Getting sixty telemarketers into an eight-by-ten break room was like cramming college kids into a Volkswagen. Her coworkers fell mostly into three groups: Hopeful but poorly educated young Hispanics and African-Americans. Middleclass, middle-aged whites down on their luck. Plus a sprinkling of felons and junkies. Helen was on the run from the court and her ex-husband, so she knew what group she belonged in. At least she did not look twitchy and tattooed.
Helen suspected Vito, the manager, had been in trouble with the law. During one pep talk, he’d said, “I know this place looks like a shithole, but you sell a product that works, a product you can be proud of. If you didn’t, the ATF guys would come busting through that door, and you’d be down on the floor with guns to your heads.”
Helen was pretty sure the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives didn’t investigate boiler-room fraud, but she figured Vito knew what a government gun to your head felt like.
Vito was an energetic package of round, pink muscle. His arms looked like thick rolls of bologna. His fingers were sausages. His head was round and pink. Even his black hair looked muscular.
He paced back and forth, then pointed at a young woman with skin like brown satin. “Taniqua, why aren’t you selling today?”
“My computer be acting strange,” she said. “It keep calling New York. They be talking about some kinda terror alert.
They scared. Not my fault I ain’t selling.”
“It is your fault,” Vito said. “So what if there’s an orange alert? I know people are worried about terrorism, but the twin towers have tumbled and you still have to flush your toilet. Life goes on.
“Richie, why didn’t you sell anything this morning?”
“Because people got mad and hung up on me. One guy was ninety-seven and said he didn’t need a seven- year supply.”
“So sell him the three-year supply,” Vito said. “People live to be a hundred all the time.”
A kid from the computer room, who looked like a mouse with a moustache, stuck his head in the door and said, “Computers are up.”
“Quit wasting time,” Vito said to the telemarketers.
“Everybody back to work. I need sales, people. First one to sell gets a free trip to Meyer Lansky’s grave.”
Helen’s computer started dialing State Center, Iowa.
“Hi, Mr. Harmon,” Helen began. She made it past the crucial first paragraph. She steamed through the section about “one of your neighbors in State Center gave me your name as a homeowner with a septic tank.” He still didn’t stop her.
She told him that Tank Titan contained natural bacteria “that will break down and liquefy. And liquidity is just as important in septic tanks as it is in banks, right, Mr. Harmon?”
“Why, yes,” he said. He was still with her.
She told him the product was simple and easy to use. “Just flush a package down your commode once a month.” He let her keep talking. She was on her way to a sale.
She made her final pitch: “We guarantee complete satisfaction with your septic-tank system for seven years, Mr. Harmon, or you’ll get one hundred percent of your money back. Does that sound fair to you, Mr. Harmon?”
“Why, yes it does,” he said, in his soft country accent.
“What’s this gonna cost me?”
“Right now, we are offering an eighty-four-pack supply that will last you seven years for only two hundred ninety-nine dollars. That’s less than twelve cents a day for septic peace of mind.”
There was a long silence. Helen feared she’d lost him and the sale. Then he said, “I guess I do need this product. I’ve kinda let things go since my wife died. We were married thirty-seven years. She died last March.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harmon,” Helen said.
“I miss her each and every day. I dream about her at night and then I wake up and the bed is empty, and I know she’s never going to be beside me again.”
Helen had to get him back on track. “I am sorry, Mr. Harmon,” she said again. She started reading from her pitch.
“But I am sure our product will bring you complete satisfaction.”
Ouch. That was a bad choice of words. She expected him to slam down the phone, but he didn’t. “What is your address so I can send it out to you?” she said.
The lonely man ordered the full seven-year supply, probably just to hear a woman talk to him, even if she was discussing raw sewage.
Helen recorded her sale on the big board on the scuffed wall. Then she wrote down the address on scrap paper for her records. She’d get a ten-dollar commission, but Helen felt like one of the larger chunks in Mr. Harmon’s septic tank.
Too many telemarketing sales were made to the old and the lonely.
To feel better, she became Telemarketing Goddess. It was a dangerous game. Helen could only risk playing it for ten minutes at a time.
After each call, telemarketers hit one of eight choices on their computers: NOT INTERESTED. ANSWERING MACHINE. SALE. HAS TANK TITAN. WRONG NUMBER. CALL BACK. DOESN’T SPEAK ENGLISH. REMOVE FROM LIST.
“REMOVE FROM LIST” were the three words telemarketing companies dreaded. It meant that person could never be called again. If the company disobeyed the command, it could be fined major money. Vito threw out a different amount each pep talk. Sometimes the fine was ten thousand dollars, other times it was twenty-five thousand. He warned that consumers could record their remove requests and collect in court if their orders were ignored.
But if the person didn’t say those three little words, they were fair game. Helen was supposed to remove rude people from the list even without the magic words. Tank Titan didn’t want any more enemies. But she ignored that rule when she was Telemarketing Goddess.
The computer was now dialing Montana, catching septic-tank owners in the morning before they went to work.
Helen launched into her spiel. An angry man interrupted her with, “You got a lot of balls calling here at eight in the morning.”
“Sorry, sir,” Helen said.
He started clubbing her with ugly, unprintable names, but Helen listened with a smile. He’d never said the three magic words. When he slammed down the phone, Helen hit the CALL BACK button. Septic-tank calls would pursue him from eight in the morning till nine at night.
A woman with a soft voice answered the next call. Helen could hear the lung-busting cry of a newborn. The woman struggled to listen to Helen over the howling baby. “I’m really sorry, but I’m kind of busy right now,” she said.
“That’s OK.” Helen removed the woman from the list without being asked and sent her to telemarketing heaven.
She’d never be bothered again.
Helen was rolling with her sales pitch on the next call, well into her fourth sentence. “One of your neighbors in Missoula, Mr. Dixs, gave me your name as a homeowner with a septic tank.”
A voice like an ax blade cut her off. “A neighbor, huh? I don’t have any neighbors, you lying bitch,” he snarled and hung up.
Helen sent Mr. Dixs to telemarketing hell. Two more nasty men joined him. Thanks to Helen, they’d all get up to seven septic tank calls a day.
A weary mother with two sick kids (Helen heard one barfing) went to heaven. So did a sad, polite man who sounded like a movie cowboy. When he said simply, “Ma’am, I’m out of work,” Helen gave him a break and rescued him from further calls.
Helen woke up a sick woman and atoned for her sin by sending her to heaven. If people were having a worse day than she was, Helen took them off the list. They never knew what she did. She enjoyed her secret power: punishing the outrageously rude and helping the downtrodden with a small kindness.
Nine calls, nine minutes. Her time was almost up. She could only play Goddess once more.
