Telemarketers are a modern day pariah. Phone sales must be a dismal occupation, no doubt, but if you really want to make a sale then why are you bothering me at dinner time? Not that I will ever want to devote forty-five minutes of spare time that is too precious to listen to your schpiel about a new product line (does anyone ever order anything? They must or you wouldn’t have a salary). But worse than not answering when you call is actually speaking to you; picking up the phone starts a neverending chain a consumer cannot escape.
After weeks of receiving not just calls but multiple messages for a “Horatio Torres,” I finally made the mistake of dialing back the number of the firm to tell them that they had the wrong number, that if they were truly interested in contacting this gentleman they would have to try another number. Instead of clearing up the problem, the frequency of the calls increased.
Look, Dude or Dudette, I feel for you. I know you hate your job—who wouldn’t, but why are you compounding that misery by going out of your way to make a point of calling me? This is no longer an honest mistake; now, it is just harassment. I am sorry the guy gave you bogus information, but why must I call your company four times and, finally, ask to speak to a manager--who was, by far, the rudest representative I had spoken to yet--each promising to fix the “glitch” and to revise the information in the computer. The first time I called, very respectfully, asking the girl, please, to take my number off their books. “You’ve got it, Ma’am. I have cleared your number from our system.” Not twenty minutes later I received a call from the same number asking for, “Patricia Torres.” That second call in to them, when I was considerably hotter under the collar, I spoke to the same receptionist, asking why I had received a call minutes after she had told me my number was erased. “Sorry about that but it must’ve cleared now because your number is not coming up.” “Thank you for your help,” I had told her, hoping the situation was resolved. That was Friday evening.
Then, on my ride into work today, a bright Monday morning, the phone was ringing wildly but I could not dig it out of my purse to answer it until I had arrived safely at my destination. Imagine my wrath when the voicemail is a message for, you guessed it: Horatio Torres. --Man, I so do not know who you are or what you have done to these people that they are harassing you via me, now, but I especially detest being roped into your telemarketing circus. Call off your dogs, Horatio. Man up and take care of your business, which has drawn blood in the water and the sharks you have loosed are chasing me.
“Yeah, there’s your number, there,” the manager, Aaron Simpson, said, when I had called from the land line at work this morning about the continued calls.
“What do I have to do to get off your list?” I asked, desperately. “I have called and been told my number was cleared many times so I am losing faith in the process--”
“Well, you must have given her the wrong number then.”
I was quiet, not believing that he was now telling me I had provided, irony of ironies, the WRONG number.
“It’s off now,” Aaron said before rushing me off the phone.
I shut off my cell, completely sure the calls would keep on coming—when the work phone rang, and it was THEM.