The Horrors of Telemarketing

The minutes drag on like hours. The hours last for days. The room smells like cheap coffee and 30 year old wood paneling. A cloud of depravity & sadness broods above us. It wilts the flowers beside me, who find themselves slumping into an old, cracked vase. A dozen cigarette-scented voices drone on around me. Buzzing through my headset is the sound of a skeptical secretary who is as bored by my sales pitch as I am. I alleviate this boredom by doodling aimlessly on a notepad – ten minutes later, I notice I’ve drawn a Red Skelton-style sad clown holding balloons.

Suddenly, I snap back to attention. A droopy-eyed woman in a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit slaps a desk bell, which triggers a cacophony of unsettling sounds. The depressed salespeople around me begin to clap all at once – somehow without changing facial expressions or looking in the bell’s direction. They remain focused on their sales quota screen.

The raptor is awakened. A door behind me busts open and out runs a frightening tyrant of a woman. She bears a cheerful grin made of sharpened fangs. I wince as she rushes past me and grants Tracksuit girl a high five. There’s a forceful pat on the back, and then the Raptor grabs a dry erase marker like a bloody dagger. She squeaks a checkmark onto Tracksuit girl’s sales board.

She turns around and singes our faces with her molten-hot gaze. “Good job to Brittany on that sale – woo woo! KEEP IT GOIN’, SISTA!! Look alive folks – you have seven more hours to kick BUTT at those quotas!”

The raptor turns around & lurks back to her dungeon. I try to hide by sinking down into my broken office chair, but it’s too late. Her predatory eyes fall upon me and I know it’s all over.

“Have you just been drawing pictures the whole time? What do you think I’m paying you for?? Let me see your tapes. Give them to me now.”

I’m a deer in headlights. My shaky hand reaches for the tape recorder that documents everything I’ve said during the shift. She beats me to it, slamming her talons down on the ‘eject’ button. The raptor snatches my tape and drags it back to her den like a lifeless Gazelle.

Minutes pass by. Will she like what she’s hearing? Will she commend my progress? Anxiety hits the gas pedal on my racing mind. I’ve not a chance of focusing on my current call.

Finally, an index finger with three-inch-long sharpened nails extends from her office doorway. The finger beckons me to come hither.

“Levi, come have a seat in my office.”