Cabbages Are Untrustworthy.
I am the immeasurable evil that pesters and annoys. I have your address. I have your email address. I have your phone number. In certain cases, I may have two phone numbers, or a phone number with a fax number on the side.
I am armed with a series of notes from previous calls that let me know even more details about your life - perhaps a note about your family dog so that I can make you feel like I know you personally. I have a series of commission sheets to motivate me to call you again and again and again, and I have a posse of other operators to back me up, so don't even think about hanging up on me.
I can contact you at any moment. I am the Great Satan - I, telemarketer.
But perhaps I exaggerate. About the Satan part, not the telemarketing part. While my peers pursue career-furthering experiences in the desolate non-paid wastelands known as "internships," I sit in a twirling leather chair in my own elegantly minimalized cubicle wearing a headset telephone hawking a financial newsletter to people all over the country - from Big Sur to The Lou to the Everglades and a whole bunch of other places that aren't New England and are therefore of no importance to me.
While this telemarketing job may appear to be a waste of time, I'm actually learning valuable skills like how to talk on the phone; how to talk on the phone to people; and how to talk on the phone to people and get them to give me money - all skills which I will need desperately in the future as a communications major.
I also get to pass by Noah Webster's house every day, and every day I stop to throw eggs at it because I hate Noah Webster for taking away the 'u' in words like "favor." Did I mention I also get to wear a headset telephone? Do you have any idea how cool that is?
Of course, another side benefit of the job is that it pays very well. Well enough for my brother and I to buy a used BMW that was totalled in some big accident and rebuilt Frankenstein-style. I try not to think about that, though, because the BMW is unbelievably nicer than my former car: an '86 gray Volvo station wagon, nicknamed "The Silver Bullet" for its ability to reach the spellbinding speed of 55mph on sunny days with a good headwind.
On the drive to work one day, I was listening to some old Kraftwerk in the
BMW while driving, and the thought occurred to me that I was either slowly returning
to the 80s or becoming more German. I couldn't decide between the two, so before
I went to work, I stopped at a grocery store, bought some cabbage and left it
in my glove compartment to see what would happen.
When I got to work, the cabbage hadn't done anything yet, so I just left it in the car and went inside to sign my time sheet. That day, I had a very urgent call from a client of ours who bought the most advanced version of our newsletter. Accordingly, she had an advanced question for me and spoke in an advanced financial vocabulary, which I'm still working on getting the hang of.
After assuring the client about some very technical aspects of a stock that I didn't really know that much about, one of the new operators told me that I had a very nice voice, and she'd give me money for anything I asked for, so I made a suggestion.
Three hours and thirteen stitches later, I awoke in the hospital having trouble remembering things, but I did remember that someone said something about a cabbage being in my glove compartment for some cockamamie experiment. Other than that, it was a little blurry.
I thanked the doctor for reinforcing my shattered jawbone with a shiny new metal wire and walked to my car. I sat down, put the key in the ignition, and opened up my glove compartment to see how my little experiment had gone. It turned out that the cabbage was wearing lederhosen, but it was also in a new wave band called "Flock Of Sauerkraut," so I didn't really get a definitive answer either way. You can never trust a cabbage.
But hey, while I've got your attention would you like a sample copy of this quality financial newsletter? I can save you some serious money, you know