Black dot of liberty will set us free

Being Frank by FRANK AMEDURI/Managing Editor

I recently moved into a new place, and it required a new phone number. "Do you want me to put a black dot by your name in the phone book?" the customer service person asked.

"Uh … I don't know. Do you have any other colors? Does it have to be a dot? I'm thinking a green tree or maybe a blue eye would be good. Do you think one eye would be disturbing? Probably. Could I get two blue eyes or a yellow bird?"

"No. The black dot will prevent telephone sales people from calling you at home."

"Oh! Yes. Gimme the dot."

Is it really that simple? With less ink that it took to write the Declaration of Independence the phone company has liberated us all from unwanted phone calls during supper, Monday Night Football or worse. It's stunning really, when you think of it. It was a a one sentence question that, had I not been clueless, could have been answered with one word.

"Black dot?"

"Yep."

Good-bye, annoying phone solicitors.

I want to be fair, about this, though. I don't hold a grudge against the individual people who make the calls. They're just trying to make a living in a world that reduces each of us to the available balance on our credit cards. You're not a person, anymore. You're not a citizen, and you're certainly not a human being. You're a consumer. As a consumer, you have only one thing that matters, and it's not your opinion, because that can't be taxed.

No, I actually feel kind of bad for the poor saps making the calls. I worked in an office in Colorado that launched an intense telephone solicitation campaign. They brought in this telephone soldier of fortune to run the campaign. He actually had a headset surgically attached to his head, and he'd just plug it in to any phone and go to work. His role was not to actually make calls, though. He was a "trainer/coach." Eight hundred years ago he would have been called Grand Inquisitor.

Anyway, they hired a bunch of fresh-faced young folks to come in and be trained and coached. They only worked at night, so they'd have access to all the phones in the office. I worked long days, so I'd usually be there for a few hours of their shift. It was terrifying, actually. The trainer/coach guy would start the evening by giving the young folks a rousing pep talk. I actually felt a little energized by it the first couple of nights. After the pep talk things got a little strange, though. Each of the young solicitors got a packet of scripts, and the trainer/coach guy would go around the room and make them read through them with feeling and conviction in their voices.

"Why did you say it like that?" he'd shout. "Why did your voice trail off at the end like that? Why should I believe you?"

"I don't know," someone would reply in a shaky voice. "To tell the truth, I don't know if I believe me. I don't know if we're doing the right thing here."

"What possible difference does that make?" T.C. would shout. "You're not selling the truth, you're selling a newspaper!"

"But … I thought newspapers were all about the truth," she'd stammer back.

"In fact …" I tried to interject.

"Hey you, editor boy," T.C. shouted. "You do your job, and I'll do mine. I don't tell you how to type, do I?"

It's true, he never once commented on my typing skills. There wasn't much I could say.

He'd stand over the young callers as they made their calls and shake his head and jab his finger at the scripted responses and sales pitches. Whenever one of them made a sale, T.C. would shout praise and guilt the others about their miserable lack of effort. By the end of the night, they'd all be sobbing, and I'd find myself sticking around much later than I should just to give them each a hug on the way out.

"It doesn't have to be like this," I'd tell them. "There are fast-food jobs that pay about as well and don't leave these kind of emotional scars."

"I'm so confused," one girl said. "Will I go to hell for what I did tonight, or will I go to hell if I stop? He's got me all turned around."

"Young lady," I told her. "This is hell, and that trainer/coach guy is Satan. Run, and don't ever come back here. Don't tell anyone what you did here tonight, but find a way to make peace with yourself."

Anyway, that's what the little black dot next to your name in the phone book is really all about. It's not just about you getting through a meal without some schlocky-sounding guy trying to sell you a discount long-distance service. It's about rescuing our young people from dark sweatshops where their souls are sucked out through telephone lines and their psyches are cracked like over-roasted nuts. Choose liberty. Choose sanity. Go for the dot.

Frank Ameduri is the managing editor of the Frontiersman.