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Vocal Discord
My Descent into the Netherworld of Telemarketing
by
When I was between careers, I signed up to work for a temporary employment agency. Through this firm I filled several positions that I might not otherwise have taken. For instance, for a few weeks, I was a barbecue grill operator for birthday parties at Oaks Amusement Park, an assignment which involved wearing a cardboard top hat and a polyester moustache; I also served briefly on a team erecting circus tents for Portland's Rose Festival, a gig which lasted until the blisters began spreading across my palms and erupting. After that I was sent to a telemarketing firm. The agency offered me this assignment on the basis of three attributes: I had lungs, a tongue, and a larynx. After my stint erecting circus tents, I wanted a job that allowed me to sit all day. Plus my car payment was 60 days late. I accepted.
I had always wondered what kind of environment telephone sales people called from. I imagined a dark cellar in an unnamed location, rows of wooden benches stretching in every direction as far as the eye can see occupied by felons, midgets and transvestites chained to a switchboard presided over by a Mephistopheles dressed entirely in synthetic fibers.
No, wait. That's how I imagined the customer service department at the phone company. The telemarketing gig was likely much better. After all, Karen, the dispatcher at the temp agency, told me that I would be in a very professional environment.
Week one.
On my first day of work I found myself in a light industrial/office park in the suburbs. Approaching the one-story concrete-and-glass structure, I thought, "This can't be too bad".
I introduced myself to the receptionist and attempted to talk shop about the telemarketing industry. "They're always looking for people to move up the ladder," she said brightly. "After six months on the phones, I was promoted to receptionist."
I changed the subject.
Meanwhile, my fellow temps had gathered in the waiting area. When it seemed we were all present and accounted for, we were herded into a classroom for orientation and training, which consisted of the following lessons:
Read the script word-for-word and no one will get hurt.
The customer can "hear" you smile, so do it.
Don't lie.
Our incentive package was explained. Essentially, we were to get minimum wage, plus commission. There were sales contests in which we could earn prizes. Nearby, a glass display case revealed that, with hard work and a bit of luck, I could win a Toyota key fob or a stuffed dinosaur. These awards appeared to have been previously won through the skillful use of a toy mechanical crane at a truck stop. Someone pointed to a CD by the Christian heavy metal band Stryper and declared, "Dude! That one's mine!"
"Could be," the trainer said, basking in the glow of the young buck's sales moxie.
Finally, we were led to the phone room to find an empty spot. The office was roughly the size of a Burger King seating area and held about 150 people, each one partitioned from the next in a network of avocado green cubicles. Each work area was about the size of a phone booth-but without all that counter space. If I'd ever wondered what it was like to be a chicken in a Tyson Farms hen house, I was about to find out.
I took my seat and soon my script arrived, delivered by another person apparently promoted off the phones and up to Office Boy. I would be selling long distance service to members of the American Bowling Congress. The ABC-get it?-had negotiated a special deal on long distance, available exclusively to their members. Who knew bowlers called out-of-state so much?
My first day on the phones, I racked up a total of two sales, and three visits from an assistant manager for deviating from the script. This person, who I'll call "Jimmy", was once one of the top salespeople in the office, bringing in as many as 15 sales in a single day. He'd been with the company for two years and had already been moved up to assistant shift supervisor. And to think that earlier I had incorrectly identified him as Office Boy.
The next day, I vowed to do better. The current sales champ, Yolanda, averaged 12 sales per day, and I vowed to beat her. After all, unlike many others in the office, I could read the script. I memorized the printed pitch, and found that I could improvise slightly-just so long as I read the legal disclosure word-for-word. My sales doubled-to four. Not where I wanted to be, but an improvement nonetheless.
On day three, I arrived at work early, bringing along a liter bottle of Evian mineral water, partly to keep my throat from drying out, and partly to make an appropriate positioning statement to my coworkers. I attacked my assignment with missionary zeal. Once again, my sales doubled-to eight for the day. Flushed with success, I calculated that at this rate, I would own the telemarketing company within a month. That night I began repeating the mantra: "ABC bowling has the best freaking long distance rates in the whole wide world!"
Day four. I started playing fast and loose with the wording. I also started calling customers by their first names-a lot. My sales went up again, this time to ten-not quite double, but still a good showing. Winning the Stryper CD for the most sales in one hour, I promptly traded it with the Christian headbanger for five dollars in cash. Yolanda started asking me pointed questions about my delivery. I was evasive.
On Friday I worked through my breaks and rushed through lunch. I kept a thermos of coffee at my side, which helped add an urgent tone to my voice conveying that this offer may not come around again. I hit my short-term goal of twelve sales for the day, matching Yolanda's average.
Resting up over the weekend, I spoke only when spoken to, and always in a whisper. I was a star, a voice talent preserving his vocal chords in service of his art.
Week two.
Monday. I hit the ground running. I was the first person in the office and the last to leave. In an experiment involving reverse psychology, I adopted a mild hillbilly accent. I emphasized the words "bowling" and "bowl" as if I were blowing smoke rings. I wheedled, cajoled and flirted with my customers. Sometimes I made fun of them. Other times I went silent. My sales shot up to 15, beating Yolanda by a point and garnering, as a daily award, a pink feather roach clip. I was the Zig Ziglar of long distance carrier sales, the small irritation in the back of my throat notwithstanding.
Tuesday. Determined to maintain my lead in the office, I took each and every call as an opportunity to get to know my fellow ABC bowlers in states as far flung as Alaska, Texas and Indiana. I maintained my hillbilly accent-even at lunch. And I landed another 15 sales. It would have been 17, but two people backed out when I went into the third party verification procedure.
Wednesday. Not sure if my sore throat was caused by the weather or by my job, I brought in a thermos of hot tea with lemon and honey. I lowered my voice and relaxed my throat muscles. This seemed to increase my sales, particularly among certain middle-aged women. In fact, some of them wanted to talk long after the sale was closed. I netted 14 sales for the day, but my average talk time per call was up 20 per cent. Still, I was the new office star. Yolanda took to avoiding me. Jimmy dropped by my cubicle and intimated that there was a bright future ahead for performers like me. "Right," I said, saving my voice for my public. By this time, an endoscopic probe would have revealed that my throat resembled breakfast sausage.
Thursday. I showed up at work armed with my thermos and a bag of throat lozenges. That morning I burned up the phone lines. Determined to break all previous records I talked faster than ever. Sometimes I dumped calls in mid-sentence the moment I sensed that it was a loser. Once I berated a customer; unfortunately, Jimmy was monitoring this call, and I got a verbal warning. But he went easy on me. After all, I netted 16 sales that day-a new office record. Driving home, however, I felt as if I had been gargling kitty litter.
That evening, I received a phone call at home. It was Karen, from the temp agency. They had an opening at a local paging company taking customer service calls. The office was a five-minute commute from my home, and it paid 45 cents an hour more than I made telemarketing on a good day, carnival prizes included. I accepted. Besides, I wanted the promotion.
If you see Joel Gunz playing drums in local jazz bands, he's probably avoiding his work as partner in Three Star Fix, Portland's newest ad agency. Tell him to get back to work at .
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