Telewacky

by James M. Bellarosa

Pity the poor telemarketer. He’s among the most polite of America’s workers yet he’s ridiculed, threatened, hung up on, lied to, cursed at ... and worse. Somehow, though, these effervescent gadflies shed that abuse like roofs shed rain. And long before his hotheaded sales prospects have cooled down, the ever resilient telemarketer has dialed another one.

I’ve always regretted the mistreatment of these courteous workers, so I’m always considerate with them. In fact, I strive to emulate their politeness, and I hope after we’ve hung up they think to themselves, “Boy! that call was different.”

I was expecting a friend’s call last night when a telemarketer phoned, and I wondered later if she felt slighted when I asked: “Is this Tom?”

“No sir,” she replied, “I’m from the Paralyzed Doll Makers of America. My name is Florence Ride but please just call me Flo.”

“Tom said he’d call me tonight – that’s why I – are you Tom’s sister?” I asked.

Flo said she had no brothers.

“Because sometimes Tom asks his sister Flo to make his calls,” I said, then I explained that it was often impossible to differentiate between the two. “His sister sings baritone in her church choir.”

“Really?! Well no, I’m definitely not that particular Flo – uh-huh. I’m calling from nearby. From New York, actually.”

“Tom once worked substitute teaching here in the city,” I said. “That’s why I wondered if he’d hired a caller tonight. I apologize.”

Flo said there was no need to apologize but that no, she hadn’t talked with anybody. When I asked her if that had been for weeks or for months, she chuckled and explained that she was calling from a list of names provided by her organization.

“That’s a coincidence,” I said. “Tom used to make lists.”

“Uh-huh? Lists of what?” Ms. Ride asked.

“Lists of ventriloquists and of those who talk behind his back.”

A pause, then: “Do you mind if I ask why?” Flo asked. “It’s none of my business really, but I’m curious.”
I told her that was how Tom discovered his sister. “He had noticed she could throw his voice without seeming to put words in his mouth,” I said. “Whenever she substitute taught for him no one noticed the difference.”

“That’s some trick, isn’t it?” Flo laughed. “Now sir, my reason for calling is to invite you to make a tax deductible contribution to the Paralyzed Doll Makers of America.”

I thanked Flo for the invitation because I got so few, then she added that the Doll Makers had chapters in twenty-eight states.

“And they’re all baking dolls?” I asked.

“No-no! They make dolls, sir. Ake with an m.”

“That’s what confused me,” I said, “because even if you bake a doll it’ll refuse to rise. They can be very stubborn, you know.”

“For sure!” Flo agreed. “Now, I’d also like to mention –”

I interrupted to ask why so many people want to make paralyzed dolls. “Isn’t it redundant? I mean, dolls can’t move anyway, so why rub it in?”

Flo hesitated, then: “Mr. Folrey, I think possibly you misheard me again. It’s the doll makers who are paralyzed. The dolls are perfectly normal.”

I apologized, Flo said there was no need, then I added that Tom’s aunt and uncle ran a doll-making business. Flo wondered what kind of dolls she made.

“Jacqueline? She didn’t make the dolls,” I told her. “She just cut the lumber in the forest. We called her Jack for short.”

“All right. Okay, then what kind of dolls did Tom’s uncle make, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Woody, you mean?”

“Was that his name, Woody?” Flo asked.

“Originally it was Arbor,” I told her, ‘but as his career evolved somebody came up with the name Woody. He disliked it, however, so his lawyer changed it back to Arbor.”

I heard papers rustle and whispering over the phone.

“I should really get back to my reason for getting in touch, Mr. Folrey,” Flo said. “We get only so many minutes per call and I shouldn’t run over.”

“Woody made wood nymph dolls,” I said, “but as soon as he made them they went their own ways. After they branched out Jack often saw them in the forest, but---“

“As I was saying, sir,” Flo interrupted, “it’s the paralyzed volunteers who make the dolls.”

“Then what do the dolls do?” I asked.

“Well, they don’t actually do anything. We make them for –”
“I’ve apparently misunderstood again – I apologize,” I said. “Ever since I came home from the hospital – ”

“Well, there’s no need to – sir, if you were in the hospital you may have seen our dolls,” Flo said. “We donate them to hospitalized children. You’d be playing an important part in our effort.”

I told Flo I wasn’t actually in the hospital, that I’d only taken candy to visit someone but that they’d gone home. “Whenever I try to donate something it never works,” I said. “Once I sent a contribution to the Institute for Destitute Prostitutes. They weren’t soliciting at the time, however, meaning they weren’t in season, so they returned my check. Meaning that they weren’t in their soliciting season.”

“Hmmmm,” Flo hummed. “Well sir, you tried, you took that important first step. Now I’d be willing to –”
I told Flo that I’d bought a chance on a black-and-white TV for a color-blind friend. “I could have taken a chance on a color TV,” I said, “but what kind of friend would give someone a color TV if it was designed to vanish when he looked at it? That’s like waiting for the summer to give a mechanic a wrench made of ice,” I said.

“Sir –”

“Another time I was delivering a bouquet of flowers to someone and on my way it was just my luck to run into a stranger carrying an empty vase,” I said. “I felt so bad for him I put the flowers in his vase.”
A long pause.

“Hello?” I said.

“I’m here, sir,” Flo replied.

“I felt even worse for the vase,” I said.

“Sir, since you can’t seem to get things to their destination I’d be happy to come and collect a donation,” Flo offered. “It wouldn’t be the first time, but just be sure to make your check payable to me, Florence Ride.”

“Another time,” I said, “I offered a woman a wedding ring and she refused it. She said she already had one. Things were getting on my nerves.”

Flo repeated that she’d be willing to visit to collect a donation. “I’m not far away. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“I live on the thirteenth floor,” I told her, “and they’ve removed the elevator for repairs. I shimmy down a sheet.”

“Sir, I’m running a little short of time but if you could write a check payable to Florence Ride, I’d use the stairway to collect it,” Flo said.

“I’m moving,” I told Flo. “I apologize.”

“No need to apol – to where? – I’m sure I could – if you – payable to Florence Ride –”

“Up to the seventy-eighth floor,” I said. “I have low blood pressure and they’re trying to raise it. They’ve tried everything else.”

Another long pause, more whispering, noise from a TV suddenly.

“Sir,” Flo said finally, “another call is coming in for me. Thank you so much for your time.”

“I enjoyed talking to you,” I said.

Click!

Flo’s sudden disconnect surprised me. I tried to call her back so I could mail in a contribution, but no Florence Ride existed in the phone book, nor in the Information Operator’s listings, nor in the public library’s directory of New York residents. Nor did the Paralyzed Doll Makers of America appear in any listing, nor in Google’s directories. Florence wouldn’t have been trying to scam me, I knew that – she was much too polite. Then I wondered, does a successful scam sometimes depend on a good dose of politeness?