giant LED clock on the wall. “I need you to have another good day buddy.”
“Gotcha,” I replied. I grabbed a headset, wiped it down with an anti-septic and plugged into my terminal. To my right was an eighteen year old white guy whom I often conversed with, mostly about chicks, and on my left, a new girl; young, brunette, nice legs.
“Hey Sebastian, who’s the new chick?” the kid whispered, punching uselessly at his keyboard with one finger to throw off the boss.
“I just got here. You tell me,” I said.
The boss was watching a monitor, so if anyone was off a call for more than two minutes he could yell at them. Then my screen lit up with a loud, “bleep,” that always hurt my ears, alerting me to attention. It was sort of like the slave-masters whip at the crack of dawn. The list of clients was endless, hopeless, like the sins of man. Eight point five hours to go. This is what we do to survive.
“Sebastian! Get on a call!” The boss yelled.
I noticed saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. He needs water. Maybe it’s just madness. I hit dial and connected to my first client. It rang a few rings and then:
“Hello?” The woman’s voice said.
“Hello. This is operator one-one-nine from Visa Card services. May I please speak to Norma Wilson?”
“Well, this is Norma. How may I help you?”
“I’m just calling on behalf of Visa Card Services to let you know about a great new option we have. It’s called, ‘Physical Asset Protection.’ It’s designed to guard yourself or loved ones for up to one hundred percent coverage on broken bones or injuries from home or work related accidents.”
I forced a smile for the pitch. Supposedly, the customer can tell if you’re happy. I picked it up almost as an unconscious habit due to the fat man’s constant harping of, “Smile Sebastian! Smile!” It had actually been helping me with my pickup skills. The puas said the same thing. You can fake being happy to actually be happy. Go figure. And based on the law of state-transference, whatever you feel, they feel. In theory anyway. So people like you more when you’re happy, and they buy your shit, or suck your dick.
“Oh dear,” she said, her voice quivering like a broken harp. “Well, I don’t know, my husband passed away, he used to make these payments, and I’m still on his pension....”
“Oh Maam ! But what if something were to happen to you, say in the bathtub, or on your way to go shopping? What if you tripped on a curb, or were bitten by a stray dog? What if you were suddenly unable to make payments?” I read the lines off a cheat sheet under, “client objections.” Sometimes I got creative and free-styled horrible, ridiculous tragedies like gang warfare and falling space debris. “But sir, what if a marauding gang of KKK burst into your house and broke your kneecaps?”
“This coverage comes at only two dollars per month,” I continued. “It’s automatically drawn from your credit card with no hassle to you. That’s less than a cup of coffee!”
The cup of coffee was the fat man’s favorite line. He forced all thirty-seven employees to memorize it daily, because about three of them were replaced for various reasons every day: some were fired for failing to make sales, some just quit. It didn’t matter, there were hundreds of call centers, but I chose this one for some reason. Most people have no idea why they work where they work. They just do it because someone told them they’re supposed to work.
“Oh…, erm ….well that is cheap…” She agreed. “But I don’t know. What do I get exactly? I wish my husband was here to help me decide.”
“ Maam … Norma, for just two dollars a day you get full bone coverage, up to five thousand dollars—for any bone in your body! It’s a small price to pay for such a feeling of safety.”
I’m good. I’m a smooth talking pickup artist. I smelled blood in the water; old, lonely widow juice. The boss man was watching me.
“Gotcha,” I replied. I grabbed a headset, wiped it down with an anti-septic and plugged into my terminal. To my right was an eighteen year old white guy whom I often conversed with, mostly about chicks, and on my left, a new girl; young, brunette, nice legs.
“Hey Sebastian, who’s the new chick?” the kid whispered, punching uselessly at his keyboard with one finger to throw off the boss.
“I just got here. You tell me,” I said.
The boss was watching a monitor, so if anyone was off a call for more than two minutes he could yell at them. Then my screen lit up with a loud, “bleep,” that always hurt my ears, alerting me to attention. It was sort of like the slave-masters whip at the crack of dawn. The list of clients was endless, hopeless, like the sins of man. Eight point five hours to go. This is what we do to survive.
“Sebastian! Get on a call!” The boss yelled.
I noticed saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. He needs water. Maybe it’s just madness. I hit dial and connected to my first client. It rang a few rings and then:
“Hello?” The woman’s voice said.
“Hello. This is operator one-one-nine from Visa Card services. May I please speak to Norma Wilson?”
“Well, this is Norma. How may I help you?”
“I’m just calling on behalf of Visa Card Services to let you know about a great new option we have. It’s called, ‘Physical Asset Protection.’ It’s designed to guard yourself or loved ones for up to one hundred percent coverage on broken bones or injuries from home or work related accidents.”
I forced a smile for the pitch. Supposedly, the customer can tell if you’re happy. I picked it up almost as an unconscious habit due to the fat man’s constant harping of, “Smile Sebastian! Smile!” It had actually been helping me with my pickup skills. The puas said the same thing. You can fake being happy to actually be happy. Go figure. And based on the law of state-transference, whatever you feel, they feel. In theory anyway. So people like you more when you’re happy, and they buy your shit, or suck your dick.
“Oh dear,” she said, her voice quivering like a broken harp. “Well, I don’t know, my husband passed away, he used to make these payments, and I’m still on his pension....”
“Oh Maam ! But what if something were to happen to you, say in the bathtub, or on your way to go shopping? What if you tripped on a curb, or were bitten by a stray dog? What if you were suddenly unable to make payments?” I read the lines off a cheat sheet under, “client objections.” Sometimes I got creative and free-styled horrible, ridiculous tragedies like gang warfare and falling space debris. “But sir, what if a marauding gang of KKK burst into your house and broke your kneecaps?”
“This coverage comes at only two dollars per month,” I continued. “It’s automatically drawn from your credit card with no hassle to you. That’s less than a cup of coffee!”
The cup of coffee was the fat man’s favorite line. He forced all thirty-seven employees to memorize it daily, because about three of them were replaced for various reasons every day: some were fired for failing to make sales, some just quit. It didn’t matter, there were hundreds of call centers, but I chose this one for some reason. Most people have no idea why they work where they work. They just do it because someone told them they’re supposed to work.
“Oh…, erm ….well that is cheap…” She agreed. “But I don’t know. What do I get exactly? I wish my husband was here to help me decide.”
“ Maam … Norma, for just two dollars a day you get full bone coverage, up to five thousand dollars—for any bone in your body! It’s a small price to pay for such a feeling of safety.”
I’m good. I’m a smooth talking pickup artist. I smelled blood in the water; old, lonely widow juice. The boss man was watching me.
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