I could practically hear the tent pitching in what I assume were pleated trousers. They might have been khaki or navy. The color didn’t bleed through phone line. His nervous chuckle did.
“I do so appreciate your help,” I said.
“I appreciate your appreciation,” he said, allowing a small laugh to break up his clipped Indian-accented English, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Well,” I said, dropping my voice down to its best 1-900-number tones, “you’ve been such a darling making sure that unnecessary late fee was dropped, I hate to ask for anything more, but… do you think you could get a fresh statement that reflects the changes
sent to me?”
“Why certainly! Do you wish for a hard or electronic copy, ma’am?”
“Oh, a hard copy, please.”
“Certainly [giggle], would you verify your mailing address?”
And then, because I’ve been stuck at home recovering from surgery and was bored out of my mind, I recited the address as if he was paying me ten dollars a minute.
“Very [deep breath] good. It will [deep breath] go out [deep breath] tomorrow,” he stammered.
“Thank you for the excellent customer service,” I cooed.
“No ma’am,” he faltered, as if having to mentally translate the words, “It was all my pleasure.”