MD stands for MisDialled - Unresolved

Carry On... Calling

So my company is under pressure, owing to the financial shit-blender that is the current economy. This means screws get tightened around the office; specifically it means managers start checking everyone is busy all the time. This doesn’t bode well for me as I am as passionate about cold calling as I am about death.

I know they will start checking the number of calls I make – but I also know that that is pretty much all they will check. Two options lie before me: 1) Start doing my job properly; 2) Start calling some random numbers, irrespective of who answers.

Option one is unappealing. I’d even go as far as to say it’s not an option.

I can feel the inefficiency radar, my boss, picking up a strong signal in my direction. I dive into option two.

Considering I’m a bright guy, the way I initially go about this is remarkably uncool: I just start smashing numbers into the phone. I don’t even get through 5 digits before I hear the repetitive drone of the ‘wrong number’ woman – a woman I know in real life must be at least part robot.

I hang up.

Now the heat is really on, and the manager senses my vulnerability. Bloodhound.

I open up a spreadsheet and call the first number I see.

Dial tone… I check the name etc while it rings. It’s an MD – shit. He answers himself – this is rare. Rarer still, he begins with: ‘Thanks very much for calling back’

‘No problem’ I say, a little baffled.

He hesitates, sensing (I guess) that ‘my’ voice has changed a bit. I stay silent. Then he continues: ‘So when is best for you?’

‘Next week is good.’ Winging it.

‘Tuesday?’

‘Yeah but it’ll have to be the afternoon…’ I do that ‘hmmm’ sound you always do when faux-checking your ‘busy’ calendar. ‘…around two o’clock?’

‘Yeah, okay. For an hour, right?’

‘Right.’ I don’t want to say anything else in case I give away the fact that I’m just a dirty imposter booking a completely virtual meeting to discuss nothing, at a completely arbitrary time, with a guy I know nothing about, at an undisclosed location. Job well done

I escape: ‘Well thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.’ Click.

Duncan (Manchester)

Dying Man - Unresolved

One fairly filmic quality to call centres is that, in the Star Wars tradition, you get these ongoing, endless, and sometimes rather dramatic sagas. I will tell you of one such saga, one which my cubicle sharing phone-monkey friend imparted to me. In all 'coldies', stories like this get passed through the centre, being exaggerated, augmented, hell - maybe entirely fabricated. But this one always sends a chill up a newbie cold caller's spine.

The DYING MAN.

I pick up the phone and dial a number. Just like all the numbers we key in, this is just off a spreadsheet, a database, a hunk of tree - we don't even use computers to keep information around here. Just an extensive trail of 'cards'. There are thousands, no - fucking millions of these things - just spread about the place. If they allowed games in the office (they don't), and anyone played 'Eye Spy', there's only one letter you could choose - motherfuckin 'C'. So yeah there are a lot of cards.

I pick up the phone and dial the number. It's picked up by a woman with a prickly tone to her voice. Usually you have to speak to get that reception - no, something's wrong here, before I've even begun. I imagine the worst, maybe someone's taken the whole place hostage, and she's taking this call with a gun pressed against her cheek. "Stay cool, finish the conversation, and put the receiver down." Maybe.

This is me: "Hi. Can I ask who's responsible for your company's advertising and marketing policy?"
Cold, terrified woman: "Yes. Mr. Hulbert."
"OK, well is he in right now for a quick word?"
Her voice takes on a really shrill tone now: "No. No you can't. He's... not with us anymore..."
I'm feeling a little uncomfortable, the woman's crazy. If I was around her house in the evening, I get the feeling she'd be spelling HELP ME in runner beans with her 'husband' poking her under the table.
"Right, well, who is in charge now then?"
"It's still Mr. Hulbert," intones the panicking kidnappee.
"Where is he then?"
"He's in," and now she lets out a wail, "He went to hospital last night, we don't know what's going to happen."

What do you say. I simply wished her (and Mr. Hulbert) well and carried on with the day. If I thought that was awkward, this was nothing compared to my call-back two weeks later.
"Good morning, can I speak to Mr. Hulbert Please?"
Same woman. It seems the grieving isn't out of her system. She bursts into tears.
"N..no! He's...I'm afraid he's not with us."
She doesn't know it's me, I don't want to identify myself as some frequent morbid spectator to this grisly game of 'Call the dead guy', and I certainly don't want to ask where he is this time.
"OK, maybe I'll try later then," I cheerfully reply, and place the receiver back on the hook.

Dan (Edinburgh)

Peter The Bricklayer - Rejection

It's 12:30pm, the afternoon heat of the call centre is draining on my powers of concentration. Ten rejections in a row will do that to you. My brain is a mess: I'm a terrible amalgamation of devil's work and failure to succeed. I'm a terrible bastard.

Peter picks up the phone, he has a thick Yorkshire accent, which I could have guessed from greedily browsing his bricklaying company's website - I'm sure he's going to hate my 'southern fairy' dialect (ignorant as he is of my proud Leeds student pedigree). The boss peers out from the crack in the door of his quasi-office cubicle to make sure I'm on the phone and not "resting on my laurels". What a tosser.

I feed Peter the spiel. It's the same line I've been giving every businessperson this side of the equator with no luck, but Big P's loving it. The conversation leads on to something like this:
"Would it be of interest to you if we could generate some business enquiries for you in a cost-effective way?"
"Well yes, now that you mention it. We're in the process of expanding the business and it's something we're looking at." The Bricklayer's enthusiasm is unlike anything I've experienced here. He genuinely thinks I can help him. Naturally, I'm completely thrown, and lose my way.
"You there?", grunts Peter in his Bradfordian tones, rousing me from momentary silence. His grubby voice recalls the incessant banter of regular publicans during my time at Leeds University and I immediately find his face in my mind.
He's one of those incongruously old fit people, probably eats his wife's steak pies before busting out infinite reps in his garage 'gym'. He was on-site when I tried him earlier, so he must be active all the time, but now, on the phone, he just sounds tired, and I find myself impressed by his industry and desire to do more, even if its just advertising in my (my?!) irrelevant little magazine.
"Yes, yes. Sorry. Errm... so you want a quarter page advert?"
"No, no lad!" he chuckles, "If I get too many people calling me up, how'll I build all them walls?"

Dan (Edinburgh)