(2017) Heights Vol. 65, No. 1

UTelCo had centers in Bangalore, New Delhi, and Ahmedabad, wherever that was; it wasn’t uncommon for us to get a call from someone who sounded unambiguously Indian introducing herself as “Chloe Smith”. “How are you doing today?” Indian Chloe would ask, then explain that she had a customer on the line who had been routed to their site by mistake. Without thinking, we would imagine someone in a colorful sari, who resembled Miss Universe ‘94 Sushmita Sen, only darker, less statuesque, so different from us and our mixed Chinese and Malay blood, our acid-washed Levi’s and fake Lacoste shirts, but who, like us, had read the same ring-bound Manual for UTelCo Customer Care Associates and memorized the same spiels.

“I wonder what’s underneath the turban,” Karen said.

“I have a wild guess,” Alvin said, giving her the side eye.

Himmat flung his cigarette butt into a nearby trash bin and made his way back to the building. We took that to be our cue to wrap up our own post-meal cigarettes, and we followed him across the lobby to the elevator.

“I just knew that disco would be her Achilles’ heel,” Philip said, as we stepped inside the elevator. “I knew it. But she can’t be eliminated, right? I mean, we always win these stupid popularity contests.”

Thirty-second—our floor—was already pressed and lit when a leather shoe stopped the doors from closing.

“You need aus phone line to vote,” Karen said. “Our loyal armies of bored housewives and unemployed druggies can’t just—” “What needs a us phone line?” Brock asked, wedging his torso in between the mishmash of bodies. He took a sip from his Starbucks cup and nodded at Himmat, his question hanging in the air as the car started its ascent.

“The druggies are not unemployed,” Sharon pointed out. “They’re part of the informal economy, hello.” She paused. “I took up pol sci, so I know.”

We wondered if the elevator’s thorough sluggishness was only in our imagination.

When we got to our floor, Philip pulled us to one side.

50