Friday, May 9, 2008 | by nathan

“…and all the reindeer too!”

My first real job - besides mowing yards and walking dogs for my neighbors or doing chores around the house - was in a small telemarketing operation in south Oklahoma City during my senior year of high school. It paid the most of any of the local phone sales outfits - eight dollars an hour - and I’d just bought the only car I’ve ever financed. Seventeen though I was, I suddenly found myself saddled with a monthly car payment of $217.53, which I was all too happy to pay, and so I went out and got myself an honest-to-God job.

Telemarketing is quitely likely the single most degrading kind of work on the planet. Quite likely even more so than prostitution. We were given a normal looking little beige phone and a stack of index cards with phone numbers on them, and a big, long, color-coded script with questions and answers.

Part of the script was that we were told to ask for the woman of the house; the rules were strict that we must never give the pitch to a man.

The boss explained it this way: "Men aren’t going to buy anything from you. They have good business sense. It’s much easier to talk women into things."

I cringed at him; he handed me a bottle of Lysol to spray down the receiver of my phone.

The men, when they did answer, were often threatening, as we weren’t allowed to even tell them why we were calling, only that we needed to speak to Mrs. So-And-So, or, barring that, the "Woman of the House." I got more than my share of guys who thought I was some no-good suitor coming along to steal their wives out from under them.

As if, I always thought.

Even worse than the men, though, were the children. Have you ever seen a two-year-old answer the phone? One day, this happened (and yes, my handbasket is all ready to go; I am going to Hell):

"Hu-low?"

"Hi! Is your mommy there?"

"Mommy?"

"Is your mommy there?"

"Hu-low? Mommy? Mommy?"

"No, I’m not your Mommy. Is your Mommy at home?"

"Yes."

"Can I speak to her?"

"Hu-low?"

"May I speak to your Mommy? Can you go get your Mommy?"

"Mommy? Hu-Low?"

[gritting my teeth together now] "CAN.I.PLEASE.SPEAK.TO.YOUR.MOMMY?"

"Can I speak a Mommy?"

"YES! The lady! Mommy! The big lady who lives with you!"

"The Big Mommy?"

"Yes! To! Your! Mommy!"

"Mommy?"

"No, I called to talk to you! What’s your name?"

"[something indecipherable]"

"Well, I just called to tell you that Santa is dead! DEAD!"

The child immediately starts crying on the phone, wailing, "SANTA!" After a few seconds I hear another line pick up.

"Who the hell is this?" asks an angry woman’s voice.

My heart leaps into my throat and I immediately hang up the phone.