Writing for Fun
April 2015
The Telephone Cold Call - Pete Norman
Lenny Taylor was not an academic, he was not even in the same post code as academia. Not that he was thick or stupid, far from it, he was bright and intelligent, it was just that he could never get a handle on school work and structured learning. He had always thought that somewhere deep inside there was a tiny but vital part of himself which would surface just when he needed it most, but nothing had prepared him for that awful day when the brown manila envelope had landed on the hall carpet. Most of his classmates had achieved straight A's or even A+, but Lenny's letters were deeper into the alphabet – much deeper – and with those dreadful letters came the realisation that he had failed, that his whole academic life had ground to an ignominious halt and he was on his own with no support . . . he was up unemployment creek without a paddle. He had never really enjoyed school; he was a loner and had never fitted in with any of the cliques which had dominated classroom society. He had no success with the fairer sex, because Greenstead Manor was a high achieving school, with even higher expectations, and the girls tended to gravitate towards the Alpha males, while Lenny could be at best be described as an Omega.
He hit the job market with what little enthusiasm and optimism he could muster, but after a traumatic few months, he found himself dressed in the bright green uniform of an ASDA Colleague and the key colleague role of stacking the shelves and showing apathetic customers to the aisle in which they could find their sun-dried tomatoes and pitted green olives.
He settled into the routine relatively quickly; as long as he kept his head down, kept on working steadily and was polite and deferent to the management, he was left pretty much to his own devices and the days passed in a non-academic green haze. He made some casual acquaintances in the store, but no firm friendships; they were not his kind of people, any more than the other pupils at Greenstead Manor had been, but for very different reasons.
The only problem with the job was that it paid barely more than the minimum wage and the week always seemed to outlast his income; he simply had to find some way to bring in a little more cash to re-boot his life. Every week he would scan the advertisements in the local paper, mentally filtering out anything which required any form of qualifications, but with precious little success. He had almost given up hope when he spotted the answer to his prayers:
Earn ££££s in your spare time. Work from home. No experience necessary.
His fingers were trembling with anticipation as he dialled the number; today was the first day . . . of the rest of his life . . . and things were going to get better from now on!
Lenny had never even heard of Telephone Cold Calling before, it was a whole world away from his cloistered existence – a parallel universe filled with dreams and promises of riches beyond his wildest imagination, and Lenny had a very vivid imagination!
The interview was minimal and uneventful; there was never any doubt that the job was his – for as long as he continued to pull in the contacts, that is. He left the office with a company phone, a telephone directory and a sheet of A4 on which was typed everything he would ever need to know when making his calls and dealing with awkward customer comments and questions.
It seemed so simple . . .
It seemed to be right up his street . . .
It seemed to be tailor made to his needs and abilities . . .
It seemed like the end to his financial worries . . .
It was in fact none of these things. He should have heeded his mother's words of wisdom: 'If it looks too good to be true then it almost certainly is.'
Day after day, after long hours spent stacking ASDA's shelves to bursting point, he would sit with the company phone held to his ear, reading out the company message from the prompt sheet, politely arguing with the obstinate and intractable customers, biting his tongue against the verbal abuse which was becoming all too common, until his hand ached and his heart sank into despair. Despite the pep talk he had been given at the interview, which showcased those employees who had earned unbelievable commission through their hard work and good fortune, Lenny was struggling to secure the required contacts; struggling to persuade the good people of Essex out of their hard earned cash.
In order to relieve the monotony he devised little games to play as he dialled the numbers: he tried to guess which calls would be answered, whether the person would be male or female, and then he would rate the customer from 1 – 10 depending on their acceptability or hostility to his call. All of this data he would meticulously record in a pencil chart which, at the end of the day, would detail in cold statistics whether he had had a good session or not. On even the good days, the 'Nots' almost always prevailed.
Being a local directory, he would roll the name around in his head while he dialled the number trying to work out whether the person would be known to him, but in reality it was a large district and he had a very small circle of acquaintances to call upon for a match.
He was coming towards the end of quite a painful and unprofitable session when his usually adept and obedient fingers must have struck the wrong button, because the disembodied voice on the other end of the line said, 'Harvey Taylors, Sarah speaking, how can I help you?'
Lenny froze. The company directive was that only private numbers were to be called and that in the unlikely event that a business was reached then the call was to be immediately terminated. His finger reached out automatically for the red telephone key but something made him pull the phone back to his ear – something about the voice on the other end of the call – it was without doubt the sweetest, most gentle voice he had ever heard.
He heard himself repeat the official message verbatim; he no longer had any need for the printed sheet, the words were now burned into his memory: 'Hello, my name is Lenny, we have received information from Microsoft that your computer has been infected by a virus and your security is compromised. My company has the most up-to-date software to remove this virus and restore your computer to good health.'
He waited for Sarah to answer, waited for the silky softness of her voice to smooth his troubled soul. The silence on the other end of the phone dragged on for painful moments until, finally, she said, 'Well, thank you, Lenny, that is really very good of you to offer to help us like that. I will pass on the information to our IT Manager and I am sure he will get this sorted out as a matter of urgency.'
Lenny was in seventh heaven; he closed his eyes and tried to imagine what Sarah looked like: She was tall and lithe, with . . . red hair – yes, red hair cut short in a bob curled in around her face – and pale blue eyes and . . . and . . . 20ish, but no older than 22. He was in love. He just had to keep her on the line. He just had to keep her sensuous voice in his ear for a moment longer.
The written instructions did not account for IT managers, but they did explain how to deal with the potential interference from family members or friends. Lenny immediately launched into the official spiel, 'Look, I have no doubt that your IT Department is very good, but this virus is a serious threat to your computers, to your business. At any moment some criminal could hack into your system, into your most sensitive data, even wipe out your files, there is no time to lose. If you download our software right now you will be doing your IT Department a huge favour.'
Another lengthy pause followed after which Sarah's voice flowed once again into his eager ears, 'Lenny, is it? Look, Lenny, I am really sorry, but we have a strict protocol to follow here and I promise I will get our IT onto it right away, but thank you so much for passing us this important information.'
Lenny deflated as he heard the line disconnect, as her voice left his life forever. He pressed the red telephone button and decided to call it a day; there was no possibility he could make another call after that one.
Somehow he managed to get through the next day without mishap: he was in a dream, which attracted the unwelcome attention of Carter, the Shop Floor Manager, However he managed to convince the boss that he was feeling unwell, but that he had nobly struggled into work so that he did not let anyone down. To his amazement the lie was accepted without argument and he was left pretty much alone for the rest of the day to fantasize over Sarah of the amazing voice.
When he got home he automatically picked up the company phone, but there was only one number he wanted to call. He had no idea which digit he had dialled in error the previous day, but recorded in the Yellow Pages was the correct number for Harvey Taylors, so he dialled, put his feet up on his computer desk and waited with bated breath.
The phone rang over and over again and he was beginning to get impatient when the voice answered, but it was not her voice, it was a cold, efficient, businesslike old voice. 'Harvey Taylors, Claire speaking, how can I help you?'
For a moment he was lost for words, he knew that he had dialled the right number this time, but Sarah was not there. He was lost in uncertainty. At the same moment as she said, 'Hello?' he mumbled, 'Can I speak to Sarah, please.'
'Sarah is busy on the other line; can I ask who is calling?'
'Er, it's Lenny, I spoke to her yesterday . . . about your computers?'
The phone went muffled as if a hand had been pressed to the mouthpiece and then the cold voice came back, 'I'll just put you on hold for a moment.'
Lenny ignored the tinny rendition of The Blue Danube and held the phone pressed to his ear, waiting eagerly for the sound of her voice. For what seemed an eternity his senses were assaulted by the awful sounds, but then, blissfully, the musac stopped and Sarah's voice appeared. ''Hello, Lenny, how can I help you today?'
'I was . . . I was wondering if you managed to get your computers sorted out.'
'Well, yes, thank you for your concern, it really is most kind of you to enquire. I got our IT people onto it straight after your call and they have done a full scan on the system and they assure me that there is no virus there; we are totally unaffected.'
Lenny pushed forwards with determination, 'But you might not have the most up-to-date software, this thing is so new that most anti-virus programs won't have been updated yet . . .' Her response was soft, silky and reassuring, 'Please don't worry, I am told that we have the most powerful protection available. I do thank you for your concern, but we really are ok.' For some time Lenny held the phone to his ear, hoping to hear her voice just one more time, but eventually he had to admit that this was not going to happen. However, the beginnings of an idea was forming in his mind.
The next day when he had finished his work and had changed out of the luminous green into his own clothes he walked back out onto the shop floor and selected a beautiful colourful spray of flowers – not one of the cheap ones, but a £10 bunch. He had done a Google search and knew that Harvey Taylors was on the Industrial Estate next to the store; he set off purposefully in that direction, flowers held in a vicelike grip. At the huge glass entrance doors his resolve almost failed, but the flowers in his right hand drew him inside and up to the desk. There she was, exactly as he had imagined her, except that her hair was dark brown and her eyes were green, but she was there, a Goddess in a red dress.
He sleepwalked up to the Reception desk and held out the flowers to his Goddess and blurted out, 'I'm Lenny . . . the computers? These are for you.'
She looked surprised . . . and then she looked at the flowers . . . and then she looked at the other receptionist: an old lady who could have been his granny.
Lenny followed her eyes and saw to his horror that the granny was wearing a name tag and the name tag read: 'Sarah'.
He felt his cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment; his hand dropped and the flowers landed with a dull thud on the desktop. Claire, the Goddess, held out her hand and prised the flowers from his fingers. She smiled a shy smile and in a voice which had completely lost the cold, efficient, businesslike edge she said, 'But the flowers are really beautiful, Lenny, thank you so much . . .'