Don’t See in Here

When I started at the ad magazine, I did outbound calling, where the object was to identify items which had sold (company revenue, and a slice of it for me!) or, failing that, get the client to renew his ad.  Not surprisingly, most of the time I got voicemail, and often the client hadn’t read the manual:

[Prerecorded VM lady] “The party you have dialed,…”
[Clueless client] “Hi, you’ve reached Jane and John!  Leave a message!”
[VM lady] “… is not available.”

Then there’s the Sprint lady.  I’m not sure what flew up her nose, but the recorded voice from Sprint just SNARLS out the digits: “The number you have dialed, 5! 0! 8! 9! 4! 6!…”  Jeez, chill, SprintHilda.

Others make full use of a free-form outgoing message.  There’s one guy out there with a 2-minute prayer on his OGM, and while I don’t doubt the sincerity of his multiple blessings on callers, I wish he’d cut to the chase and leave the Holy Trinity out of it.

My favorite OGM, even though I fell for it every time, was the Ferris Bueller wannabe.  His pickup was complete with the sleepy “Hello?”, the precisely timed pauses, several uncannily appropriate responses and then the kicker: “Don’tcha just hate when voicemails do that?”

Occasionally I’d reach a warm body, and the reactions ranged from hangups to lonely people telling their life stories.  I’ve switched to inbound calls now, but we reps are all in the same room, and at any given moment we can usually hear an outbound rep protesting, “No, I’m from The Classifieds.  The Classifieds?  The Classifieds Magazine.  No - ma’am - you placed an ad with us?  No, I work at The Classifieds…”

The brevity award goes to a client who picked up and shouted, “NOT SOLD!”  (I hadn’t counted on caller ID.)  Well all righty then!  At least those two words and a hangup boosted my calls-per-hour stats, partially compensating for Father Frank’s interminable blessings.

Doing inbound, I get warm bodies all the time now, with the exception of a few persistent faxes.  The easiest way for us to access a client’s account is by his phone number.  One would think that it’d be easy to get a number from a client, and one would be wrong.  Much of the problem is unconscious - they know the number, so they blurt it as quickly as possible, letting their volume fall off during the last 4 digits.  Hispanic callers can be a challenge (I took French), but so funny: “Fie oh ay, tree nye sebbeng…”  Some callers act stunned when I ask for their number and release it with excruciating concentration, as though they’re giving birth.  Quite a few start with 1 (”1-978-…”), and way too many leave off the area code.  Then when I ask for the area code, almost without fail they give me their… zip code.

The strangest phone number phenomenon is regional.  We’re all convinced they’re putting something in the water in Fall River (excuse me: “Fah Rivvah”).  For some reason, almost every caller from that general area gives an aberrant reading on his number (”508-55-
56-78-9″).  Usually the area code is intact, but we’ve had pauses in those, too.  It’s frustrating because at least half of the calls come in from cellphones, so when one of those FahRivvahrites gives a 2-digit exchange, I always think the cellphone blanked on a digit.

If you’re with me so far, once we get into the client’s account, the real fun begins.  The ads can paint a picture:

Other ads just scream “Deal of the Century”:

Mea culpa

I know, I know, let he [sic] who is without sin cast the first stone.  We definitely mess up sometimes, and what comes out of our mouths often isn’t quite what was intended.  Overheard in the teleservices room:

And we’ve been known to fatfinger the input.  Gems found while proofreading:

Caller quotes

Wretched excess

It’s a New England thing

Dept. of Redundancy Dept.

Say what?

In our copious free time between calls, heh, we enter ads which have been sent by fax, e-mail, snail-mail and the web.  In our clients’ own words:

~~~

OK, so maybe I do know where SprintHilda got her attitude.

I don’t suppose this is the Sunday paper you’re reading.  In fact, if Heaven exists, I doubt that you guys go through that weekly ritual of getting ink all over your fingers and toast crumbs in your sheets.

On the other hand, I suspect your media connection transcends Wi-Fi.  I think you’re in my head as I write this, amused as I spill coffee and tears on this longhand draft.  You have, if you will, On-High-Fi, and you’ve been tuned to the Yesrie channel since, ironically, Good Friday.

Most of the family gathered Friday night for a double birthday celebration, honoring your dad and Marilyn, and while it wasn’t Hearthstone, the event bore most of the hallmarks of our childhood holiday parties.  We cousins, a quorum of five, ran in a pack, talking about our parents and grazing the bountiful buffet.  (One member of the youngest generation was blissfully connected to his iPod for the entire evening.)  Marilyn’s daughter Dianne had arranged the whole thing, and she did a gorgeous job.  By the way, I was vastly amused to be back at the Knights of Columbus hall within a week!  (Not only had the dance floor survived the punishment it took last Saturday, it had moved to the front end of the room - perhaps in a desperate escape attempt.)

Loren - and I’ll deal with him later - was not in attendance.  He was sorely missed, but it’s generally conceded that Seattle is a long commute.  David and Brad arrived at le moment juste - in the parking lot, in time to be fully visible as their increasingly suspicious uncle pulled in.  David valiantly fibbed that they were looking for a good restaurant, but it was apparent to everyone that Willow Street is not normally the epicenter of fine dining in Westborough.  (On the other hand, local chef John made Friday the exception.)

But I’m getting ahead of myself in the chronology.  I arrived about 10 minutes past the appointed hour, characteristically anxious about joining a room full of people.  Thankfully, your eagle-eyed sisters spotted me and rushed to my rescue.  Stephanie!  Gretchen!  Each is now the best possible version of themselves.  These are funny, smart, warm women, and they’ve raised the next generation in kind.

I tapped Mom on the shoulder to register my presence and get the 411 on party strategy.  The guests of honor weren’t expected for a half hour, our hostess was pointed out, and I was instructed to remove the shoulder pads in my jacket.  (Thanks, Mom!  A little louder, so they can hear you in Seattle!)  I checked in with Dianne, bought some liquid courage and parked the offending jacket with my pocketbook.

Steph and I stood together, watching the last-minute preparations.  It was then that I learned of your death, Kristin.  While we as a family had been left to imagine what adventures you’d had in your years apart from us all, I can tell you that I always hoped we’d reunite.  I knew that if we did, you’d get hugs first, an unbiased ear second, and questions a lot later.

There was more and more physical distance between us as we grew up.  My first memories of you still carry potent emotions.  To me as an eight- or nine-year old, the sight of a todder in leg braces was difficult to resolve.  You shed them soon enough, and I believed the grown-ups when they assured me that you’d known nothing else.  You were a happy kid, and we were lucky to be born into a century when doctors knew how to realign limbs.  Still, little kids understand more than we think they do, and I was quite sure you must have noticed that no one else was sporting hardware.

The pack of us cousins got into all kinds of benign trouble on holidays, but I don’t remember you as a particular instigator.  If anything, I as the eldest got us started, with the able assistance of my sidekick, Steph.  We all flouted parental instructions (and common sense) by running around on the rotting floor of the barn’s second story.  Stephanie and I ev