Complaint Box Redux: Telemarketers
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(This article was originally published February 4, 2023, in the Southern Spice section of Times-Georgian.)
The now-defunct “Complaint Box” column in The New York Times used to ask New Yorkers, “What bothers you?” The resulting submissions were personal rants and essays of 100 to 500 words that covered a multitude of subjects, ranging from subway hassles to gum on the sidewalk. The column aired grievances particular to New Yorkers, with a caveat that it was not the “forum for complaints about The Times.” Ha.
Though I have no intention of turning my weekly space into a regular diatribe, I think an occasional complaint has its place, especially on a topic we all might have strong feelings about.
Take telemarketers, for instance.
As a child of the 70s and 80s, I remember well the uncertainty and questions a ringing telephone would bring. With no Caller ID, endless possibilities presented themselves before we picked up the receiver.
Who could it be? Is it a boy? (I hope, I hope, I hope.) Is it a prank caller? Do they know what I did last summer? Are they calling from inside the house? (Well, for a person with an overactive imagination, it went that way for me at least.)
More often than not, even back then, the caller was a dreaded telemarketer, peddling timeshares or Ginsu knives or maybe soliciting donations or votes.
Then, a few years later, blessed relief! Caller ID and answering machines allowed us to “screen our calls” and regain some control over our lives. And way back in the early days of cell phones, it seemed as though we were untouchable. None of those jokers had our mobile numbers yet, and we lived our lives unmolested by the intrusions of telephone predators.
But suddenly, insidiously, they got in. Now at least, Verizon has the decency to tell me if the call is “Spam” or “Potential Telemarketer.” But just last week, as I was teaching the future leaders of America, I received, count them, seven spam calls in the course of my work day. Ugh.
And I’m always too passive. I say stuff like, “I’m sorry. Not interested.” Or I pick up and then hang up immediately. So weak.
But, luckily for me and my sanity, my husband David is not like that. He has GREAT responses for telemarketers.
“Hello? I’d like to lower your credit card interest rate.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the number on my card?”
“Um, I don’t have that, sir.”
“Okay, how can you lower my rate, then, if you don’t even know what card we’re talking about?”
Hee hee. I live vicariously through him and feel some small sense of vindication through his audacity.
But the ultimate comeuppance occurred a few months ago. David, my daughter, her boyfriend, and I were all gathered in front of the fire one damp November evening.
My phone rang. A spam call. David decided to answer anyway, just for kicks and giggles. He put it on speaker. The man does love an audience.
The caller asked if he could speak to the “head of the household.”
Sigh.
No way would David allow his wife to succumb to such sexism.
I’m sorry. We don’t have any of those here. Only arms and legs.”
Vengeance at last. Victory is mine.
