Where It All Began ~ Part I

“I’ll be just a few minutes,” Daddy promised, letting the van door click behind him. It was my birthday, we had gone out to breakfast just the three of us. Mommy, Daddy & Me. It had been a pretty awesome day so far, and in spite of the chilly winds the weather was even hitting on the pretty side.

My phone vibrated from the seat beside me, the number was UNAVAILABLE. Lucky for them, I was losing interest in Facebook and my emails faster than a 5 year old walking around the store with his mother. I hit the green button, poker face on. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello?” The voice on the other end belonged to a man with a thick Iranian accent. “Ah, yes Ma’am! My name is Amihad, and I  am calling with a short survey for you today. How are you doing?” I was doing fine, thanks.

“First of all, I will explain to you, Ma‘am, that you do not have to pay for anything today. The web address you submitted to my company: [ ....@ webmail.com]  can you confirm that for me, Ma‘am?”

I looked over the expanse of green fields outside my window. “No sir, I never submitted any information. May I ask how you came to obtain this information?”

Under his breath I heard him say, she wants to know how? And to me he chuckled into the phone, “Ma’am, are you saying that is not your correct web address?”

“I don’t give my address to strangers, but thanks for asking.”

“Ok, um … that is perfectly alright. We will come back to that later, but secondly Ma’am, have you completed your high school education?”
Like a three dollar bill, we’d come back to my email address later. This guy rolled with a lot of confidence. “Yes.”

“And do you mind if I ask in what year you completed this education?”

“Oh, well it was quite awhile ago actually.”

“Okay, okay. That is great, now if you will answer a few questions for me, we will send you some information about some online classes you might find helpful. Now, what are your interests, Ma’am? We offer message therapy | medical research | history | something for everyone.”

I struggled to pull apart words and sentences he was running together in his quick Arabic tongue. Was he trying to lose me, or just confuse me so he could get the information he wanted and be gone? “I’m sorry, I’m not interested.”

“No, you are not listening to me.” He sounded agitated, “You pay nothing today! It is free, Ma’am. I just need you to answer my questions, that is all.”

“I’m not interested, but thank you. I’m already in school.”

Quietly, “ah! She’s already in school, she does not tell me this.” But to me, he says “Ma’am. I am sorry, I cannot take this anymore. I will please transfer you to my manager. I will transfer you to the manager, okay? Please, a moment?”

Ask me if I was silently cracking up, thinking how this was new. This aggravating a telemarketer for the first time in my life. How all the wrong answers had thrown him off course so much, how he couldn’t even give me his pitch. How he hadn’t bothered hiding his obvious frustration. He must’ve been new.

“Oh, yes. Of course, I’d love to talk to your manager!” I answered, brightly. Much too brightly, enjoying this far too much. A few seconds later, another man’s voice sounded across the line and I smiled.

      { to be continued, because no conversation with an Arabic Telemarket could ever be so very short}

Where It All Began ~ Part II

“Hi, my name is Nate Posh with {such and such a company}.” His accent was English, and understandable. Clear and distinct, one I could easily understand. “How are you doing today, Ma’am?”
“Oh, I’m doing great. And yourself?” Polite, yet I was smirking. My mother leaned around the seat looking at me. My father had climbed back into the car, and together they just looked at me, putting all the one sided pieces together. He was good, thank you for asking.

“Now, I understand you’re interested in completing your education. That’s great, and just to help us out a little bit, could you confirm your address and give us a feel for what you‘d like to get a degree in, Ma‘am?”

“I’m actually really happy where I’m at, Sir. But may I ask you a question?”

He sounded like he was smiling, when he gave me the go ahead. He sounded a little surprised, but I was the customer after all, as he'd said, and he was here to help. “How did you come by this information?”

“Ok, well Ma’am, that is not something we are permitted to disclose. Now … if you will please give me your correct web -- ” His English accent had suddenly disappeared, and in its place, a thickened Iranian accent. Was he even kidding me?

“So you can ask me questions, but I can‘t ask you any questions?” I interrupted.

“Ma’am, that is not how this works okay? Now, I just need …” and onto his soapbox he climbed, throwing out all kinds of information and telling me what I needed to do, etc. Stressing he did not need my mailing address or my social security, or anything like that. Just my date of birth, full name and my email address. Really man? I thought not.

“Sir, have YOU completed your education?”

“Um, excuse me? Uh, yes Ma’am. I have my PH.D, I have graduated college. And that is why I want to share the joy of completing your education with you, Ma‘am.”

“What was your major? Did you major in telemarketing?” I asked, and at this Daddy turned around in disbelief, just as Mommy began laughing in the front seat. But then Daddy grinned, shaking his head and I knew all was well. But ... he reminded me, this was not something he was permitted to discuss either.

“Ah. So your education didn’t work out so well for you, did it?”

He was falling all over his Arabian English self. “Media!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Media, Ma’am! I. Majored. In. Media.” He finally snapped into the phone, so unprofessional. But I was smothering my laughter so much, I hardly noticed. Then, he laughed into the phone, “Ma’am, you sound like you are too smart for this.”

I was. I thanked him and he rambled on, like a car-salesman at the end of a long day; slightly deflated and more noticeably at ease with the customer. He had a kinder tone now and he was losing some of that Arabic flair.

Nine minutes later, we were still going back and forth. He explained his business, I shook my head. “So what you’re telling me is, that you will help me find a good school and send me information about that particular school?”

He confirmed, yes.

“I’m sorry, but wouldn’t it make more sense for me to go online, find the college myself and request the information? I mean, really. I don’t need a monkey in the middle to finish my schooling.”

He laughed, it must have been my monkey comment. I still wasn‘t sure where it had come from. “Ma’am, you have been such a joy to talk to. Most people hang up. Now, all I want to know is if you are interested in completing your education.”

He was a broken record, and now he wasn’t easily distracted. I smiled, “I’m already taking classes, and I’m happy where I’m at. I’m really not interested.”

“What? You have?!” The Arabic accent slipped suddenly, this cracked me up immensely. But in the next few seconds, it was back full force. “Ma’am, why did you not tell me this?”

“I did. I told your buddy the first time, and I’ve told you twice.”

“Ma’am.” Apparently, I wasn’t such a joy to talk to anymore. He sounded less than thrilled over there in his little Iced Over Office, he was probably fingering his little white name-tag that read Sue. “We have been going back and forth, back and forth for TEN minutes! Thank you for your time, but I cannot deal with this, I am sorry. Have a good day, goodbye.”

“Thanks! you too.”

With that, the phones went dead and all I could do was crack up. To which my father replied, “Girl, you’re so much like your daddy” which meant, he approved. Poor. Poor Telemarketer. But I have this funny feeling they will be taking my number off that they list they swore I wasn't on.* wink *