"How stupid do you think I look?"
"I don't know, I can't see you from here." -- Anon Guest
Of all the curses, in all the known universe, there is little that's more insulting than being sassed by a telemarketer. "Listen," I said, "I'm not going to do your stupid damn check for a windows virus. I'm not paying my taxes by the phone. I'm not suing someone for a car accident I had twelve years ago that didn't even do any damage, I'm just... not. You might think you're getting paid for doing four jobs at once, but you're just fucking them all up, faster."
"You're fucking them up faster," said the voice on the other end of the line. Clearly, they had cut out the whole management supervision section of the damn telescammer central building or wherever they were these days.
This had to be the weirdest telemarketing call I'd ever got. "Are you trying to get fired or something? I can sympathise."
A sigh. "Nah, I need the work, but... I just don't wanna call a whole bunch of people, you know? 'Specially not with different random scripts I've memorised by now."
I felt an odd moment of sympathy for them. My day job sucked, too. "Tell you what. I'm gonna open up this thing I'm working on and you can periodically say stuff like Ma'am or, If you just-- and you get to hear as much of this read out loud as I can stand."
"That's one hour down," agreed the telemarketer. "I'm down for it."
I don't know what made me open up the novel I'd been writing in twenty-minute fits since forever ago. It was still only half done, but half done is better than never done, right? I read that poor bastard like five chapters while they said random attempts at interruption whenever they thought someone was watching them.
When my tongue and voice died, he apologised and ended the call. I thought that was that. I went to my sucky job that paid the bills. I went to the other sucky job that kept me fed. I wrote more of my novel on the twenty-minute commute and tried to actually unwind in my alleged leisure time.'
To be honest, I spent most of my time off in my bed, conked completely out.
Depressing, I know. That's life in late-stage capitalism. The people with the money expect the people without the money to 'just work harder' to eke out an existence.
Two weeks after that call, I got a letter. Stamp and everything.
It was addressed to Writer Lady and signed Annoying Telemarketer Dude. And it detailed how much he'd liked the book as he'd heard it. It was hope in a world of misery. An escape from the grind.
He said I should share little bits of it, and use that to run a patreon/ko-fi funding scheme. He said I was good. He said I deserved notice. He gave me some free tips for quick things I could do to get an audience. And, yeah, it wasn't an overnight success, but... things started to change.
Loose change, for a start. Three bucks can buy a lot of cheap ramen. Seven people can buy cheap ramen and eggs for my otherwise empty fridge. I mean, sure, it's a pain in the ass transferring money from Paypal to my bank, but it's worth it for a little more nutrition than flavour packets.
My health started to uptick with the contents of my fridge. Amazing how that works. If you have good food, you have better health. They're still making studies on that one, the jerks. And since I had actual verified hope, I stopped sleeping the entire weekend.
I started going out a little bit. After I'd done at least a thousand more words in my novel, because that was what was paying for all this. Sunshine helped my health a lot more. So did what fresh air I could get at the neighbourhood park.
Being happier at work got me noticed and kept when the next purge went through the office. It also got me promoted to the completely meaningless title of Assistant Sub-Head Assistant Manager. A title that means I do the same work for just a little bit extra, and I have to leap up and check on whomever when I'm told or get fifteen emails from all the stuffed shirts above my glass ceiling.
They never listen to me, but I'm working on using that to my advantage. Speaking of advantages, I get to go home at a regular time. The commute is fractionally shorter, but I have more time to myself to plot the next chapter and the next installment on my sites.
I'm not there, yet. I'm not finished yet. I have confirmed hope, and I'm going to keep going.
When it's published, I'll dedicate it to Annoying Telemarketer Dude. Maybe we'll meet some day.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Alexis84]
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