Mothers who sell

I was thrilled my first day out on the floor. We were partnered with other star workers and made calls, the way we had been trained in class, while a veteran employee (in my case, a girl of 19 who had worked there all of three months and made close to $35,000 a year) listened in.

I was on my game. I remembered everything I was supposed to mention, from the new lower rate we were supposed to offer to the free gift for signing back up with us. I was so congenial and so friendly that my guy not only signed up, but he thanked me for my wonderful work and asked to speak to my supervisor so that he could tell her what a great job I had done. I received a company commendation certificate, similar to the ones I was awarded in junior high school for being in the band, to hang in my very own cubicle.

Getting a commendation on your first call was unheard of and I became an instant star. The rush was almost more than I could handle. Within days, I was an addict, constantly in search of the thrill of nailing a sale. I talked to all kinds of people. I validated their concerns. I apologized for our previous ineptness. I listened -- which is the secret to sales. Most people just wanted to vent to someone. They wanted to tell me why their credit card payments were too high and how they didn't have enough money and how they were tired of people calling them at dinnertime.

I was God. I fixed it all. I rearranged payments. I moved around due dates. I promised to put notations in their file saying "don't call at 5 p.m." I didn't, but I promised I would.

I racked up the most numbers sold on the hardest lists. I got three promotions in three months and a raise with each. I could strut with pride in my former bar as I ordered drinks and bragged about my newfound wealth and profession.

Selling became my life, my religion. I sold credit cards during dinner. I sold credit cards during breakfast on Saturday morning. I even sold quite a few during Princess Diana's funeral, not because my presentation was more enthralling, but because people would do anything to get me and my friendly faux Southern drawl off the phone. It didn't matter why they signed up. It just mattered that my list got longer.

I spent one particularly ruthless 20 minutes talking to a woman who had given up her card because of her medical bills. After a nice conversation during which I was only half listening because I was waiting for the opening to make my kill, she told me that ever since she had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer she was trying to reduce the debt she would leave behind.

Still, I was prepared to bulldoze ahead. I was about to regale this poor woman with a tale of a lower interest rate designed to make her debt load easier (and the insurance she could buy so that when she finally did die her dependents wouldn't be saddled with her payments). But I caught myself. Who knows exactly why. What on earth was I doing? I couldn't go on. For the first time in my shift that day I leaned back in my chair. (I usually stood and paced.)

I told the woman that she certainly didn't need this credit card -- or any other. I revealed that I didn't have a card and wouldn't consider getting one. We spent the rest of my shift talking about the evils of credit card companies and doctors. Big Brother taped every call and so I was sure that this one was going to be on the top of the list for the next staff meeting. It didn't matter. I called in sick the next day and never went back.

Corporations are funny, though. Even though I was promoted three times in as many months, no one seemed to notice I had left.

How did I know? They kept paying me for three months after I left. Every other week another paycheck appeared in my bank account. I called and told them, but they assured me I was wrong.

I kept the money and headed back to the bar -- to my old job.

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