If you work on the coordination desk long enough you’ll feel yourself change.
Nothing dramatic or immediate, but imperceptibly, stealthily. It’s a hazard of the job, the frantic business of it, tapping away at the computer keys, answering two phones at once, taking questions from colleagues who wait in a restive line like shoppers at the Deli counter. A function of the distracted firing of your brain cells, the agitated beating of your heart, the immobility of your body in the chair. All these things will take hold, come together and warp you at a genetic level, cannoning your atoms into novel patterns like a drunken God with a billiard cue until – too late – you realise you ARE the phone, you have BECOME the computer, you have ABSORBED the notepad. You’ll only notice at the end of the day, when you go to stretch and your arm snaps in half because it’s changed into a pencil. Or you roll your neck to ease the cramp and your head logs off. Or you go to stand up but you can’t because your vasculature is now the furniture and your spinal cord has extended through the floor tiles and uploaded you to the network.
That’s the down side.
The upside is that eventually you’ll find yourself in synch with the office. You’ll be tuned-in to everything happening around you without even trying. You’ll be working the desk like a dreaming, caffeine-crazed spider, a little bored maybe, a little restless, your compound eyes flickering with the light of the database, whilst you unconsciously monitor the action around you by the vibrations you feel through your feet.
Which is a complicated way of saying I was aware Karen was on the phone before I really knew it.
Sophie was talking to her. Sophie is one of the administrators. She’s on the frontline of the operation, taking calls, giving information, directions, advice, or deciding where to redirect – which more often than not means patching them through to the coordinators. Sophie is great at her job. She’s warm and friendly, however long the day or trying the circumstances. I love the way she answers each call with the same intonation – saying the company name with a flourish like she was throwing a fancy tablecloth over a workbench. But then her tone changes immediately, coming down a notch, and within seconds she’s speaking to the caller as if she was gossiping with a favourite aunt.
Only this time, she wasn’t.
Sometimes even Sophie struggles to connect with the caller – especially if the caller is Karen.
Karen has been referred to us many times before. She’s difficult, in the way that Medusa was difficult, except in Karen’s case it’s not snakes but pugs. She lives in a state of constant war with everyone and everything, storming through the world with a half dozen pugs clutched to her chest, their bug eyes an expression of the stress she’s under, or the strength of her grip, or both.
I zone into the conversation half way through.
‘…Karen? Karen? I’m afraid you’ll have to put the dogs in another room or something because I can’t hear a word you’re saying…. Karen? Karen? Honestly – it’s impossible. Put the pugs in another room, Karen. Yes. That’s right. Another room. And shut the door… I’m sure they’ll be fine… it’s just for a minute, Karen, so I can understand what the problem is. Lovely. Thank you. Could you start again, please? …. Okay… Okay…. So you need help of some kind, is that right? A nurse. Okay. Well – I see from the notes here that a nurse came round to see you about an hour ago and you didn’t let them in… Is that right, Karen? …. Okay…. Okay…. Well, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, it’s difficult for us to specify male or female… No, Karen. They’re all nurses. They’ve taken the same qualification…. It’s very difficult to do that, Karen. We can try, but it may mean a delay in getting you the help… Yes. I understand that, Karen…. I’m sorry you feel that, Karen…. but they probably only knocked like the police because they didn’t know whether you’d heard them or not… Well, because of the dogs barking….Yes, well, I’m sorry your dogs were upset by that… I’m sure they do… Karen? If you want to put in a complaint you’re more than welcome to do so. But if I could just… if I could just… No, that’s not what I’m saying, Karen…. if I could just…Have you let the dogs back in, Karen?..Karen…?’
Sophie holds the phone away from her ear, catches my eye, shakes her head, plunges back in.
‘Let me put you through to Jim,’ she says. ‘Maybe he can help…’
She punches in my extension.
‘Karen for you,’ she says when I pick up. ‘Good luck.’
And when my phone connects, it’s like a bone being tossed in the middle of a dog fight.