My next call is from a customer who canceled his order before his DSL equipment and line were ever installed. For the past three months he has been billed $39 for service he never had.

"Stop the insanity," he pleads. "Just please cancel the whole thing." I check his account and see that he’s on a special bill plan. I’m not sure of the exact procedure I must follow to deactivate him. I have to ask the billing supervisor, but she sits across the room.

Hotcube looks over suspiciously as I log into Admin and remove my headphones, then go over to speak to her.

"It’s a new plan," Angela sighs. "We can’t deactivate him. What we’re doing is collecting names, adding them to a list. Once we figure out what to do, we’ll take care of it. Give him a credit."

"But he’ll be billed again next month," I point out. "He’ll have to call back."

"I’m sorry," she says. "It’s all we can do for the moment."

"Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight," the customer responds when I explain the situation to him. "I don’t have any service. I’ve never had any service. You can’t cancel the account which I’ve never had and you will continue to bill me?"

"Yes," I answer cautiously, dreading his response.

"I’m stunned, absolutely stunned," he says. "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a long, long time."

There’s a long pause. It’s like waiting for the firing squad to yell FIRE!

And then he laughs, and I know I am in the clear. I’ve dodged another bullet. "Well," he sighs, "I guess there’s not much I can do." Fight, scream, raise hell I would like to tell him. Just not to me, to someone who has the authority to fix this mess. If only he could find that person.

I credit his account and send him on his way. Another unsatisfied customer.

After two hours in my seat, I need a Health break. I punch the number 20 into my phone and leave my seat. I have five minutes. The trip to the bathroom should take only two. Providing there’s an open stall, and I don’t linger before the mirror. But I’m hungry for a bagel. I take a small detour and head to the elevators. I can feel the clock ticking. Maybe Brian’s right. Maybe I am being monitored. I check my watch. Maybe I should get back to my seat. The elevator door opens and I press the ground floor button three times. The door takes forever to close and to open. There’s a line at the coffee shop. A woman is counting out pennies. Seven minutes, thirty seconds. Finally I get my bagel and head back to the call center. It’s been almost nine minutes. I run down the hallway and rush back to my seat. Hotcube looks at me, looks at the clock. Logged.

While I’ve been gone, I see a small slip of paper has been placed at every agent’s desk. "Will you be willing to commute when the call center relocates to San Ramon?" There are two boxes to check: yes or no.

I consider the commute, forty minutes at most. Against traffic. Not too bad. I can handle it. For a little while. The exact same words I said to myself when I took this job twenty months ago.

By one o’clock, Pleasanton has been down for three hours. The reader board is hemorrhaging. There are no allowed Wrap times between calls. Once I hang up with one customer I must instantly pick up the phone and take another call. There’s not much I can tell customers besides: "I’m sorry. We don’t know when it will be back up." "I signed on with you people," a caller complains, "because of Pacific Bell’s good name. I thought a company like Pac Bell would be a helluva lot more reliable than this. But this stinks and I intend to tell everyone I know just how much it stinks."

"Yes, it does stink," I tell her. The words just roll right out of my mouth.

And suddenly I feel a great sense of release, as if I’ve stepped out of the line of fire.

"Oh," she says, sounding startled. "Well, I know it’s not your fault. I don’t mean to take it out on you."

"Of course," I tell her.

At 1:30, near the end of my day, my manager asks me to come by his cube. I think, this is it. I’m fired. I put my headset down and walk over to his desk. As I walk over, I wonder, who monitored me? Who’s watching me get fired?

And as I sit before him, it occurs to me that I will never have to sit on those phones again.

He opens a folder in his lap with my name on the tab. He hands me a sheet of paper. I quickly scan them for a comment on my last call.

He looks over the notes. "Your AHTs look good," he tells me. "Good call control. Good. Try to remember your closing statement. The Men in Black are particular about that."

"Right," I nod. So I’m not getting fired; I’m getting reviewed–favorably. How can that be? Haven’t the Men in Black been monitoring my calls?

"One criticism," he says tapping the paper. "You have to enforce those support boundaries. We don’t support Outlook. Give them the help URL and send them on their way. That’s what those sites are for."

I say nothing and he decides to wrap it up. "Okay, well then. Everything looks good. Any questions?"

Why am I here? What’s in this for me?

When I return to my desk, I notice Brian’s computer is turned off, and his picture of Scully from The X-Files is gone. A few minutes later, another tech sits down at Brian’s desk. He adjusts the seat height, tilts the computer monitor to suit him, and then plugs his head phone into Brian’s phone. I’ve seen this guy around the center for months, but I don’t know his name. He takes out a bag of Tootsie Rolls and puts them on his desk within easy reach. "Help yourself," he says.

"Thanks," I say and then ask him if he knows what happened to Brian.

"Brian who?" he asks. His phone rings before I can answer. He presses the ready button. "Greetings. Thank you for calling Pacific Bell Internet. How can I provide you with excellent service?" The Men in Black like him much better than Brian.

I wait for the second hand to sweep across the number twelve on the clock, and then I log out. The reader board is a sea of blinking red. I turn off my computer and stand up. I take my Pacific Bell Internet mug off the desk and drop it in my backpack. I mark no on my San Ramon survey and drop the slip of paper into the box at the receptionist’s desk.

Outside on the street, the bright sunlight makes me squint as I walk to my car. My legs are stiff from sitting so long. My head rings with people’s voices yelling at me. As I get into my car to drive home, I feel like a soldier whose tour of duty has come to an end.