Call Center Blues:
"The Death of a Salesman"
The RFT's classified section was the region's threshing floor for every scheme, rip-off, and "dead-end" where only "the flighty" succeeded and the rest sunk like cement in dark ale-- like seagulls cawing away from a herd of elephant seals on rocky, forboding beaches of unresourcefulness. If it was anything that St. Louis didn't need more of, it was lapsed, drunken Catholics lurching around the taverns with their rumpled copy like groggy peasants-- the shadow of the antiquarian Church looming above in Medieval judgment. Surely there should be some "middle-ground" between doctrinal heaviness and "swinging sin" that reveled in piss, shit, and dead-eyed sleaze.
And here I was-- a top-heavy, cerebral young 17 year-old in rebellion against his better intelligence and looking for "an easy job". However, I would notice things about the human condition-- how the fizz and excitement of "magical solutions" seemed elusive in the sad, slow course of things, and how most of the time we found ourselves left holding a bag of shit as a sociopath disappeared over the hill.
********************
I thought I was "a wise guy". I thought I knew a higher law than "honesty is the best policy".
At home, unread, was a copy of Machivelli's "The Prince" and Sun-Tzu's "The Art of War". By the very act of owning these books, I thought one would be mystically conferred with the quality of "craftiness" like a lynx-eyed fox. Yet keep in mind that anyone who carries around books like these is most likely an anti-social cretin, and only a dabbler in the art of manipulation. Like a guileless peasant in sack-cloth trying to outwit his enemy in a strange land, hog-tied by the Moor and sold into slavery.
But I wanted that job. . . . .
$8/hour in phone sales, plus a hefty commission when you "broke the sound barrier" and outsold your quota like a harrier jet of the high-octane hustle. I'd been proficient enough when I worked for the local Republican's phone bank, stiffly interrupting the suppers of indignant, huff-voiced shitheads to remind them to perform their civic duty and vote for their God-fearing candidate of tax cuts and small government and flinty small-mindedness. And sure, I lied a little bit when I told the telemarketing genius that I actually "enjoyed the challenge of the sale", but you had to sell yourself, right? Ethical considerations be damned, but like I said. . . . . I wanted that job!
So this was the wild-catting service industry. . . . . located in a castle-like office park, up the empty stairs, and into a rented suite of rooms.
Suite 301: Helping Hand
Charities
Jay Kane & Associates
I turned the counterfeit golden doorknob and swung the door open soundlessly on its smooth, well-oiled hinge to behold the wonderland of bountiful plenty that awaited me.
Riffraff. That was my first impression. They looked like interns at the Jerry Springer show, working behind the scenes as they jotted down the personal measurements of strippers and porn stars with scurvy non-aplomb, a work-a-day world "that you wouldn't bring home to mother". Only here the collective murmur of their voices fed into the headsets they wore like air-traffic controllers guiding in the planes to the golden runway of snuggled confidences.
And who had to be Jay was leaning
back in his chair grandly like a potentate, a slick smile on his face as he chatted over the
telephone with someone whom I could scarcely imagine for all the derring-do of
his operation. He was a short, ruddy, well-fed
man in his early '30s, perhaps. His blond hair looked like the quills on a brush, cut
neatly like a country/western barfly and slicked back with mouss. The short beard encircling his chin contrasted finely with his black pants and button-down blue shirt
that he wore like a seat-of-his-pants charmer, a dab of cologne under
each ear.
What an operator.
"I'll call you back in a sec". He hung up the phone and bade who had to be Mike to take a seat. We had a moment to eye each other,"to size each other up", a second of intuition when it clicked that I might not be the right candidate for the job, and he merely shrugged with a "let-it-go" attitude. He tossed me a job application out of nowhere, perhaps to test my reflexes. And no, I did not swoop it up in my hand with a brisk snap. It glanced off my fingers and flopped into my clumsy lap-- right onto the floor. A telling portent of things to come, perhaps.
I filled it out neatly and solemnly. Yet he crinkled up his forehead with impish disbelief when he saw my dearth of employment experience. I wasn't about to tell him about slinking out of "bargain-basement" retail hell after three-in-a-half days of painful incongruity in the working world, my brain splattered against tall boxes of stock that loomed like the megaliths of an ancient, cruel culture that ritually tore out the hearts of its sacrificial victims.
But I seemed willing enough to solicit for his charity. A man off the street, willing and able. There didn't seem to be anything obviously wrong with me, a deep voice that could be molded into a solicitor's image with enough practice and training. He asked me if I was O.K. with working evenings and weekends.
"Of course. That's when the people are home". Jay's eyes widened with approval, even before I finished my sentence. What, to him apparently, sounded like the most intelligent line of reasoning ever made out in the non-academic world of sales. Hey, this was easy!
Jay looked me squarely in the eye and told me about his company. The object was to sell fund-raising tickets to a country music show for "The Missouri State Troopers' Association".
The words hung in the air, an ineffable contentment.
"Here, give me a script reading".
I read what was in front of me:
Country Music Script
I could not help but feel just a little conceited-- almost like a classic Hollywood
actor, Lawrence Oliver perhaps, thinking it "only so natural"
that his talents should be grandly validated.
"Read it again but try to sound just a little more southern, more like their buddy"
"Sure thing, Jay!"
After "getting it down" to his satisfaction, he told everybody to "take
five" with an easy slap of his hand on the desk. The whole cloud of
unethical people got up in a hurry. I followed Jay and his assistant Rob, down to the early summer warmth
where the lot of salesman scuffed around like a bunch of low-down dogs. Cheeks bulging with chewing tobacco, the two
managers squinted up at the
sun like sod-busters, their expressions saying "it's good to be alive".
"Christmas Eve",
as he tucked another portion of "dip" in his lower lip. Sucking
and spitting sounds, as I thought of the lost whirl of forsaken snowflakes and who in
their right mind would be out there on that holy night of subdued family
gatherings and innocent children opening their gifts. Then Jay spat out another wad like a Mississippi riverboat
gambler, lacking only the pocket watch, silk top hat, and mint julip like
Satan's temptation lulling you out into the cold void.
Howdy, (person's first name)! (If they aren't home and ask who's calling give your first name) This is (your name) representing the "Missouri State Troopers' Association", telling you about our upcoming country music show benefit. You like country music?
(If yes): We got a great show coming up. We have Blue Lou Nash, Luann Honeysuckle, and Texas Bill. They're growing stars in the country music scene and you'll see them in person. Fun for the whole family!
(If no, don't loose confidence): Well, country music isn't for everyone but you still want to help out your state troopers, right?
The Missouri State Troopers' Association helps out downed officers and their families with the extra stuff. You know, nuisance lawsuits from angry criminals and all. It seems like crooks are getting more protection these days than anyone else, am I right (their name)? It also helps give temporary shelter if their houses burn down or if they're injured in the line of duty and need more to pay their medical bills. You know, that little extra care that we oughtta give to our men and women of law enforcement.
What to say if. . . . .
person asks what percentage of the proceeds go to them: Well, it all really depends on how much we raise all together but we give them all we can.
If woman says she'll have to talk to the husband: I know if my husband treated me to an evening of countryrific entertainment after a hard day's work I might bring her flowers and pearls more often (laugh).
(if man says he'll have to talk to the wife:) Hold on there, (name). I know that if I treated my wife or girlfriend to an evening of countryrific entertainment I might get lucky that night (laugh).
(THE SALE) We're so glad that you decided to help out the Missouri State
Trooper's Association. We sell different ticket packages and we'll just run
these by you. We have the super-duper-trooper 20 pack for $225 dollars. Is that
too high for you? We also have the 10 pack for $115 dollars. You don't have to
use all the tickets, all the tickets that aren't used will be used to seat handicapped children and retirement home folk. We also have the family 4 pack for $40. Or we sell the 2 pack for $20.
O.K, you'll have the tickets sent to your address in 3 business days with the
toll-free Missouri State Trooper Association number if you have any questions. Thanks again. (their name).
"Great reading! You sound like a natural!"
"Making sales is like getting
pussy," Jay spat.
"If you're relaxed and smooth it'll totally happen".
I had never thought of it in that way and could only nod, blush down at the
sidewalk, and inquire when the big show was going to be.
Jay sat me down next to Rob to see how it was done. It could have been a great 19th century American painting: "Scoundrel & Scoundrel's Apprentice".
I observed as he threw himself into the role and bustled into the phone like a "good 'ole boy" who was so much into all things "apple pie" it was like somebody stirred meth into the scrumptious confection. (-- "Like momma used to make!") I had the impression of a blustering, theatrical trail hand hitching up his pants, holding a shovel and a pick-axe, rocking back and forth, telling the turkey-necked city slickers that "it's time for supper".
He went through eleven calls in ten minutes before making $40 of his $150/hour quota. The commission after that was a "gold mine", for everyone who made "the cut".
It was awfully pleasant watching him. Then it was my turn. From the headset I rather woodenly addressed
"Agnes" from Chesterfield.
Her name and telephone number were listed on the auto-dialer
display in big fat characters, even as she crowed at me how I knew her name and
number like a withered, bun-haired granny feistily hunched over her social
security check with harpy-like fingernails and a lamp to throw at your head in case
you came to the door to kill her.
My eyes widened with the "click!" of
rejection as she told me I ought to be ashamed of myself and then damned me to the fires of eternal perdition.
"It'll take a while to get the hang of it and soon you won't even need the script. Might take up to twenty before you get through", Rob comforted
like a pal. And then, his point proven on cue, someone across the room shouted "FUCKING BITCH!" after saying
"thank you mam" in a voice that sounded exactly like a concierge at the front desk of the Ritz-Carleton.
*******************
I settled into my particle-board cubicle, and stared at a script covered with an
ugly splotch of tobacco juice. Either the Xerox machine was broken, or this is
how they "broke in the new guy".
As it turns out, I didn't make a single sale that entire afternoon. Instead of chatting
lightly with trusting dupes falling into place like plump, spitted partridges, I droned on endlessly to snarling hostiles
fighting for the sanctity of their invaded home lives like bulgy-eyed
caricatures of human rage. They
would sooner contribute money to "The Missouri State Trooper's
Association" as my god-fearing Republican candidate would clothe the
lepers and invite them inside to shit in his bathroom, picking up the portrait
of his family and ogling his blonde, white-bread daughter.
And I could not help but feel the pain of my imprisonment.
"How you doin' over there?", Jay beamed from behind his desk.
"Still working on it", I replied, trying hard not to sound discouraged.
"I've been listening to you. Stick to the script exactly how it's written and you can't fail!".
"Sure thing, Jay", my enthusiasm noticeably diminished, my forehead resting on my palm like an emotionally-battered abuse victim who had been slapped around by the world for an entire afternoon. But I just couldn't become the type of sociopath this job required, cringing with every syllable as I felt the rising anger on the other end of the line ready to verbally trash me for intruding.
Nearly as heart-wrenching were the passive-aggressive ones-- computer programming types, probably-- who would listen to your entire spiel without saying a word. You would build up the electricity in your voice, getting more and more excited because he didn't tell you "to fuck off" like a child molester, and at the moment of truth when you nudged forth "how much can I put you down for?" there would be this long, unnatural pause.
"Nothing".
You stutter for something to say, trying to keep your cheeky composure, and then leave this apathetic person behind as you found him-- unmoved at your saddle-sore plight as he continued to play Pentagon war game simulations in front of his computer like a passive-aggressive, owl-eyed slayer of my hopes.
Script or no script I raised forty dollars by the time Jay left at 6:30, calling "come in tomorrow at nine and we'll fill out the paperwork" over his shoulder. I thought it was a little strange. . . . .
The room gradually cleared out and soon it was just Rob and I responsible for the welfare of all those state troopers. The world was turning overcast green with the foreboding presence of a ferocious summer thunderstorm on the wing, perhaps a portent of my inner conflicts. Whether it was about the nature of this job, the deviousness of some of us, or where I fit into the scheme of things, nature seemed to answer with a dark rumble.
My twenty-five year-old companion was hardly soliciting to his full capacity, but would instead make a few calls and lean back in his chair in silence with his hands crossed over his belly. His gut puffed out under his t-shirt, as he rubbed the back of his itchy, shaved head under a ball cap, chewed more tobacco, then spit into a plastic waste-basket. With pale skin, light blue eyes, and cropped hair he looked like an Ukrainian soldier off in the wilds of Eurasia someplace drinking from a hip flask.
As far as Slavic people go, I've only seen two varieties: broken-down and piteous, weeping at the fates, or sly and devious. In that culture, you're either predator or prey-- even as I was watching Rob play the blindness of the system to the fullest of sly inefficiency, like a crooked bank teller stuffing roubles into his overcoat when the state wasn't looking, a sociopath in the truest sense. Even as it grew darker and more threatening outside, he gave uncritical advice to me like swarthy brothers sitting around a den of thieves. From Babylonia to America, some things never change.
The power blew out three times in 20 minutes, and he cut me loose to drive home through the howling rainstorm of inner conscience that didn't like this one bit.
********************
The next day I pulled up faithfully in the parking lot a full ten minutes before nine 'o clock in the morning and found only a locked building. On a Saturday, no less.
I thumbed the "call" button over and over until a lone black janitor shuffled from the depths and shook his head even before I spoke, gesturing with a waving hand at the presence of my "un-with-it" insistence that raped the sweet silence like a mournfully-blatting trumpet, an expression on his face like he had bit down on a rotten crawdad.
"I was supposed to meet Jay in suite 301 at nine. You know Jay?", holding up my palm to direct my very-white voice through the dark, muffled glass.
"Don't know no Jay. Bildin' open at ten o'clock, suh".
The rules were the rules as he pushed the mop down the hallway, the strong and earnest scent of hard work in the offing, having had enough of "dat crazy muthfuckah".
There was little else to do but sit out there and hope for the best of humanity to shine through. And when no esteemed representative of "Helping Hand Charities" arrived by 10:10, I was ready to go home.
Yet the building was open by then. Holding on to the last shreds of my wounded naivetè, I wondered if Jay had let himself in through the back entrance, drumming his fingers on his desk like a crafty fox with my paperwork before him.
Suite 301 was locked.
My unconscious resentments began to blossom like rotting jungle flowers.
It seemed that some of us were born to be politicians and "fast-talkers" while the rest of us were meant to be chewed up like tobacco and
spat out between the teeth like raw, gratifying material.
Why would Jay tell me to report to work at nine, if the building wasn't even open? How come my paperwork wasn't filled out yet?
And most importantly-- how would I be paid, if my brief existence here was "off the books"?!
I rang the office at 11. Nobody answered. Out of morbid curiosity, I dialed at 1:30 to find the voice of assured, sanguine Jay behind his desk as usual. What a shitbag.
"Hey Jay! What happened? I showed up at nine like you said. . . . .". There was silence on the other end of the line. "I waited for over an hour," my voice filled with the mock, singsong innocence only a 17 year-old could conjure-- like "the brave little soldier" left to die on an island by his commanding general and making a tree-house out of bamboo sticks and gung-ho patriotism for "the glorious cause".
"Car trouble". I could detect the faintest hint of a smile in his voice.
"Oh. That's too bad. When did you get in?".
"About 10:15"
"I see. . . . .".
"Come in Sunday at eleven".
Who knew where he spent his nights?
Jay squatted down to adjust some wires behind the particle-board. A t-shirt hugged his well-fed frame, with black gym shorts clasped around his fat, spiteful little legs. It was his brief appearance this day, but not brief enough to cease scolding me for ditching "the script". You see, your victim didn't get nearly as vexed when you asked for "Mr." or "Mrs." but when you put up the wall of formality, the driving mania of the delivery was compromised.
Jay stood over me with his hand placed on the back of my chair, his fine cheer a distant memory, ruddy with anger as he verbally slapped around unmalleable clay.
"I PAY YOU to say it this way, so DO IT!".
His profitable little scam-- the office suite, the equipment, the wages-- had a slim margin between gain and net loss. I was a drag on productivity, his ticket out of this town to bigger casinos and cushier "pussy" as he flew around like a demon unburdened by conscience.
From a computer, he tallied our sales like "Big Brother" dragging a mouse as we pressed a numbered keypad to indicate what kind of "response" we got from our prey. At his desk he was like a farmer correcting pigs rooting for truffles with one strike of the rod.
Why I didn't just walk away from that degrading situation, I don't know, but perhaps it is that upper middle class "mortification of failure" that keeps us going. It served us well enough in school, until we quit because we're not going to Harvard. If you're not an advisor to Presidents, top brass at Fortune 500 Companies, or running around with "the beautiful ones", you may as well muck around in utter filth. In a word, I was too proud to eat shit and settle for less.
But here I was rooting for Jay's truffles through the sewage of phone sales like a hog grunting into the receiver. The absurdity of this situation was not lost upon me. . . . .
Reluctantly, I played by "the script" until he returned to his desk out of earshot. Then he left, my paperwork still unfilled.
Struggling, mentally gasping for breath, I pushed on. The particle-board of my cubicle was the only thing that separated me from
a young fellow who looked like the long-haired camera man who shot South American
snuff films. Finally he lost his temper, stood up, and disconnected my
faltering conversation with "Horace" from
Baldwin.
"Look man",
he blew in my face in a
vaguely Spanish accent. It was a voice of blood feuds and the violence of romance,
the kind of character who would slit your throat in a dark alley.
"You sound like a fucking idiot, REAL LAME when you talk that shit".
"But--"
"Shut up man. I don't care. Do it right". Rob looked on, folding hands over his belly, not intervening when the pirate said what had to be said. I fumbled for words, a confused and stolid American, looking for a bit of decency in this cold, cruel world.
"That's not my way".
"You are a piece of shit, man. A piece of shit", he spat with frustration, cutting his hand through the air at the wincing offensiveness of my voice, whisking his fingers under his chin in cruel Iberian dismissal.
Whether or not that was true, I couldn't really say but I mulled on that opinion for all of 10 seconds before making up my mind.
Then I lashed out:
Though I didn't get paid for my trouble,
I certainly got my money's worth. . . . .
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
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