Are you a chatterbox?

"ARE YOU A CHATTERBOX?" screamed the headline of the boxed advertisement in The Northern District Times, daring me to respond. This advertisement had caught my eye the week prior as well. This week it was mocking me. They are still advertising? Hmmmm, I looked at the advertisement again. So they were still looking; the thought spurred my confidence. If I see this advertisement again the next week, I am going to call, for sure -I promised myself.

Each Thursday, we looked forward to the "Times" as the local weekly newspaper was fondly called. It was distributed free and delivered into the mailboxes of the apartment units in our desirable northwestern suburb called Meadowbank, in Sydney, Australia. Like most recent migrants with limited incomes, unlimited expenses, and tight budgets, the 'Times' was our primary source of job vacancies and other information of every relevance, of some entertainment and even education to an extent, the source of our knowledge and insight into the local news and views, and the culture of this land, our new home country.

It was the newspaper under your arm with which one could tell the established migrants from the newbie. New migrants like us could ill afford to buy the daily but pricey, Sydney Morning Herald or The Australian. The commute on the local train to and from work however, briefly coalesced into one the proletariat, and the established, irrespective of our status. Yet, we could not have been more disparate.

Always on the lookout for a better opportunity, my eyes scanned inside the train cars and on the platforms, for the abandoned primary newspapers such as the Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, or even the local papers from other suburbs. These found a welcoming home in my sunny top floor rented apartment, where I scoured through them on the weekends, looking for jobs, grocery specials, the odd coupon, council announcements, and of-course, my very favorite Homes section, where I looked at the house prices, searching for the perfect place to dock my expensive dreams. For now I was content despite my economical pocket with a budgeted affordability.

"ARE YOU A CHATTERBOX?" The bold capital letters demanded to know once more. Here it was again, for the third week in a row, daring me to call. I re-read the advertisement, for the umpteenth time, noting hungrily the $13 an hour wage. The client was a ‘highly respected multinational corporation’ and ‘leaders in their industry’. 

Of-course I was a chatterbox, and for $13 an hour I could be a very good one indeed. Thank you, yes. The only problem was that the work was for just for a three-month contract. 

I had recently started my first job as a casual Sales Fulfillment telemarketer working the outbound phones for a marketing company, that took orders for products advertised on TV. While the inbound operators had work only for the days our ads were running on TV, recording contact and quantity information, I was working every day, all day, doing sales fulfillment, and providing product information if the clients had any questions. Daphne, the boss had told me my job was 'ongoing'. I felt a certain smugness in not seeing an end to my income. At $8 an hour I could also see the security aspect of the 'ongoing' status of my position. It was good money in the early 1990's Australia.

That Friday afternoon, even as I put the phone down after securing an interview with Brenda Farrow of Tempo Consultants, for the $13 positions, I began to have misgivings about what I had just done.

Greed, my mind now mocked me, that is what motivates you. What if I did get this job for $13 an hour? What then, what after three months? What also, if I do not last even three days? What am I doing, I thought, having decided to do it anyway? I liked being reckless, but was I being foolish? Defiant? Ungrateful? If chatterbox is my first name, curious is my middle name. I just could not resist doing it. Greed or no greed, $13 an hour beckoned and had been calling my name for the past three weeks. When the newspaper flew open to the page with the ad, as I took out the Times while settling into the window seat of the train, it was a clear sign, it was meant to be, this job was meant for me. So I had heeded the call.

The few weeks at my current job had also made me quite bold, so I called in sick at work, to go for the $13 interview. It would be wise not to jeopardize my current position if things didn't work out here. 

The $13 hiring manager, Brenda, was pleasant and friendly, and quickly came to the point. Obviously under pressure to send 30 people for the job starting in two days, she told me I would have to start immediately. The second batch was starting the paid training next day. She told me a bit more about the contract position with an American Credit card company. I recall getting goosebumps when I heard that name, and was thrilled about working for a big name client. Besides, the $13 certainly catapulted me into the top league of temps as well.

The American Company had introduced a new card and had been inundated with applications. The Telephone Investigators would be required to make telephone calls to verify the information supplied by the applicants, Brenda explained. She put the application and contract paperwork in front of me and handed me a pen, obviously preparing to proceed with the hiring process. A tinge of excitement laced with delight filled my being. Then just as suddenly as the feeling had crept in, it passed, and panic prevailed. The work seemed far too easy and simple for the $13 an hour. The thrill evaporated and I was filled with apprehension. I recalled other such ‘high paying’ jobs that I had not applied for earlier because they had required computer skills. Immediately I felt my hopes dash and my ego deflated. What would I say to the kids? The whole family had been walking on air at the prospect of this interview.

"I don't know computers, Brenda", I stated simply, putting the pen down and pushing the paperwork back towards her.

"Oh, don't worry", she dismissed my concerns and shoved the documents right back at me, plunking the pen on top of the legal sized forms, a sense of urgency evident in her tone as she gesticulated into the air, pointing again towards the black and gold pen that lay pointing in my direction.

I didn't think she had heard me the first time.

"I have never worked on computers." I started again, as the shrill ringing of the phone on her desk drowned out my sentence in mid air.

"I am headed down right now", Brenda spoke hurriedly into the phone, hastily putting down the receiver.

"We are just about done here and I do have to leave," Brenda stood up and shook my hand. "Just fill out the employment forms and if you have any questions my assistant Kate here, will help you", she smiled, pointing towards the well-groomed and cheerful blond who acknowledged me with a cheerful wave.

Next morning, I set my alarm to ring 30 minutes earlier. The whole family was excited about my new job. It meant unspoken, myriad little pleasures, to each of us; none of which we were ready to articulate, at least not yet. It was too soon to celebrate, even though internally, we were all kinda at it already.

Next morning, as I was getting dressed for the first day of the rest of my life, my son stood at the door with a smile on his face and a lint brush in his hand.

"Have a good day, Mama", he said, lovingly wiping down my jacket all over, the lint brush wobbly in his small hands. His dimpled smile lit up my day, and imbibed within me a new confidence. I admonished him half mockingly, "off you go to school now", I gently smacked his butt. With a loud kiss bang smack on his soft dimpled cheek, I rubbed his crew cut head, sending him on his way. Hugging me again, he kissed me right back, then ran out saying, "I love you too, Mama".

One last look in the mirror, satisfied every pearl was in place, in my ears and around my neck, I turned around to check the back of my skirt was smooth and not crumpled. Then I too was off, with a prayer on my lips and a song in my heart, softly shutting the door behind me, walking boldly, shoulders pushed back and head held high, into a new day.

The train ride to Epping station takes only about 15 minutes, and in that precious time I must have envisioned a lifetime of fulfilled promises and accomplished dreams. I had remained standing the whole time in the train, not wanting to crease my freshly ironed terry cotton skirt. From Epping station I took the bus to North Ryde, a 20 minute bus ride, also spent standing. The bus dropped me off outside the Asia Pacific headquarters of The American Company. I looked up at the big and tall building standing so stately and proud, and a surge of quiet gratitude swept through my heart. The rays of the morning sun reflected off the shiny green glass of the top floors with the Company name proudly displayed in their characteristic blue. I looked up at my new office of the next three months and smiled happily, then pushing back the imaginary strands of hair back from my face, I walked towards the vast expanse of courtyard, interspersed with exotic plants growing in large decorative planters. My heart pounding with excitement and unknown expectations, I went past the swing doors and presented myself at the counter marked 'Reception'.

There were over a dozen of us waiting near the black leather single sofa chairs placed in small circles on plush, deep red carpet. Some people lounged around while the others stood making conversation and introduced themselves to the group. My feet were starting to ache for I had not sat since leaving home this morning, all for the sake of a good, well groomed first impression. I refused when a young fellow who introduced himself as Simon, got up and offered me a seat. I was protesting politely, when almost on cue a tall gentleman walked towards us and in an American drawl introduced himself,

"I am Dan Longfellow, and I will be your trainer", he said, smiling reservedly, but kindly. His wore a dark blue suit with matching tie and while he was impressive he was not intimidating. I was liking it here already.

"Now all of you here for Telephone Investigator positions follow me please, while the Data Entry staff may take the elevators to the Computer rooms on the 11th floor and follow the signs to the new recruits training room".

Dans words were like music to my ears. So we were really going to be paid $13 an hour for telephone work! My computer fears melted away and five of us followed Dan through glass doors on the far right, down the hallway and into what looked like a COMPUTER ROOM!  I was aghast. Tables were arranged around the room in a U shape, each with its own computer, monitor, keyboard and mouse, and royal blue swivel chairs, neatly tucked inside. My heart sank and I felt like throwing up. Dan was calling us by name handing out white placards, with our names, asking us to sit where we pleased, placards facing forward so he could get to know us. Since we were all women, the chatter between the ladies had already started.

Did I say my first name was Chatterbox? In that moment of infinite misery, I had lost my tongue. Having left a message for Daphne to say I would not be coming for the rest of the week, I suddenly felt bereft of all sanity and could sense the loss of the eight guaranteed dollars every hour at Marketing Management earned me. She would know if I went back now. I'd be one of those 'gone rogue' as Daphne would say, referring to the 'ungrateful deserters' that had come and gone before me.

I could feel the blood rush to my face as I realized I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Better fess up, I decided, not one to play Russian roulette with my career. They would find out anyway.

"Excuse me, Dan", I spoke up. "I had told the agency, but I'm sorry, but I don't know computers", I countered, trying hard not to sound defeated .

Dan looked in my direction but pointed towards the chairs and in a voice attempting to be louder than the feminine chatter, announced, "Ladies, please take your seats, we need to get going with the training." "Tea and coffee is in the kitchen facilities across the hall” he continued, “and the bathrooms are at the end of the corridor, past the lifts on the right".

Then there was the sound of casters rolling on the carpet as everyone moved around and took their chairs. Perplexed and flustered, and also tired, I just sat down for the first time since leaving home in the morning. I had done my part, trying to honest, upfront and truthful. My tired feet were sapped of any energy that I may need to protest my ignorance any further.

Dan came around and distributed pens, pencils, notebooks and a training manual.

"Some of you may have not worked on computers before, but that is why I am here'', he said and then paused as if in askance.

"It is my job to train you", he continued "and we will start by turning 'ON' the power button on your computers". He pointed to the elongated switch on his machine.

I touched my forefinger to the elongated button of the computer that sat on my desk, and the monitor screen lit up. A light also came on inside me. Life was putting me in places where destiny wanted to take me. I just had to show up and put in my best effort.

So it was, that day I learned to use a computer. I have not stopped using it since.

From India to Australia, to the USA, I have walked through every door that opportunity held ajar for me. Like a boat adrift at sea, we have drifted with the winds powered by Faith. There have been good times and tough times, there has been laughter and there has been pain, there has been loss and there has been gain. Yet, together we have made it so far, to the home of the brave and the land of the free. Each passing day now brings us closer to the shore, where we are headed to dock our dreams.

Copyright 2009 Veenu Banga