Bad Time to Call



I have probably the most hated job on the face of the earth. My hours are awful, my pay is shit, it sucks all around.

I'm a telemarketer.

Not because I want to be mind you, believe me, I hate calling people when they're in the middle of dinner, I hate getting scolded for trying to call people at ungodly hours, and I hate getting sworn at and hung up on. But the sad fact was I majored in philosophy back in college and couldn't really do anything with it, and telemarketing is sadly one of the only jobs that pay the bills for a guy like me. I'm not lazy, I'd love to get into a better line of work, but this job always feels like it's sucking my soul out and the nights leave me too exhausted to try and find another job, not to mention I have so little else to put on my resume that I doubted anyone else would ever hire me.

I only found the guts to quit that going-nowhere job after one particularly bad night back in early 2008. I remember having a horribly bad night of calls, several people doing everything from yelling at me to one guy holding his phone up to that screaming scene from The Exorcist. Who really cared if these people planned to vote for a president and who they did? I didn't even plan to vote myself, I'm not into politics, so why should I care if these people were? Because it was the only way I was getting a paycheck damnit, and I hated myself for it.

I remember getting down to a cellphone number for a “Monique Winthrop”. “Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath. I hated cell phone calls the most. Lord only knew where they'd be and what kind of horrible shit they could try and pull, not to mention if this woman was at a concert or something she'd have to scream before I could hear her. I know it sounds like paranoia, but I've just been through that kind of shit so, so many times.

I considered skipping over it entierly before half-heartedly dialing the number and waiting for the rings, counting them in my head. Between four and six rings was usually where the answering machine came in, and whenever I got more than eight I just hung up and wrote it down as an “unavailable”. Coorperate policy said I should wait until ten, but I knew the pencil-pushers upstairs really didn't pay attention to these kinds of things.

I managed to count to six before the phone was answered. I sighed to myself, at least glad it was quiet on the other end, no annoying rock show or anything in the background. I waited for a “hello” but didn't hear one. I continued to listen intently, sure that if not a hello, I'd hear a click, but nothing.

After a few seconds I began my canned speech, “Hello there, is Miss Monique Winthrop available?” Even I could hear how pathetic I sounded.

What followed was a sound in the distance, something not so close to the phone but still audible. What I heard was the reason I quit my job.

“THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE IN THERE DID YOU YOU LITTLE CUNT?!” I froze, hearing the voice of a screaming man on the other side of the phone. A moment later I could hear the higher scream of a woman and a sudden movement, as if the phone was being knocked to the ground. My jaw was suddenly slack in horror.

Through the gritting of teeth I could hear the phrase, “Fucking hate that song!” As the woman on the other line continued to scream. I had no idea what to do, I just sat there, paralyzed in fear. Soon, the woman's screams became mangled sounding gargles. I then heard a child screaming, saying to let go of his mom. There was a loud banging sound right near the phone, as if it was a person crashing into the wall. The woman screamed again through the gargling as it slowly faded away. Then I heard the boy screaming again, accompanied by the heaving breathes of the man who was yelling before, until there was suddenly a loud snapping sound and the line went dead.

Mouth agape, too stunned to say anything, I hung up the phone, gathered my things and walked out of the agency that night, never to return again.