I used to work for a marketing research firm.
The thing people don't realize about market research is that
businesses need the market to research future business.
Most of the time, that market is us.
People. Consumers.
They need to know how we feel about the little things in our lives
to know what to do in the future to make more money. How do we feel about
the packaging for our favorite cookies? Does it make us want to buy more
cookies? If the company changes it, will we hate the new packaging so
much that we will stop buying those cookies?
These are important things to companies. It’s a competitive
world. And for a long time, when the phone rang in the afternoon, I’d
jump to answer it, to do my part for the market in the name of research.
I didn't mind taking the time to tell telemarketers exactly what I
liked about what their employer is putting out there.
* * *
One night several years ago, I was preparing an early dinner when
the phone rang. When I answered, I wasn’t surprised to hear the pause,
then the static-y “Hello, may I speak to the person in charge of food purchases
in your household?”
His name was Matt – Matthew, I later called him – and he
worked for a company in the consumer food industry. They never tell you
who they work for – it’s always a marketing company hired by the real company
to do the dirty work – and he asked me to participate on a long interview that
would take 45 minutes at the most.
“I have a little over an hour,” I said. I had to pick up my
kids from school. “Plenty of time, if you’re sure it will only take 45
minutes?”
The smile was evident in his voice. “Of course,” he assured
me. “It goes very quickly once we get started.”
It was a questionnaire to rival all questionnaires, one that asked
very detailed questions about my last trip to the grocery store. “What
section did you visit on your last visit? Produce, meats, seafood,
non-perishables, bakery, etcetera?” “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes,” I
answered. It had been a heavy food shopping day.
“Did you buy vegetables or fruits in the produce section?”
Matthew asked. “Both,” I answered demurely.
“Okay, let’s start with vegetables,” Matthew said. “Which
kinds did you buy? Did you buy carrots?” Yes.
“Potatoes?” Yes. “Cucumbers?” Yes. “Green
peppers?” Yes. And on and on and on.
“On a scale of one to ten, one being terrible and ten being
excellent, what was the quality of carrots you bought at this last shopping
trip, where you visited the produce section?” he asked. He asked every
question like this. And he asked this question for every single item I
had bought at the grocery store. Not for a long time had my opinion
been so desired. My children were in their middle elementary years,
trying out new challenging levels of indifference. My husband had been warily sidestepping me lately, as my general mood varied wildly between
wasteoid zombie and frazzled bitch monster. I felt alive for the first time in
months.
Matthew asked me about quality and satisfaction with the value of
each item I bought, then the cleanliness of each section, layout of the store,
availability and upkeep of shopping carts, among other things. There was
even a section of questions about the employees in the store.
We laughed and chatted as I prepared my family's dinner. I
asked him to repeat certain questions, and when I had been disappointed in an
item I bought on my last shopping trip, he had a whole other list of questions
about why I found that item less than satisfactory. During our
conversation, call waiting had clicked twice and I had to put Matthew on hold
to deal with them. Once, he had to get off the phone to do something that
couldn’t wait and I waited for several minutes until he called me back.
We were practically dating by this time – I mean, we had been
chatting for almost an hour already, the longest conversation I had with a
twentysomething man in since, well, since I was twentysomething and my husband
and I dated. As I thought about how to insert a proposal into one of my
answers, having already mentally planned our life together, and how to best
break it to my husband that I was running off with a telemarketer named Matthew
from God Knows Where, and while I hoped against hope that he was a hot young
guy with a great beard and closet full of shirts from Brooks Brothers and maybe
one cat and no dogs, I glanced at the clock.
My romantic reverie snapped. It was time to pick up the kids
from school. If I left now I’d be five minutes late. Worse, upon
returning home I had to feed them, supervise homework, and rush them to their
various activities directly after we got home. I had run out of time to
finish the interview.
I interrupted Matthew mid-question: “Oh, Matthew, I’m sorry, but I
have to go. I have to pick up my kids from school.”
“Really?” Matthew replied, clearly concerned that he was about to
lose me. “But there are only five questions left!”
I did the math quickly in my head. The last five questions took
ten minutes to finish. “I’m sorry Matthew, but I really have to go. I’m
already going to be late, and they really frown upon parents who leave their
kids at school for afternoon trysts with telemarketers.”
Matthew was desperate. “Can I call you to finish the questionnaire
when you come back?”
I had to be firm. “I’m sorry. I really can’t. My
night is full, and I won’t be able to do it until nine at the earliest.
Can you call that late?”
Devastation reigned in Matthew’s voice as he replied, “No. I
get off work soon. You’re my last call.”
I felt for him, really I did. But the seconds ticked
by. I was getting to the stern-call-from-the-school-phase of lateness
that I tried to avoid at all costs. “I really am so sorry. It can’t
be helped. I have family responsibilities to take care of right now,” I
pleaded, appealing to his humanity.
Now, despair: “If you leave now, I won’t get credit for you.
I can’t believe this is happening.” I could almost hear the tears in his
voice. “This sucks.”
I truly felt sorry for him, and although my fantasy of our life
together had already ebbed, I wasn’t sure his had. He was angry with me
for ruining what probably was his biggest telemarketing success ever. I
can’t say that I blamed him. Telemarketers have a tough job to do.
It’s not Deadliest Catch tough, but tough nonetheless.
“Oh, God. I am sorry. I have to go.” I hung up the
phone, feeling a strange loneliness that can only come from letting down one
who did not deserve such treatment. I felt bereft, yet heartless.
He had such a nice voice, too. I imagined the tears streaming into his
beard. I hoped he had a tissue, or better yet, a soft designer
handkerchief with which to mop up his sorrow.
As I sped through the neighborhoods on my way to the kids’ school,
I wondered what Matthew did after I hung up. Did he slam his
headset down on the desk and beat his fists on its hard surface, then raise one
fist into the air, cursing my name amidst his screams? I'm sure he didn't
get fired; he was too good at his job. Did he drown his sorrows in a
Black and Tan at the corner pub? I wanted our story to to have a better
ending.
* * *
I don't answer telemarketer calls anymore. If one happens to
catch me off guard, I pretend that I'm not home, saying that the person in
charge isn't around to take the call. Sometimes I'll speak in a
nonsensical language to discourage conversation. Or I might gag and cough
into the phone, claiming the plague or accidental poisoning. It may seem cruel, and
bad for the business world, but I just can't risk crushing another soul.
I leave the important work to those who can better handle highly charged
emotional interactions.
The heart that breaks openly is not one any of us can easily
forget, and his memory lives on, if only in my mind.
And every time the phone rings, I wonder.
*******
This post inspired by:
Mama Kat's Writing Workshop
Prompt #3: Describe a memorable experience you had with
a telemarketer.
I. Am. Dying.
ReplyDeleteThis was almost turning out like the scene in Titanic --- but I'll never let you go.
I seriously thought that you were going to stick it out for the remainder of the call and leave the kids.
Do you look at fruits and veggies the same?
We were so invested in each other. It really was a hard decision to leave him like that. I've never quite given produce quite so much attention since then. ;)
DeleteHa! Poor Matthew. I'm sure he still thinks of you - the woman who ruined his quota with her "family."
ReplyDeleteRuined his life you mean.
DeletePoor Matthew. Poor, poor Matthew. And good God, woman... 45 minutes? what were you thinking?
ReplyDeleteI will do almost anything in the name of research.
DeleteThis is hilarious! I loved it!! Stopping by from Mama Kat's ;-)
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for being here, Hailey!
DeleteCool story. I was entranced.
ReplyDeleteThank you! I'm so happy that you liked it. :)
DeleteI will think of your poor, sweet, dejected Matthew every time I screen telemarketers' calls from this day forward.
ReplyDeleteIt's really best not to get involved. I learned that the hard way.
DeleteOh my gosh, I cannot believe you were willing to entertain a 45 minute conversation about your groceries. And then had the audacity to not finish it. What a tease!!!
ReplyDeleteRESEARCH. I did feel like a heel.
DeleteI have agreed to something similar and then had to stop the person as had to leave the house to get somewhere. Even worse though is the vacuum salesperson my husband invited in one time as they offered to clean our mattress....I was having medical issues resulted in major pain at the time and after an hour I just had to ask her to leave, despite the fact she kept saying it would be quick I knew that was not the case and needed her gone.
ReplyDeleteOh no! That is a nightmare... and when they say it should be a short visit, it should be a short visit! An hour-long sales pitch is not ideal... don't these people watch Mad Men? Get in, get the sale, get out!
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