Third Time's a Charm?

They’ve found us again.

One week ago I was sitting on the couch contemplating the peacefulness of our recent home life when the phone rang. I answered it to hear a three second pause and a familiar click. As I hung up, I decided that one of the perks of moving is a six- month vacation from telemarketers.

I know that there is an immunity list that I am supposed to join if I don’t want to receive calls, but my skeptical self doubts that it actually works. I accept telemarketing as an inevitable aspect of life, and I honestly think it is better that way. Craig sees it differently, though. He swears that I keep myself available to telemarketers so that I can treat them nastily if I feel like it. Maybe it’s true. If so, I am definitely justified. Dr. Pilkey, my college literature teacher, said that in a state of war, whether public or personal, normal rules of decency and honesty need not apply.

“Christians lied to protect Jews during the Holocaust, even though dishonesty goes against their faith. They were in a state of war with people who were contrary to their ideals, and so they had no obligation to tell the truth. Likewise, if a burglar stands at your door demanding money, you have no obligation to be especially decent or honest to him. If he demands to know if there are people in your household, you need not endanger your family by telling him the truth,” he said. I think that this reasoning should apply with telemarketers. They are at war with my ideals: I want to relax in my peaceful house and be unmolested by outsiders, and they are trying to take that away from me. Especially on days when I am already mad about something, I don’t feel like social standards of politeness and courtesy apply to them. When I lived in California, the purchase of our first house started a steady stream of calls that didn’t abate until we sold it two years later.

“Hello, this is ADT security! How are you on this fine day?”

“First of all, the fifth straight day of rain is not often referred to as ‘fine’. Second, I am irritated because this is the sixth time I’ve been solicited by your firm in the past month. I haven’t changed my mind since the fifth time you called me, and don’t you think that logic would dictate that I won’t at all?” I replied bitingly before hanging up. I admit that I handled the call cuttingly, but did she really have to CALL ME BACK only to call me an unprintable name that invoked my gender but mistook my species?

This is why I can’t stand telemarketers. I think they only act nice because they want something. If they wanted to be really nice, they could just not call me at all. I thought there were no exception to this rule, so imagine my surprise when I received a cold call last week that didn’t immediately turn my stomach. I picked up the phone to hear an older man wishing me a good day in a golden honey Southern accent.

“How are y’all doing on this fine day,” purred a rich voice, evoking images of antebellum mansions where steaming cups of coffee are served on verandas. Something in me softened. I could tell this man didn’t know me and in just a moment would ask me for something, but I couldn’t feel a shred of my usual outrage.

“Well, I’m just fine,” I said brightly. I couldn’t believe it. That peach pie voice would not let me act my mean self. He went on to say that he was from the Lexington Canine Police Partners and was calling to earn support for in-school programs that keep kids from using drugs.

“The kids just love to see the dogs, and we make such a difference to them. Can the kids count on your support, ma’am?” he ended with the rhetoric of a Southern senator.

This was my cue to tell him off. Years of research have proven that these programs are a total waste of government funding. Furthermore, I taught for years in the tender age where those kinds of choices are made, and I know that petting a German shepherd is not going to keep a kid from using drugs if they already intend to. I wish it would, but it’s naïve to think so.

To my astonishment, I didn’t have the heart to turn him down. I’ll give you twenty dollars just to talk some more in that wonderful accent of yours, I thought. Instead, I asked for his website and promised to check it out. It was the first time I had ever let a cold caller go without some form of reproach. Craig listened to this conversation with growing incredulity, knowing how I usually am.

“Well, he was just such a nice old man. It wouldn’t be right to be mean to him. Maybe telemarketers are just nicer here, too,” I reasoned. He stared at me like I had just undergone a severe personality shift, and I guess I had.

People are generally nicer here. In our favorite bookstore, a man walked up to us and asked if we were finding everything we needed. We were a few minutes into a conversation when we realized he wasn’t wearing the polo shirt and nametag of a store clerk. He must have noticed, because he laughed and said “No, I don’t work here, I’m just a really nice guy!” We waited to be helped at the Verizon store and their Fed-Ex delivery man rattled off a list of places we had to see when he learned we were from out of state. Two clerks that caught me looking at the six foot ladders at Lowe’s convinced me that it would fit into my Malibu. They proved it by wiggling it into my car themselves. I find myself engaged in conversation with strangers in almost every line I stand in. I don’t know if it’s weird to tell the grandmotherly figure behind me about my four nephews or hear about her recent surgery, but I like it. Everybody here seems so connected.

The isolated case of rudeness I experienced here is that people tended to cut in front of me in line. The third time this happened, I had to stop and analyze the situations to figure out why I was being so ignored. I realized that I would queue the California way, where courtesy demands at least five feet of private space between me and the person in front of me. Then, so as not to appear nosy or rude, I would stare off into space and fail to make eye contact in a Californian show of well-mannered aloofness. I realized that Lexingtonians thought I was just a strange person dawdling in the middle of the aisle, not a person in line. Now I stride boldly up to a conversational distance and start chatting about UK basketball to the person in front of me. Nobody cuts and my turn comes, but much more slowly than it did in California, mainly because the cashiers chat with you while lovingly packing each grocery item in its very own bag. Yep, I’m definitely not in California anymore, and it’s not just that the storm drains are big enough to swallow my cat.

I really thought I moved into an area of unmitigated politeness, where even phone solicitors treat people with courtesy and respect. This one-sided view was shattered yesterday when I received another phone call.

“Hello, is Craig there?” said a disappointingly not-so-Southern voice.

“Who’s calling?” I purred back. I’m not calling Craig to the phone from upstairs to refuse a cold call and hang up.

“Lexington Canine Police Partners, but we’re calling for Craig, so please put him on,” he clipped.

I let an accustomed trace of ice creep back into my tone. “We don’t donate to organizations that solicit only over the phone,” I stated bluntly. I mean, really. It’s just a waste of time for them at this point.

“Well, it’s too bad that you don’t want to help us out, but Craig supported us last year, lady. Why don’t you just give him the phone?”

“Last year we lived out of state, and neither of us had ever heard of you. I know he didn’t give money to you because we share all accounts. You want our money and you lie to us,” I fired back.

“Fine. I’ll just call back then,” he snapped.

“And find me in the mood for prevaricating telemarketers? I don’t think so,” I snapped back, and then saved him the trouble of hanging up on me.

I don’t know whether to be sad or pleased. On one hand, my paradigm is restored. Not everyone in Kentucky is ready to sit me down and offer me sweet tea. There are jerks here, too. I should have asked him if he recently moved here from California.