Chapter 5: Silverman Takes A Break
Silverman rubbed his eyes and let his mind wander away from the words on the screen in front of him to the current status of his life’s vital signs.
The book was coming along nicely, he was just finishing up the fifth chapter, he and Shelly hadn’t had any major blowouts recently, possibly because they were spending less time together, work was going well and he was even getting in some serious reading, Vonnegut and Calvino mainly, on the job between phone calls. Short chapters were best, it was hard to keep any intellectual or emotional momentum really going with the headset randomly bbbrrriiiiiinnnggging in his ears...
“Pottery Barn, this is David. How can I help you?”
“Good God”, he thought as he read what he had just written. “It’s becoming reflexive!”
A friendship had also begun to spring up at work between him and ag, another late night Pottery Barn denizen. Not only was he enjoying ag’s company during the breaks, he was actually learning something about himself from this edgy little man at the other end of the motivational spectrum.
Silverman looked at the clock and grimaced. It was 7pm and he had to be at work in 3 1/2 hours. The nightshift meant a whole new way of living. He shut down the computer and headed into the bedroom to take a nap.
Scene: the typical bland break room of a typical bland business office in several shades of grey. On the right of the entrance is a copy machine. In front is a table and a refrigerator. A first aid kit hangs on the wall. To the left is a set of cabinets topped by a formica counter top, a stainless steel sink, and an automatic three pot drip coffee maker. On the back wall is a glass enclosed bulletin board holding forms required to be displayed by the state, a listing of current job openings in the company, and a notice that sacharine and other artificial sweeterners have been shown to cause cancer in laboratory animals and are not recommended for use by pregnant women. On the table is a tray filled with bags of coffee, tea, chocolate, and sweeteners (including sacharine), along with paper cups, lids, and stirrers. No laboratory animals or pregnant women are present.
Time: 1:15am on a typical weekday morning.
David Silverman is standing in front of the sink trying to remove a three year old dark brown stain from the inside of a coffee pot. ag, a small wiry man with an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, is sitting on the edge of the table dangling his feet and listening to Silverman rant.
“Now here’s the question de jour. Am I a writer who is taking phone orders for a catalog company in order to earn extra money for the holidays, or am I a telephone order taker who thinks he’s a writer?”
“Is there an absolute here or do I get to choose?”
“That’s the point. Am I both, am I neither, and if so, who gets to make that decision, me or the person looking at me? And whatever the answer turns out to be, why does it sound so much lamer than when the Taoist, Chuang Tzu, asked whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”
“What?”
“It’s really very simple. Am I what I think I am or what other people think I am? You listening to me rant and rave, the company bookkeeper checking my timecard, the reader processing the marks on this page, or my wife pissing and moaning about the money we don’t have.”
“Ya know David, you think too damn much. Why does there have to be an absolute? Why is it so important that you make a name for yourself?”
“It’s not about making a name for myself. That’s not the point. I’m not even using my real name, if you haven’t noticed. It’s about using all my skills to their fullest, about making the biggest impact on the world.”
“Why don’t you jump from a real high place?”
“That’s not what I mean by making a big impact.”
“That’s what you said. You’re the writer who’s big on words.”
“So, you think of me as a writer?”
“I don’t know. You tell me you are. So I’m giving you strokes. To me you’re an order taker like I am. I just said you were a writer because you want to hear it. I’ve never read your stuff. How the hell do I know whether you’re a writer or not? Why is it so important?”
“I don’t know. When I’m home and thinking about what I do for eight hours a night it all seems so stupid, selling useless trinkets over the phone. It’s as if I’m serving time and I just want to get it over with. Like before I left for work tonight I told Shelly that I’d already completed 20% of my time here. Boy, was she thrilled to hear I was counting the hours and I knew I’d screwed up as soon as I’d said it. I tried to salvage what I could by telling her my goal was to get something more lucrative and regular before this job ended, but I don’t think it worked.”
“Way to go silver tongue. Allow me to present you with the 1995 Sandpaper Award for Smoothness.”
“But that’s the thing. Once I’m here it feels different. It’s what I do for eight hours a night, taking orders over the phone. It becomes more important. I just sent a birthday present from a guy in New York to his girl friend in California, got it gift wrapped, helped him write a card, made sure it would get there on time. I’m making people happy. That’s what I’ve got to remember.”
“Right. And you’re earning money which makes your wife happy which keeps her from kicking you out of the house which makes you happy. Right? Sounds like a win-win-win to me. That’s what you’ve got to remember. Don’t make it more complicated than it is.”
Scene: the same
Time: 3am
“That’s it. You’re right. It is all about money. In fact all I do is work with money. People call and give me money and I give them goodies in exchange. Fifteen years ago when things were so bad the kids were getting free lunch at school, I remember sitting at the dining room table crying my eyes out and bawling “I can do everything but make money”. Hell, it’s a piece of cake, if I only knew then what I know now. Just send people goodies and they call from around the world and send me money. Well not me exactly, I just get $8.33/hr of it. That and all the fresh brewed coffee I can drink. That is what this is all about isn’t it? Money and brown stuff masquerading as coffee?”
“I won’t vouch for the brown stuff but you’re right about the money. Maximize the bucks, that’s what it’s all about. And you’re no different than anybody else even though you’d like to think you’re above it all. So now that you admit you’re down here in the mud with the rest of us, how would you like to get a raise?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? How would you like to get more money for doing what you’re doing? What’s so hard to understand word man? Would that give your life more meaning?”
“Well more money would give me less grief and that’s means something. Are you suggesting I hit them up for a raise? I just started. Lots of luck.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. God, for somebody as smart as you are you are really dumb. Just take advantage of what’s available. How many specials did you sell last week?”
“Specials?”
“Yes, specials, upsells, those weekly items the company over-ordered and then cut in price to push out the door, Christmas tree angels, N O E L stocking holders, wine rings, photo cubes. You know you get $1.00 for each one you sell, don’t you?”
“Well, yes...”
“So how many did you sell last week?”
“I don’t know... six, seven. People don’t ask for them. I usually get about one or two a night. How about you?”
"A hundred and forty."
“What?!!!”
“A hundred and forty. Now divided by forty hours that’s an extra $3.50 an hour. Last week you earned $8.33 an hour, I earned $11.83 an hour for doing the same thing. That makes my time here a lot more meaningful than yours the way I see it.”
“But how? How did you get people to buy that crap?”
“That’s the problem. You can’t let them think you think it’s crap. It’s stuff somebody somewhere wants and is willing to pay for. All you gotta do is assume that each person who calls is gonna buy at least one special after they place their order.”
“I get embarrased trying to sell stuff people don’t want just for the money.”
“Wrong thinking, smart guy. You don’t know who wants what. Somebody out there wants the stuff and you just have to find out who it is. Besides, the company wants you to sell it. That’s why they give you the incentive. The money is your reward for doing a good job. Hell, the people on the phone called up to spend money in the first place. Help them spend more. They’re sitting ducks. Especially the insomniacs we get this time of night.”
“You make it sound so calculating.”
“It is calculating. And it’s fun. Try it. Let’s see who can get the most specials before quitting time.”
“Give me a handicap.”
“You’re your own handicap. But I bet I can double whatever you get, okay?”
“You’re on. By the way, if you enjoy sales so much, why are you doing this short term holiday sales instead of the kind of sales where you can make really big money. Isn’t it all the same?”
“That’s a good question. I’ll tell you tomorrow night. Meanwhile, it’s time to get back on the phones and make some money.”
David glanced at his reflection in the night window, bearded, longhaired, overweight, glassy eyed, lightweight headphones with built in microphone poised one inch from wherever he turned his head. He could be a switchboard operator or a radio DJ or a tank commander or an airplane pilot or a police dispatcher or the wizard of OZ... or a hot shot sales rep for a catalog company.
BBBoooiiiiinnnggg.
“Pottery Barn,this is David. How can I help you?”
On his very first call he sold two specials. By the next break he was up to seven. The money was rolling in.
The book was coming along nicely, he was just finishing up the fifth chapter, he and Shelly hadn’t had any major blowouts recently, possibly because they were spending less time together, work was going well and he was even getting in some serious reading, Vonnegut and Calvino mainly, on the job between phone calls. Short chapters were best, it was hard to keep any intellectual or emotional momentum really going with the headset randomly bbbrrriiiiiinnnggging in his ears...
“Pottery Barn, this is David. How can I help you?”
“Good God”, he thought as he read what he had just written. “It’s becoming reflexive!”
A friendship had also begun to spring up at work between him and ag, another late night Pottery Barn denizen. Not only was he enjoying ag’s company during the breaks, he was actually learning something about himself from this edgy little man at the other end of the motivational spectrum.
Silverman looked at the clock and grimaced. It was 7pm and he had to be at work in 3 1/2 hours. The nightshift meant a whole new way of living. He shut down the computer and headed into the bedroom to take a nap.
* * *
Scene: the typical bland break room of a typical bland business office in several shades of grey. On the right of the entrance is a copy machine. In front is a table and a refrigerator. A first aid kit hangs on the wall. To the left is a set of cabinets topped by a formica counter top, a stainless steel sink, and an automatic three pot drip coffee maker. On the back wall is a glass enclosed bulletin board holding forms required to be displayed by the state, a listing of current job openings in the company, and a notice that sacharine and other artificial sweeterners have been shown to cause cancer in laboratory animals and are not recommended for use by pregnant women. On the table is a tray filled with bags of coffee, tea, chocolate, and sweeteners (including sacharine), along with paper cups, lids, and stirrers. No laboratory animals or pregnant women are present.
Time: 1:15am on a typical weekday morning.
David Silverman is standing in front of the sink trying to remove a three year old dark brown stain from the inside of a coffee pot. ag, a small wiry man with an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, is sitting on the edge of the table dangling his feet and listening to Silverman rant.
“Now here’s the question de jour. Am I a writer who is taking phone orders for a catalog company in order to earn extra money for the holidays, or am I a telephone order taker who thinks he’s a writer?”
“Is there an absolute here or do I get to choose?”
“That’s the point. Am I both, am I neither, and if so, who gets to make that decision, me or the person looking at me? And whatever the answer turns out to be, why does it sound so much lamer than when the Taoist, Chuang Tzu, asked whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”
“What?”
“It’s really very simple. Am I what I think I am or what other people think I am? You listening to me rant and rave, the company bookkeeper checking my timecard, the reader processing the marks on this page, or my wife pissing and moaning about the money we don’t have.”
“Ya know David, you think too damn much. Why does there have to be an absolute? Why is it so important that you make a name for yourself?”
“It’s not about making a name for myself. That’s not the point. I’m not even using my real name, if you haven’t noticed. It’s about using all my skills to their fullest, about making the biggest impact on the world.”
“Why don’t you jump from a real high place?”
“That’s not what I mean by making a big impact.”
“That’s what you said. You’re the writer who’s big on words.”
“So, you think of me as a writer?”
“I don’t know. You tell me you are. So I’m giving you strokes. To me you’re an order taker like I am. I just said you were a writer because you want to hear it. I’ve never read your stuff. How the hell do I know whether you’re a writer or not? Why is it so important?”
“I don’t know. When I’m home and thinking about what I do for eight hours a night it all seems so stupid, selling useless trinkets over the phone. It’s as if I’m serving time and I just want to get it over with. Like before I left for work tonight I told Shelly that I’d already completed 20% of my time here. Boy, was she thrilled to hear I was counting the hours and I knew I’d screwed up as soon as I’d said it. I tried to salvage what I could by telling her my goal was to get something more lucrative and regular before this job ended, but I don’t think it worked.”
“Way to go silver tongue. Allow me to present you with the 1995 Sandpaper Award for Smoothness.”
“But that’s the thing. Once I’m here it feels different. It’s what I do for eight hours a night, taking orders over the phone. It becomes more important. I just sent a birthday present from a guy in New York to his girl friend in California, got it gift wrapped, helped him write a card, made sure it would get there on time. I’m making people happy. That’s what I’ve got to remember.”
“Right. And you’re earning money which makes your wife happy which keeps her from kicking you out of the house which makes you happy. Right? Sounds like a win-win-win to me. That’s what you’ve got to remember. Don’t make it more complicated than it is.”
* * *
Scene: the same
Time: 3am
“That’s it. You’re right. It is all about money. In fact all I do is work with money. People call and give me money and I give them goodies in exchange. Fifteen years ago when things were so bad the kids were getting free lunch at school, I remember sitting at the dining room table crying my eyes out and bawling “I can do everything but make money”. Hell, it’s a piece of cake, if I only knew then what I know now. Just send people goodies and they call from around the world and send me money. Well not me exactly, I just get $8.33/hr of it. That and all the fresh brewed coffee I can drink. That is what this is all about isn’t it? Money and brown stuff masquerading as coffee?”
“I won’t vouch for the brown stuff but you’re right about the money. Maximize the bucks, that’s what it’s all about. And you’re no different than anybody else even though you’d like to think you’re above it all. So now that you admit you’re down here in the mud with the rest of us, how would you like to get a raise?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? How would you like to get more money for doing what you’re doing? What’s so hard to understand word man? Would that give your life more meaning?”
“Well more money would give me less grief and that’s means something. Are you suggesting I hit them up for a raise? I just started. Lots of luck.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. God, for somebody as smart as you are you are really dumb. Just take advantage of what’s available. How many specials did you sell last week?”
“Specials?”
“Yes, specials, upsells, those weekly items the company over-ordered and then cut in price to push out the door, Christmas tree angels, N O E L stocking holders, wine rings, photo cubes. You know you get $1.00 for each one you sell, don’t you?”
“Well, yes...”
“So how many did you sell last week?”
“I don’t know... six, seven. People don’t ask for them. I usually get about one or two a night. How about you?”
"A hundred and forty."
“What?!!!”
“A hundred and forty. Now divided by forty hours that’s an extra $3.50 an hour. Last week you earned $8.33 an hour, I earned $11.83 an hour for doing the same thing. That makes my time here a lot more meaningful than yours the way I see it.”
“But how? How did you get people to buy that crap?”
“That’s the problem. You can’t let them think you think it’s crap. It’s stuff somebody somewhere wants and is willing to pay for. All you gotta do is assume that each person who calls is gonna buy at least one special after they place their order.”
“I get embarrased trying to sell stuff people don’t want just for the money.”
“Wrong thinking, smart guy. You don’t know who wants what. Somebody out there wants the stuff and you just have to find out who it is. Besides, the company wants you to sell it. That’s why they give you the incentive. The money is your reward for doing a good job. Hell, the people on the phone called up to spend money in the first place. Help them spend more. They’re sitting ducks. Especially the insomniacs we get this time of night.”
“You make it sound so calculating.”
“It is calculating. And it’s fun. Try it. Let’s see who can get the most specials before quitting time.”
“Give me a handicap.”
“You’re your own handicap. But I bet I can double whatever you get, okay?”
“You’re on. By the way, if you enjoy sales so much, why are you doing this short term holiday sales instead of the kind of sales where you can make really big money. Isn’t it all the same?”
“That’s a good question. I’ll tell you tomorrow night. Meanwhile, it’s time to get back on the phones and make some money.”
* * *
David glanced at his reflection in the night window, bearded, longhaired, overweight, glassy eyed, lightweight headphones with built in microphone poised one inch from wherever he turned his head. He could be a switchboard operator or a radio DJ or a tank commander or an airplane pilot or a police dispatcher or the wizard of OZ... or a hot shot sales rep for a catalog company.
BBBoooiiiiinnnggg.
“Pottery Barn,this is David. How can I help you?”
On his very first call he sold two specials. By the next break he was up to seven. The money was rolling in.
***
posted by ... | 3:53 PM
2 Comments:
It couldn't hurt.
Let's cut the crap. The reason why it's hard to say whether we've met or not is because David Silverman doesn't really exist. He's just a figment of my imagination, a character I've made up and written about for over thirty years. Sort of an alter ego. So don't take anything that he says too seriously. He's a stoner after all.
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