fine.

Excerpted from ‘Better Next Year: An Anthology of Christmas Epiphanies,’ edited by JJ Lee. Copyright 2023 JJ Lee. Published by Tidewater Press. Excerpted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.

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