Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

24


“Hello, Mrs. Gibbons?” I say.

“Yes?” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line is guardedly suspicious.

“This is Mrs. Morrow,” I say, as I’ve been instructed (“ ‘Mrs.’ makes them trust you more. Use Mrs. even if you’re Miss, any questions about that?”). Then, turning to my script, I say, “I’m calling from the customer service desk at Supersave.”

This is not true. I am calling from First Rate Home Delivery Food Service. For the last four days, I’ve been working as a telephone solicitor, sitting in a blue folding chair at a kind of Formica counter, in a row of other solicitors. There are five booths on each side of the small room, but only three solicitors are here today, as has been true every other day that I’ve been here. A thick piece of perforated particle board separates the booths from each other. I’ve spent a fair amount of time looking thorough the holes at pieces of the person beside me, a busty older woman with blue rhinestone glasses who wears pleated skirts, sheer ruffled blouses, and an excess of a perfume I think might be Youth Dew. She reminds me of a kindergarten teacher turned hooker.

The woman seems to dislike me for reasons I have not been able to discover, yet insists on taking the booth beside me every day. So I peer through the holes at her while I wait for people to answer their phones, looking for some kind of evidence as to why the woman feels the way she does. So far I’ve figured out nothing except that the woman has an ear-wax problem, which probably accounts for the many times a day she practically screams, “Pardon me? Can you speak up? I think there’s something wrong with your phone!”

The other full-time solicitor is a skinny, gray-haired man who smells like beer and hovers hunch-shouldered over his phone, as though it is a lover he has backed into the corner for a kiss. Every day thus far, he has worn a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and shiny, navy blue pants, belted too high. Periodically, he coughs for a good long while, finishing with a spectacular hawking of phlegm into a handkerchief that he then stuffs back into his pocket.

The office is located over a dry cleaners, and I can hear the muted sounds of the workers below talking to each other in Spanish, and laughing. I’m jealous of them. I’m not having any fun at all. I’ve been in that dry cleaners, never knowing that this office was above it, much less that I’d someday be working in it. It’s a very pleasant dry cleaners, clean and bright, flowering plants in pretty, woven baskets on the counter, tastefully framed reproductions on the wall. Here, the sunlight pushes in through filthy windows onto a cracked linoleum floor. There is a stained coffee urn in the corner, a half-dead corn plant next to it.

“Now, you recently entered a contest to win a free side of beef, is that right?” I ask my customer.

“Yes?”

“Well, the drawing for that prize will be held next week,” I say.

“Ohhhhh,” the woman says. “I thought I won!”

“No, the drawing for that prize will be held next week. But I’d also like to tell you, Mrs. Gibbons, that First Rate Home Delivery Food Service is offering a free, week’s supply of vegetables for allowing our salesman to visit you in your home. He will explain how you can save time and money by having frozen food delivered to you. Now, the reason for my call is to determine the best time for our salesman to call.”

Silence.

“Mrs. Gibbons?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering when would be the best time for our salesman to call?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The woman sighs. “I don’t know. I guess seven-thirty, something like that.”

“Seven-thirty this evening?”

“I guess.”

“Fine!” I say. “And you live at 311 Walnut Street?”

“Yes,” the woman says, and then, lower, “Oh boy, my husband’s going to kill me.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, my husband’s going to kill me. He don’t like salesmen.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yeah, especially when they come to your house. You know.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“But you say I get a free week’s supply of vegetables?”

“Yes, you do.” I’m getting nervous now. There is no script for this.

“What kind of vegetables?”

“I think … Actually, it’s just some frozen vegetables. Three boxes. Corn, green beans, and something else. I think maybe lima beans.”

“That don’t sound like a week to me.”

“Well, they’re big boxes.”

“Plus I don’t like lima beans.”

“I don’t either,” I say. “But I hear they’re good in some kinds of soup.”

“Well, is it Green Giant or anything?”

“No. It’s actually First Rate brand.”

“Is that good?”

“I haven’t really, you know, tasted them,” I say. “I’ve only seen the boxes. They look nice, though. There’s a picture of a cornfield on the corn box. It’s probably good.”

“Oh.” The woman breathes into the phone, then says, “Thank you, honey.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry—I was talking to my son. He just handed me something.” I hear the throaty babble of a very young child.

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Eighteen months.” I can hear the smile in the woman’s voice, and am suddenly in the woman’s kitchen with her, leaning against the counter, drinking coffee, and watching the boy. His hands are holding on to his mother’s pants leg. Graham-cracker crumbs are in the curls of his fine, bright hair. Bells are on his shoes.

“Into everything, huh?” I ask, remembering Travis as a toddler, sitting stunned-looking as I screamed and grabbed plant fertilizer away from him. He hadn’t yet eaten it, and I burst into tears of relief, which caused Travis to burst into tears as well. We consoled each other, me by holding him tightly, he by being not dead.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it,” the woman says. “He’s broke our toilet three times already, throwing things down it. Last time, we were flat out of money, couldn’t call a plumber for a week. We had to use the neighbor’s. You can imagine.”

“Oh, I can.”

“So anyway … you say your salesman will be here at seven-thirty?”

Oh yeah, I think, and look down at my script.

“Yes, that’s right, seven-thirty.”

“Could I just ask you something?” the woman says.

“Sure.”

“Do I have to do this?”

“Well … No. Of course not.”

“Will I still be entered for the side of beef, though?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, so can you just, you know, take my name off your list or whatever? My husband would just kill me anyway.”

“Sure. That’s fine. Well, you have a good day, Mrs. Gibbons. And kiss that baby.”

I hang up the phone, tear the lead sheet up, throw it in the garbage. And then feel the presence of someone behind me. It is my supervisor, a balding, pit-faced man, somewhere in his late fifties, I think, who takes his job very seriously. “May I see you in my office, Ms. Morrow?” he asks.

I follow him into the tiny room. “Close the door, will you?” he says.

I sit at the edge of the chair in front of the man’s desk, fold my hands in my lap. He sits down heavily, puts his hands behind his head, leans back in his chair. He looks out the window for some time, then turns to me. “You’re fired, lady.”

“Oh, I know,” I say. “I don’t blame you a bit.”

“I mean, you don’t seem to understand this job.”

“I know. You’re right.” I pick up my purse.

“You call these people and have a little chat! You’re not here to chat. You’re here to read the script, get leads! You’ve gotten one lead in four days!”

“Uh … yes, that’s right.” I take a quick look at the door. He doesn’t have to talk so loudly. I’ll bet everyone can hear. They’ve probably even stopped work in the dry cleaners and are standing motionless, looking up at the ceiling.

“Look,” I say. “I know I’m really, really terrible at this. If I were you, I’d fire me, too.” I stand, smooth my skirt. Smile. “So! If you don’t mind, I’ll just—”

“I heard that on Tuesday you were recommending dentists to someone, Ms. Morrow.”

“Yes, well … That’s right. That did come up. With someone.” I realize now why Youth Dew sits next to me.

“What’s the problem, anyway? You seem like an intelligent woman. What’s so difficult about this job?”

I sit back down. “You want to know what’s difficult about it? It’s lying. It’s lying! I mean, I’m not calling from Supersave!”

“That’s where we got their number. Close enough.”

“And the people think they have to let the salesman come. I have to say when can he come, not can he come.”

“Because if you ask if he can come, they’ll say no.”

“Right,” I say, leaning forward. “And see? Why do this? Why not just be honest, say right out what it is that you’re offering. You know, you could just call people and describe your service over the phone honestly and see if they want to sign up. Over the phone! You wouldn’t even need salesmen to go out. You’d probably save a lot of money.”

The man sits up, folds his hands on his desk, and looks at me over the top of his glasses. Shakes his head. “Go home. I’ll pay you for today. But don’t come back tomorrow, all right?” He picks up a stack of papers, begins reading.

“Yes, well, all right. Thank you.”

He doesn’t even look up.


. . .

Later that night, with everyone in the house asleep, I wrap myself in the quilt on the sofa and call King. “I got fired today,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah? From what?”

“I was doing telephone soliciting.”

“Where?”

“First Rate Foods.”

“Overdressed dowager and man with consumption?” King asks.

“Yes!”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Got fired myself.”

I uncurl my legs, sit up straight. “Really! Why?”

“Not enough leads.”

“Me, too!”

“There you go. Be proud! It’s good to get fired every now and then. It’s liberating. Gives you some time during the week to run errands.”

“But … I need to work.”

“The agency won’t care. They’ll give you more work.”

“They will?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Oh.”

Silence. And then, “Well … thanks, King.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hang up and lean back against the cushions, my shame transformed into satisfaction. It lies across my chest like a cat.

Maybe I’ll scramble some eggs. Reward myself.