Cold Calls

I have had some terrible jobs. Before the fancy 40 hour work weeks and free coffee of the office world, I was a poor country kid who took whatever job I could find. I worked at Safeway bagging groceries and used to fantasize about falling off of a ladder (I didn't use ladders) and breaking my arm so I could claim workers comp. I worked seasonally at a family friend's motor home rental business, cleaning said motor homes. Dead birds - not uncommon. I worked at a bar known for having lingerie theme nights and gang fights (the two were generally unrelated). My most embarrassing job by far was working for a home cleaning service. Yes, I was one of those sad girls who wore medical scrubs and drove around in a blue car that said "Molly Maid" on the side. We would get honked at all the time which proves that men are not detail oriented.  I would literally roll out of bed, but my hair in a pony tail and throw on my, usually dirty and very unflattering, uniform and run out to the car every morning to get breakfast at 7-11 while my supervisor smoked and bitched about her ex. To put it delicately, we looked like crap. But as soon as someone saw the word 'maid' it was all hoots and whistles. Oh the power of porn. Yet, I managed to last there for almost a year, mostly because I was lazy and it was kind of interesting to go into strange houses all the time.

Aside from all of those shitty jobs, one stands out in my mind as The Worst Job Ever.  Being employed for an entire day and a half at a cold calling center was the worst thing I have ever done. Not even when I had to mop up an entire bottle of maple syrup in aisle 7 did I feel as degraded. Not even when I was shamelessly batting my fake eyelashes at drunk old men did I feel as cheap. Let me break it down. After a day of training from an unfortunate looking woman wearing a cat sweater, we were set loose on the call floor. There were 'promotional incentives' that I didn't understand all over the walls. There was a very old monitor in front of me connected to an evil central computer somewhere. There was a cheap metal and foam headset...on my head.

Basically you sit there, waiting for something to happen, gradually losing all sense of time and space. All of a sudden there's a noise in your ear and the screen in front of you says 'dialing...' and you wish that you could trade your first born to a magical dwarf in exchange for a bunch of gold and quit this hell. But you can't. It rings and you pray to God, Allah, Chuck Norris, etc. that no one is home. Most of the time, someone is home. Milliseconds after you hear the hesitant "hello?" of a confused senior citizen, a script pops up on the screen. 90% of the time you pronounce their name wrong, which is apparently one of the most offensive things you could do. Then you have to read through a ridiculous script for whatever the company is selling/surveying/raising money for. If your deity is merciful, the other person will just hang up. Sometimes they stiffly say "I'm not interested" first. Sometimes they freak out and verbally abuse you for a while. Sometimes they're just lonely and are happy to finally have someone to talk to. Rarely do they actually care or have any desire to hear you out, least of all a desire to give you money.

I had been going through this process for a of couple hours when my trainer came over to give me a pep talk. "The thing you have to remember is that we're raising money for a charity. A charity. Really emphasize that. Talk about the blind children. Pull on their heart strings."

I resolved in that moment to be the best silver-tongued saleswoman in the office. I would win all the incentive prizes and raise the most money for those poor blind kids and I would do it all with a smile! I swallowed nervously and nodded at her, tensed and ready to go as the next call connected. "Hello?" said a kindly old lady on the other end. 'Piece of cake,' I thought to myself. "Hi Mrs..." I launched into my spiel, gaining confidence every second that she didn't interrupt me. When I finished she politely said, "well, thank you for calling, but I already donate to the CNIB." I was prepared and rebutted "Oh, but we're not the same as the CNIB, ma'am, we blah blah blah blah blah. I mean, think of all the poor, unfortunate, blind children you'll be helping." I said in a sickeningly sweetly sad voice. Silence on the other end. 'I've got her now,' I thought. "Well...I happen to be blind myself. I have never even heard of your charity and as I said, I already give to the CNIB who, I happen to know first hand, do wonderful work with children. Good day." And hung up.

My breath caught in my throat. My mouth went dry. My trainer, who had been listening in another room came over to talk to me again. I took off my headset and stood up, "yeah. I can't do this." As I walked out of that dilapidated office building jobless, car-less and poor, I took solace in the fact that I could always get a boob job and be stripper. I would probably sleep better at night, and the money would be going somewhere that actually existed (my g-string).

So the next time you get a call from an East Indian man named Ronald, try to go easy on him. Cold Callers are people too.