Cold Call Curmudgeon
Some thirty years ago or so, long before the establishment of "do not call" phone registries, I was taught by my parents how to respond to unwanted contact from telemarketers. The moment I realized I was on the other end of a sales pitch or consumer questionnaire, I was to interrupt the speaker by stating, "I'm sorry, but we do not accept solicitation calls." Then I was to hang up without bothering to use the polite formalities we would extend to all other callers.
Their strategy was a revelation to me, as up to that point I had always felt obligated to wait until whomever was speaking to me came to a pause before I interjected any sort of response. Furthermore, I had naively assumed that I was required by the laws of general politeness to hear out a caller and respond to all questions until the conversation was logically exhausted. I certainly didn't want to be rude. The very idea that I could simply cut off phone solicitors was liberating, and my conscience was unshackled by the realization that my right to be left alone superseded the demands of telemarketers.
Soon I was nonchalantly terminating sales calls, survey requests and charity appeals with the unsentimental aplomb of someone whose critically important affairs do not allow even a moment of wasted time. My heart hardened toward the occasional objection from savvy callers who would insist that their contact could not be categorized as solicitation. I knew that regardless of their noble intentions or the nonprofit status of their organizations, there was no denying that at least my personal time was being solicited. I started hanging up in record time.
By the time I was an independent adult, my anti-marketing habits were second nature, and I continued to ruthlessly shoot down unwanted calls. However, I was unprepared for the volume of door-to-door solicitations that would darken my porch as a new suburban homeowner. I didn't mind earnest inquiries from neighborhood kids trying to sell Girl Scout cookies or peddling dollar candy bars. But I did not care to entertain the regular parade of home improvement salesmen, cable company representatives, lawn service hacks, religious evangelicals, petition pushers, pizza shop promoters, and entrepreneurial stencilers who want to charge ten bucks to paint your house number on the curb. It took a little longer for me to build up my resistance to these unwanted visitors, as it's naturally a little harder to turn someone down in person than it is on the phone.
One of the most difficult pitches that I overcame was from a string of allegedly disadvantaged teenagers who had been given the opportunity to develop leadership skills by selling magazine subscriptions. It seemed heartless to interrupt these sincere kids, who spoke politely and seemed genuinely excited about the possibility of traveling overseas if only kind people like myself would help them to realize their Horatio Alger dreams. I would listen to them prattle on with a patient smile plastered on my face, suffering with the knowledge that I wanted neither to purchase magazines nor to listen to the sales pitch. Then one day, after I had encountered yet another orange safety-vested teenage hopeful, I came to my senses. Why on earth was I feeling guilty? Some strange kid was standing on my porch asking me to fork over some dough so that: a) a magazine clearinghouse could stay in the black, and b) an anonymous teenager could travel farther than I ever had! Now I send them on their way before they can get through two sentence of their spiel.
Canned persuasion is what annoys me the most about solicitors, second to my time being wasted. I am especially indignant when the script begins with a series of questions. "May I ask what cable company you're currently using?" is a typical opening. Well, you can ask all you like, but I'm certainly not going to tell you. If I'm interested in reducing my cable costs, I'll do my own research. To paraphrase a showbiz standard, "Don't call me; I'll call you." Meanwhile, go bother someone else.
I would put a "No Solicitation" sign on my door, but I don't want to discourage those rare sellers of dollar candy bars. I have considered posting "No Solicitation Except For Dollar Candy Bars," but I've yet to find such a sign at my local hardware store.
When the "Do Not Call" registry was launched, we signed up right away, and it seemed to reduce our phone solicitations. The few calls that did squeak through were greeted with our stony insistence on being added to their internal "do not call" list. That reduced the telemarketing to a trickle. Once in a while, however, we get confronted by a tenacious company that refuses to play by the rules.
The latest offender is a market research firm. A representative will introduce him or herself, rattle off the name of the company, and get through a few more words of the script before we make it clear that we are not interested. The first few times, we shut down the caller and hung up. The next few times, we shut down the caller, insisted that we receive no further calls, and then hung up. Still, though, the calls have not stopped. I'm waiting for the next one, when I'll demand the address and phone number of the company before threatening legal action for harassment. Or if I'm having a bad day, I might enjoy dumping my frustrations on an annoying market researcher.
No matter what happens in my crusade against that blasted market research outfit, I doubt that I will ever surpass my greatest moment in the good fight against uninvited solicitation. It happened many years ago, not long after my parents armed me with the magic words to end all calls. I answered the phone one evening, and the man on the other end asked by name for my maternal grandfather. Unbeknownst to the caller, my grandfather had died long before I was born. Heaven knows what sort of antiquated directory the guy was using.
"I'm sorry, but we do not accept solicitation calls," I said. A stunned silence followed, and I lingered on the line for a moment. I had never cut off a caller so quickly, and I was curious to find out his reaction. After a few seconds, the thwarted solicitor ceded defeat.
"You're good, buddy," he snorted, "you're good."
