"We need you to be available eight hours a day, six days a week. Two fifteen-minute breaks and a one-hour lunch. On site, of course. That includes training. There are no more work-at-home openings," noted the recruiter as I was about to sign the contract.

I had never, however, worked for a call center or, for that matter, a well-established business. I worked as an intern for the first time at a Bronx-based independent film distribution company, where I was paid in cash every month to contribute to their tax avoidance. I later worked for a month at a local television station, but they refused to offer me a contract because I was a trainee (I never got a penny out of that job).

I abhorred call centers. I scoffed at my friends for having to work in call centers to make up for their degrees for three years, and ultimately, ironically, life had brought me to that exact spot. I was aware that Sitecom was probably not the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—no, I was certain that it was not. But I needed the money; that was out of the question. That is to say, I signed the contract in which I consented to forfeit any right to a private life outside of that place. The contract, of course, also included benefits, such as deductions for my social security, pension, and health insurance—I would, after all, have health insurance—and, most importantly, a monthly salary of roughly $4,500, which would be plenty to get me the hell out of my mother's house.

"Signed."

"Fantastic! We'll see you on Monday."

By the time the summer was over, I had been with Sitecom for two months. Not too bad of a job; I worked for Fidelity, a premium campaign that offered personal loans, mostly to immigrants. I was primarily in charge of processing applications that were moved to the English-speaking queue. Lots of Jews, Africans, Hindus, Italians, and Chinese. My calls used to last anywhere from twenty to forty minutes, and I would get about nine a day, most of which had nothing major wrong with them. Perhaps the most taxing part of the job was spelling the names correctly.

“Abyss... Abyssinia, does that have an 's' or two? ... Chaoxiang. Yes, 'C' as in Charlie, 'H' as in Hotel, 'A' as in Alpha... Muuuuuukheeeerjeeeee, Mukherjee. M-U-K-H-E-R-J-E-E, correct? ... Yes, Mr. Aronowitz. Of course we do, Mr. Aronowitz; we have—of course I know how to spell your last name; I'm Jewish too!”

As it happened, I was surprisingly happy at my job. In the middle of New York's asphalt filth, I felt a unique sense of satisfaction. The consistency and familiarity of my workdays had grown ingrained in me, and there was a certain comforting quality to it. It was a sensation I had grown to crave, as though I had settled into the busy hub. My routine's monotony eventually settled into a comfortable groove that I no longer resented. On the brink of hectic city life, lunch breaks with a scenic view of the Hudson River made for a bit of a haven. Scorsese-like dreams of ambition and success were stoked by the city's skyline, which seemed to be beckoning me. It was a slight treat, yet it gave my life a classy feel, akin to that of an executive ascending the towering heights of the World Trade Center day in and day out.

But as the tale tragically goes, at the not-so-tender age of twenty-two, the life I ended up in did not align with my expectations. Dreams are often eclipsed by the harsh realities of the world, reshaped by the relentless currents of circumstance. But even though my life up until that point had not followed the lofty dreams I once had as a child, I had accepted that New York was a city that required rage, vitriol, bile, and a never-ending will to survive—and I had forged my path, navigating the murky waters of likelihood and setbacks with a grit born of necessity.

It had been a month since I moved out of my mother's house in Washington Heights and started over in my own apartment in Williamsburg, in a building owned by orthodox Jews. That I was able to earn this independence on my own terms was arguably my greatest accomplishment. But as August rolled around, things started to shift.

It feels like a blur of unknowns—the series of events leading up to that momentous event. Perhaps my sensibly laid-out route went out of whack because I didn't have my usual Sabrett's hot dog on my way to work or because I took an unintentional detour that caused me to miss two subway stops. Not only did my lunch schedule point to trouble ahead, it made matters worse—I was already under a lot of stress.

Yet, the disintegration was not exclusively brought on by external factors. The faint tickle in my arms, the inexplicable shortness of breath, and the vague feeling that my brain was sinking and humming into my skull were all mild but readily apparent warning signs from my body. Still, I deftly dismissed these symptoms as niggles and waved them off. And then—one, two, three, four, five, six. I could hear it—the heart pumping blood—seven, eight, nine, ten. I had no idea what it was, but something was approaching; something was plummeting down towards the earth. I was standing by the tracks, and the buzz in my ears sounded like the whistle of a train. How come the outside world felt so far away, even though I could hear my insides so clearly? The guts squirming, the gastric juices churning, the brain cells producing electricity, the joints aching, the heart pumping blood, the hair brushing against the skin—the brain cells producing electricity. Elecricity. My limbs went numb as I felt a lightning bolt strike my spine. Though it did feel like an eternity, I knew it was just a matter of seconds. It got dark then.

Lia Markin

The Great Work Begins!

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