Just Another Day on the Job

I sift through the mail, quickly shuffling through the stack of envelopes, dropping the junk mail unceremoniously into the garbage can in front of me. I hesitate for half a second as the Capital One logo reveals itself from beneath my credit card bill, then down it goes, floating to join its unwanted brethren on the top of the heap. With that name, memories begin to lackadaisically swirl at the back of my mind. As I wait for the elevator up to my floor, I allow one in particular to come to the fore, and before I know it I am sitting in a cheap office chair, stained and stiff like an old man, literally tethered to the computer I am sitting in front of. There are a few hundred people, likewise tethered, sitting in the large open room around me. The buzz of their voices is a steady hum, rising and falling as if we have all begun to inflect our scripts in exactly the same way. Workstations line the walls and crop up out of the industrial carpet like metal islands. I am the lone castaway at my island.

The night is long with no one to sit next to, especially since it is nearing the end of the month and our call list is almost exhausted. But my contraband book is more than enough company, and I have put a hundred pages behind me since I began my shift.

There is a mechanical tone in my ear, of the kind researchers use to condition animals. I lay my book pages-down in my lap. Orange on black, the name on my screen is ROBERT SMITH.

“Hello?” A woman.

“Hello,” I smile, so that it is reflected in my voice. If I sound as bored as I feel the jig will be up, and I don’t feel like sparring with this gatekeeper. Sure, verbally fighting with the customers can be a fun way to make the night go faster, but I am in no mood tonight. Just want to be rejected and released back to my book.

“Is Mr. Robert Smith there please?”

“No, he’s out, can I take a message?” the woman asks. Her voice is non-committal.

“No, that’s alright, I can call back at another time.” Almost out! As long as she doesn’t…

“Who is this? Why are you calling?” It sounds as though all of her attention is now on me.

“My name is Amanda, and I am calling this evening on behalf of Capital One. We’ll try Mr. Smith at another time. Thanks for your time.” I pause, then begin the standard disclaimer, which is necessary when I identify myself and/or Capital One.

“Hold on a second, why are you calling him?” she is like a beagle on the scent now. Suddenly, she is very interested. “Does he owe you money?”

“Not that I know of.” She exhales deeply, almost sighing, and her disappointment causes tension over the wires. “We’re calling today to offer him a special offer on a new credit card, but we can call back at another time so he doesn’t miss his chance.” I add that last part ironically, for my own amusement - the credit cards were never a ‘good deal.’ “Thanks again for your time.” Again, I pause then begin the disclaimer.

“Hold on!” she is now barking like a beagle, too. There is a perceptible change. “You’re a telemarketer?”

I furrow my brows and lift the left corner of my mouth. This wasn’t obvious? “Yes.”

“You take Robert off that list.” It is a short and definitive demand.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s not possible. Only Mr. Smith can request to have his name removed.”

“You have to remove his name.” She is losing control and her teeth sound clenched.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that at this time.”

“I know.” She spits over the phone. Her voice indicates white knuckles and wide eyes. “I know what you and your kind are like.”

I am not sure what she means, and can’t make a split decision – it would be fun to instigate her further, but if someone is listening I’ll get into trouble. She makes the decision for me – she doesn’t wait for me to say anything.

“My husband ran away with a telemarketer like you, and if he ever comes back he is never” - that last word is nearly lost inside a deep throated growl - “going to speak with you. Got it?!” She is uninhibitedly screaming now, and I begin to choke back uninhibited laughter. I take a gulp of air.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you little bitch! Take him off your list!” She has transformed from beagle to banshee.

Then: dial tone. I mutter the disclaimer as fast as I can, the dial tone humming along. I take my headset off. I roll the phone receiver back into its cradle, silencing the dial tone. I push my keyboard towards the monitor at the back of my station and replace it with my folded arms, which I place my face between. I release the laughter I thought may kill me, until my sides hurt. Then I sit up, code the call and restore my tele-connections.

The elevator doors open, and I am still chuckling as I step off the elevator, leaving the memory behind me like a whisp.