Mr. Davis is threatening to shoot his computer. What this will accomplish is unclear, but he seems convinced it will make him feel better. Looking over his call log, I'm sympathetic. A run of givers have sent him six monitors in the last two and a half weeks, none of which has solved his problem. It seems safe to say that whatever his problem is, it's not with the monitor. Still, that hasn't stopped another giver from offering to send him a seventh one earlier today. When he refused that present he was promptly punted. He's been punted a total of four times today. Now he's had it. He just wants me to bear audio witness as he guns down his system.

Fortunately after a little prodding I discover that Mr. Davis' problem is one of a growing number that I recognize and know how to fix. We go through a few simple steps, and in a matter of minutes I've determined that his video card is bad. I explain what we've done and that I'll be sending a new video card to address his issue. He seems much calmer now, grateful that I've listened, and hopeful that I've really figured out the source of his frustration. All I need to do now is send him the part.

But because the givers have been sending out thousands of dollars' worth of unnecessary parts and equipment lately, it's not that simple. Now I have to call a special inside number and wait for the opportunity to explain to a manager why Mr. Davis needs the part I think he needs. With one manager set up to handle this post and hundreds of techs trying to dispatch parts, both legitimately and otherwise, it turns out that I'm in for quite a hold. So while the problem is actually something I know how to fix, and while I've gotten to the solution in only eight minutes, I now have to wait on hold for 16 minutes just to send out the necessary part. By the time this call ends, it will have taken almost 25 minutes and to anyone studying my stats I'll continue to look completely clueless.

When I finally get back to Mr. Davis his goodwill is gone. The quarter hour of exposure to soft rock he's endured has prompted him to get the gun and begin threatening to murder his machine all over again. I promise him the part is on its way and that his problem is finally solved. But it's clear he doesn't believe me. He calls me an asshole and slams down the phone. I begin to wonder if I might not be better off learning how to punt.

It's been nearly three and a half months since my class took to the phones and less than a third of us are still here. All around me are new hires just hitting the floor and trying to figure out which strategy they should adopt in order to survive. Lately, I've managed to keep my call times in the 12- to 15-minute range and have started to feel like I know what I'm supposed to be doing. Those of us who are still here are all pretty firmly entrenched in whatever methodology we've chosen, regardless of whether we solve any problems or not.

After lunch we're called together to watch a training video. Why we're watching it more than three months into our employment is unclear, but it hardly matters. In a world where the phone is counting the seconds you spend at the water fountain, we're all grateful for a respite from its unblinking eye.

The video turns out to be the funniest thing any of us has ever seen. Cheeks are wet, stomachs are sore, as we laugh riotously at the video's assertion of how things are supposed to work around here. We see the video's students carefully studying intricate diagrams and complex equipment under the watchful eyes of their instructors, and we think back to our card games and Chad's labored efforts to remain on his feet. We hear the kind and courteous manner in which the technicians speak with their mock customers and the grateful thanks of callers who've been rescued from their computer nightmares by these intrepid yet imaginary technicians, and we think of Ted and Satan. No matter how many times they tell us to be quiet, none of us can help it. It's like working in a motel and seeing it advertised as the Four Seasons. If we weren't laughing, we'd probably cry.

As I return to my cube I'm tempted to believe that the insanity is confined to this office, but the call logs tell a different story. People are punting, giving, and reading The Mantra all over the country. In Tennessee, Oregon or Texas, in operations run by my outsourcer or others, even in the support centers run by the manufacturer, it seems there's no safe place for a call to go. Wherever they're sitting, when techs answer your calls, they're more likely to be a Charles than a Ken. Suddenly the video seems a little less humorous. It's one thing to imagine that this place is an anomaly. It quite another to think we're just a small part of a larger disaster. I'm sure it would depress me if I gave it a chance, but suddenly my phone rings and I've got 12 minutes to fix something or get off the line.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Ken's last day feels like the beginning of the end of something bigger. Without him standing in the aisles screaming, who will give voice to what the rest of us are feeling? What will we have to write down and talk about at lunch? In short, who else is going to make working here bearable? The irony is that the company has no clue what they're really losing. Far more than a foul-mouthed sailor in a headset, Ken has become one of the most competent techs on the floor. His style may not be user friendly, but on average he can take a call, solve a problem, and berate his customer for whining in less than 12 minutes. Ken fixes their trouble whether they like it or not, regardless of how long it takes him, and when he hangs up the problem is solved. He's even received several thankful e-mails from callers who've endured his drill instructor's approach and finally gotten a much-needed solution.

But good as he is to customers, he's better to us. Instead of waiting interminably on hold to get a reading of The Mantra from a mentor, many of us will simply step over to his cube and ask Ken. More often than not he begins, "Oh shit, that's easy..." and like that we're on our way. No one wants to see him go, but Ken can't be persuaded to stay.

Last week word began to circulate that Charles was being taken off the mentor line and promoted to full-blown manager. Ken was uncharacteristically calm. He sat down at his computer and hastily typed something up. Minutes later he handed in his resignation without a word. Since then we've pestered him endlessly to stay. We've tried to convince him that Charles' promotion is actually a good thing; at least he won't pop up on the mentor line anymore.

But Ken's decision is made. He's the kind of person who acts on principle, logic be damned. He's in his mid-40s, divorced and the father of two, but he's decided that he'd rather be unemployed than work for a company that considers Charles to be among its very best assets. It's a noble stand, but one made in vain. Already names are being floated as to who will get Charles' spot on the mentor line and Loni's name has been mentioned more than once. As the owner of one of the lowest average call times and highest call volumes, he's an obvious choice for management, though even Loni would tell you in a perfect world it would be Ken who was moving up. But it's not a perfect world, it's tech support, and instead of moving up, Ken is moving on. Someone has gotten him a cake. It does not read Good Luck, or Congratulations, or even say Goodbye. Ken opens it up to reveal three words scrawled neatly in the icing.

"Bullshit. Total bullshit."

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