The Gift Subscription

During college, I found that my monthly allowance from mom and dad – on top of tuition, rent, auto insurance, utilities, food money, and any other reasonable financial need of a 21-year-old – didn’t adequately cover the very unreasonable amount of tequila I drank. I made the mistake of befriending three guys and decided that I – at 5’ 8” and 125 pounds – should be able to drink all of them under the table. So I had to find a means to fund my habit.

A national telemarketing firm had a local office that used a patented scary-assed hypersuction vacuum from which any student who passed through campus for any duration could not escape. One holiday season, I accepted a position as a telemarketer.

This was in the early 1990s. Before telemarketing had reached the level of condemnation it has today. Consumers had no way to escape the long arm of the dinnertime interruption begging them, in my case, to renew a gift subscription to National Geographic for their child or mother or aunt or friend.

By my second week, I was one of the top sellers. I still attribute that to my non-accent and propensity to review the names of the paper leads, determine how to correctly pronounce them, and size the prospects up by their names and addresses. For instance, a Goldman from Manhattan got a different treatment than a Jones from Kentucky.

I was sitting with a group of friends in our gray Dilbert-style plus-shaped four-way cube. The walls were tall enough to block out some sound, but you could still hear your neighbor on a call if you were silent. We were goofing off post-hangover and everything was funny. Straw spitballs. Ice down the back. It was that sort of day.

I made the mistake of not reviewing the name on the paper lead before calling.

“Hello, may I please speak with Mr. Zitzowitz.” Immediately my colleagues, who were not on a call at the time, started giggling.

“Speaking.” I smiled. My colleagues were officially laughing. I could see my friend Brent’s red face and watering eyes in between his shudders. Kara, on my right, had her head on her desk, tapping lightly.

“Hello I’m calling to renew the National Geographic” snort “subscription you bought last year for Mr. Corn-“ Corn? Mr. Zitzowitz is bad enough, but he has a friend named Mr. Corn? Bald-faced, knock-down, drag out, laughing all around me. Brent had fallen to the floor and was clutching his stomach. Kara’s eyes and mouth opened wide to support her wild cackling. Even Mike entered the picture and started jumping up and down opposite me, head appearing and disappearing over the cube wall. “Zitzowitz and Mr. Corn”, they’re saying between tears.

“What is that in the background?”

“I’m sorry.” Now I’m giggling. “That’s my colleagues. I think someone just, uh-” snort “-told a joke.”

“You were saying?”

“Okay. I’m sorry about that. Now, Mr. Zitzowitz-” snort “-if you want to renew this gift for Mr. –uh- Corn-” snortity snort “-It will cost $23.75. I’m so sorry,” laughing now, “my neighbors here simply won’t stop laughing and I just can’t help myself.” My stomach had that feeling of suppressed laughter, high in my chest it rose and nearly leapt out of my mouth.

Mr. Zitzowitz spoke. “Sometimes we call him Pop.”

“Excuse me?” Sniff, sniff, breathe, sniff, sniff, sniff.

“You know, Pop Corn.”

I burst. Loud obnoxious laughter. Gut wrenching, banging my fist on the desk, dropping the phone on the floor laughter.

I restored some level of composure to say, “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you want to renew this subscription.” before his objection and dropping the phone back in its cradle.