The Wikiness

“Hello, Mrs. Jones? This is George from United Auto Warranty. I see that your ‘79 Ford’s warranty is about to expire this November, and I’m calling to tell you that we can lock-in a better warranty today extending coverage two whole years, and you’ll actually pay less for more coverage. Can I take just a moment of your time to explain how we can help you?”

Most of the time, I never get that far into the spiel. It is Reagan’s recession, June of 1982. Caller ID is not yet a thing–people pick up their phones. Anyone could be on the line..But as soon as they hear a stranger’s voice, or certainly as soon as they understand I’m selling something–click.

Other times, I am called “you again!” or “son of a bitch I told you to leave me the fuck alone, so stop CALLING!” These customers usually slam their heavy Bakelite receivers, so it’s a powerful click.

A week or so ago,I got the call telling me I had this job and should come in for training the next day at Lake Point Tower. I was hopeful–I thought there must be money in this game if they work out of a luxury apartment building. But when I get to these 19th floor offices, I might as well be in Cicero. I see that the window on Lake Michigan is partially blocked and the rest yellowed with smoke. The telemarketers who work in this room sit side by side hunched in the 3 foot wide carrels smoking and drinking coffee and making calls, not looking out any windows. 

During my 3 to 9 pm shift, I sit on a folding chair and look at the sound-absorbing divider walls of my workstation, where sales tips and rebuttals to customer objections are thumbtacked.  

“Don’t rush. Get them to believe you,” reads one reminder.

“Objection→ question” says another, and under it, “I understand wanting to talk it over with your husband first, Mrs. Jones. So, when would be a good time for me to call back?” or “I know it’s a lot of money. But would you close the deal today if we can stretch out the payments to just a little each month?”

Still another–”Yes, it is a few hundred dollars, but have you seen what a new trans costs on your ‘79 Buick? Or a transaxle job? We’re talking a thousand easy. Let’s lock in this deal while it’s available, OK?”

My bosses are two men with slicked-back hair. The older is strout and dresses in three-piece suits. When I enter the office and he is also present–which is rare–I see him in his windowed office behind a large desk looking at files and speaking on the phone. 

The younger boss is always around. He manages the telemarketing and keeps the leaderboard up to date. He has bad breath and uses his piercing nasal voice to motivate us with invidious comparison. 

“Would you look at dat, Sully? The hebe is breathing down yer neck. Time to close some deals!”

Along with other new telemarketers, I am given a set of lead cards that it’s clear have been used many times, hence the anger of my callees. Our mettle as salesmen is being tested. Who will rise above resistance and still close the deal?

Unaccountably, I succeed in getting two sales on each of my first two days. My name is on the leaderboard. I’m enthused to be in the running for my first weekly bonus. Seeing a lucky horse, the manager bets on me. As my third shift begins, he approaches smiling, and hands me a set of new leads. His eyebrow cocks and his Brylcreamed head nods conspiratorially at me.

On my one fifteen minute break, I go to the windowless “lounge” that reeks of ancient tar and nicotine, drink a coke, eat a PB & J and smoke a Marlboro Light or two. If another worker comes in, we avoid conversation. 

On this day, the continuous rejection exhausts and discourages me. After a few hours of no success, I begin to read the script faster, reasoning that the sooner I get rejected, the quicker I can make the next call and get to that elusive “yes.” 

The manager leans down to my open ear and I feel his malodorous whisper hot against my face. “Slow down, Speedy. It sounds like you don’t give a shit.”

But I don’t give a shit about this job. I am here for the guaranteed $5.50 an hour.  I don’t want to compete for my living. I don’t want to coerce and manipulate my fellow humans. I already know how capitalism alienates workers from their work and each other. This job extends the suffering to random car buyers, people like my aunt or my neighbors.  The whole operation is based on the unspoken premise that of course we are selling a worthless product. Winners are those who can sell it again and again. It’s a hustler’s game.

Looking at my fellow telemarketers, I see how lucky I am. For I have a degree waiting for me to finish starting this fall, and, I’m now determined, less exploitative work ahead of me.