Cold Caller

by Jason Starr

  But that didn’t help either. After about five minutes, it was still like trying to hit a baseball with a piece of rope. Julie snuggled next to me and started to comb my hair with her fingers. I was covered in sweat.

  “Are you having some kind of problem?” Julie said. “Because if you are we can discuss it.”

  “I’m just distracted,” I said irritably. “Maybe it has to do with work, everything that’s been going on.”

  “But we haven’t had sex in almost two weeks.”

  “What? Have you been keeping track on a calendar?”

  “I’m just scared,” she said. “And it’s not just tonight. It seems like whenever we do try to do it lately, you either don’t want to or you can’t or something happens. I was reading in a magazine about male sex problems and how to deal with them and they said it’s never because the man isn’t attracted to the woman anymore, but I still can’t help worrying about it. I mean I know I’ve put on a few pounds the past few weeks, but I’m trying to lose them and –”

  “For God’s sake, Julie, I think you’re gorgeous. How many times do I have to say it to you before you believe it?”

  “I know I’m just being insecure, but you can’t blame me. I just want us to have a normal sex life – I want everything to be normal. I called Sharon today to apologize again for last night and I know you don’t like them and they can be real pretentious sometimes, but at least they’re happy. And that’s how I want to be. I mean not that I’m not happy now or anything but, you know. I don’t want to have to worry about my life.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I don’t know, nothing I guess. I just wanted you to know how I feel. How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” I said. “I didn’t sleep much last night and then I had that crazy day at work.”

  “Poor thing,” Julie said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it would matter,” I said. “But I just want you to know there’s nothing wrong. Everything that’s been happening lately is just because of what’s been going on at work. None of it is real.”

  “I have an idea, let’s just stay in tonight – relax, order Chinese food, watch T.V. I think I’ve been putting too much pressure on you lately. Let’s just forget about sex tonight.”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” I said.

  We got up together from the floor. Julie went into the bed­room to put on sweat pants and a T-shirt while I went into the bathroom. I didn’t want to admit it to Julie, but I was terrified. I’d never been impotent before and I feared I’d never be able to have sex again. I sat on the toilet. Because I was very anxious it took a while to get started, but I finally came back, as big and hard as ever. I started breathing normally again. The problem was nothing worse than I’d hoped. The magazine article was wrong – sometimes male impotence is caused when men don’t find their partners attractive anymore. There wasn’t any one reason I could put my finger on, but Julie simply didn’t turn me on like she used to. I didn’t know how I’d break the news to her, or what would happen the next time we tried to have sex, and it didn’t really concern me at that moment. I was too busy thinking about gaudy dresses, fishnet stockings and pumps.

  7

  The weekend passed by quickly. We stayed in the rest of Friday night and we were in bed asleep by eleven o’clock. On Saturday, we took a walk in Central Park and picnicked on the hills behind Bethesda Fountain. It was a gorgeous summer day, not too hot and brilliantly sunny. As we ate our goat cheese and sun dried tomato on baguette sandwiches, we watched the couples, families and tourists strolling by. I was in a good mood and joked about the outfits people were wearing and I tried to guess where people were from and what they did for a living based on how they were dressed. Afterwards, we went to the Central Park Zoo and then we ate ice cream sandwiches and walked aimlessly through the park. We held hands and occasionally stopped and kissed, like any other couple in love.

  That night, we took the D train from Columbus Circle to Yankee Stadium to watch the Yankees play the Indians. My favorite team was still the Seattle Mariners, but baseball was my favorite sport so it didn’t really matter to me which teams were playing. I loved being inside a baseball stadium, and I don’t care what you say about Camden Yards and Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium is the most beautiful stadium in the country. We arrived in time for the first pitch and we had good seats, in the mezzanine section behind home plate. Julie wasn’t crazy about baseball, but she drank beer and ate a greasy hot dog and she enjoyed making fun of how tight the players’ uniforms were. She said she had a great time.

  On Sunday, I got up early and snuck out of bed without waking Julie up. I bought hazelnut coffees and bagels and cream cheese and lox – even though I hated lox – and a copy of the Sunday Times. I prepared the food carefully on a tray, then snuck back into the bedroom and whispered “surprise” into her ear. When she woke up, she was very excited.

  “Lox!” she said. “I can’t believe you bought me lox!”

  We had a leisurely morning, eating and drinking and trading back and forth different sections of the Times. For the first time in weeks, I was able to leave the Help Wanted section untouched. In the afternoon, while Julie was getting her nails done, I went to Barnes & Noble and read through a few management and sales books, trying to get myself prepared for Monday morning. The books said nothing I didn’t already know and I left confident I was going to do well at my new job. When I came home, Julie had a surprise for me – she’d gone shopping and bought me a shirt and tie to wear to my first day of work. I told her how much I loved the gift even though the shirt was a little too small and the tie had an annoying floral design. At night, we went out to a quiet Italian restaurant on Second Avenue. Afterwards, we had iced cappuccinos at a small cafe and then we walked arm-in-arm back to our apartment.

  During the entire weekend, Julie didn’t ask me how I had afforded to pay for the earrings. She was a smart woman and she must have realized that it was ridiculous that a company would give a Telemarketing Supervisor an advance. She also must have realized that I’d really bought them with the money I was supposed to give to the plastic surgeon. But she didn’t say a word about it, probably because she was sick of arguing. We didn’t try to have sex all weekend and neither of us seemed to mind. I liked to spend time with Julie and make her laugh and I even liked to kiss her, but I simply didn’t want to make love to her. Of course I was hoping that that problem was temporary, that eventually we could have a normal, healthy relationship again. But I didn’t know how a relationship could possibly be more normal and healthy than ours was that weekend.

  Sunday night I had trouble sleeping. I set the alarm for six o’clock and I woke up every half hour or so and checked the clock, paranoid that I’d oversleep. When the alarm finally rang, I had already showered and dressed.

  By seven forty-five, I was at work. I didn’t know exactly where to go so I sat across from the elevators, in the reception area, waiting for Ed to arrive. I was wearing my favorite navy suit, the one I usually wore to job interviews, and the maroon shirt and floral tie that Julie had bought me. The shirt was still a little uncomfortable and I didn’t like the tie’s design any more than I had yesterday and I was kicking myself for not wearing something else. I wished I’d worn one of my comfortable shirts and simple striped ties I usually wore with my navy suit. I looked too snazzy this way, as if I was trying to impress people.

  When Ed arrived at about eight-thirty, the first thing he did was comment on my clothes.

  “Bill Moss in a suit,” he said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  I laughed politely, although secretly I was angry. The outfit was too loud, people were going to be commenting on it all day. It was my fault – I didn’t want to hurt Julie’s feelings, but I should have told her I didn’t like the shirt and tie, I should have been honest. But then I started feeling anger toward Ed. Who was he to make a comment about me wearing a suit? I used to wear suits five days a week
when I worked at Smythe & O’Greeley. Who was he to condescend to me like I was some kid just out of college? Especially when his suit was wrinkled and the sleeves were shabby at the ends. It looked like he’d bought it at a thrift shop and never took it in for dry cleaning.

  Ed and I had a typical office conversation. I asked him how his weekend was and he said he played tennis on Saturday. I told him that I played on my college tennis team (which was true, but I was on the non-active roster and never played an actual match). It didn’t matter anyway because he wasn’t paying attention to me.

  I followed him into his office. I asked him what had happened with Greg.

  “I had him arrested.”

  “Arrested?” I said. I wasn’t sure if he was joking. “When?”

  “Last night. I don’t know if I’m going to go through with it yet, but I filed assault charges against him. Since the judge couldn’t see him right away, they kept him overnight in jail.”

  It was apparent now that Ed wasn’t putting me on.

  “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Ed said defensively. “You saw what happened here Friday – the dirty nigger tried to murder me. I’m lucky you’re not at my funeral right now.”

  I didn’t want to seem combative with Ed, like I was siding with Greg, so I said:

  “I meant I didn’t know you were serious about Greg spend­ing a night in jail. Of course I understand why you’d want to have him arrested. Anybody would’ve done the same thing.”

  This seemed to relax Ed.

  “I have to talk to my lawyer today,” he said, “but I’m thinking about going all the way with this, taking him to court. I mean the guy’s a walking time bomb. If I don’t do something he might go ahead and kill his boss at his next job. The guy’s out of control, like a wild animal.”

  Ed went into a monologue about how black people’s brains are physically smaller than white people’s brains and how black people should all be put onto ships and sent back to Africa because they’ll never make it in the “technological world.” The argument was as ridiculous and ignorant as any of the arguments Greg had made against white people, but somehow Ed’s comments didn’t come across as funny. He sounded like the typical redneck calling in on a right-wing radio show.

  But I pretended to be interested, smiling and nodding in agreement with his various points. Finally, he finished. He told me to wait in his office while he went to the bathroom. When he came back, about ten minutes later, he told me that Nelson – Nelson Simmons, the President of the company – wasn’t in the office yet, and that as soon as he came in he wanted me to meet with him. I was suddenly very anxious. I’d assumed all weekend long that the job was a given, that I’d just show up and start working, and I’d almost forgotten that Ed had said I’d have to meet with Mr. Simmons first. I wondered if I’d neglected to remember that on purpose, because I didn’t want to confront the possibility of not getting the job, or if it was because Ed had presented the situation differently to me last week. On Friday he’d made it out like meeting with Mr. Simmons was a technicality, but now he made it seem like a major obstacle.

  I imagined what would happen if I somehow didn’t get the job. How would I break the news to Julie? What would I say, start packing, we’re moving to Seattle after all? After what happened Friday, I didn’t know if our relationship could withstand another big argument. She’d finally realize that I was nuts and go move in with her parents in Great Neck. And then what would happen to me? Even if I con­vinced Julie to go to Seattle with me again, I’d be starting at square one again – searching the Help Wanted sections, writing resumes and cover letters, meeting with head hunters. I couldn’t stand to go through that nightmare again! Of course I didn’t plan to work at A.C.A. forever, but I needed a break from the grind of searching for a job. And I certainly didn’t want to leave New York anymore. After the great weekend I’d had, I was falling in love with the city all over again. I didn’t want to leave Central Park and Yankee Stadium and bagels and cream cheese for a city whose main attraction was a giant replica of a hypodermic needle. I was prepared to do anything not to let this opportunity slip away. If it meant literally getting down on my hands and knees, stripping off Mr. Simmons’ pants, and kissing his butt cheeks, I was ready to do it. In fact, I probably would have done a lot more than that to not leave that office unemployed.

  At a few minutes before nine o’clock, Ed said that Mr. Simmons could meet with me, but only for about five minutes because he had to attend a meeting at nine-fifteen. I knew this was bad. When I was working at Smythe & O’Greeley I’d often given my secretary similar instructions when I had to meet with someone I didn’t really want to meet with. His nine-fifteen meeting was probably a fabrication, a built-in excuse to keep our meeting short.

  Ed led me into Mr. Simmons’ swank, corner office that had a view of the Hudson River. Although I had passed Mr. Simmons in the hallways, urinated next to him in the bathroom, rode in the same elevator with him, and stood behind him on line in the deli on Ninth Avenue, I had never said a word to him. It wasn’t proper office etiquette for telemarketers to make small talk with the President of the com­pany. In fact, it was against A.C.A. rules. On the first day of training, we were told that there was a strict chain of com­mand at the company, and if any telemarketer was seen conversing with a superior who was not in the Telemarket­ing Department, that telemarketer would be terminated­ ­im­mediately. When Ed introduced us, Mr. Simmons didn’t appear to recognize me. I panicked. He had to have at least seen me before. Did he have any respect at all for his tele­marketers?

  I shook his hand firmly, but not so hard that I made him feel intimidated. I’d been to enough job interviews in my life, and I’d interviewed enough people myself, to know exactly how to impress an interviewer. And I was going to do everything possible to make a favorable impression on Mr. Simmons.

  Ed excused himself. I sat in the swivel chair opposite Mr. Simmons, and crossed my right leg over my left, and rested my embraced fists on my thigh. I knew this casual position would make me appear non-threatening, and yet at the same time confident. But Mr. Simmons wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking through his reading glasses at my resume, which apparently Ed had given him. He was reading it slowly, following the words with his index finger. I didn’t know how old Mr. Simmons was, but he couldn’t have been any younger than fifty. He had a ruddy face, silver hair and very large ears.

  “How long have you been with A.C.A.?” he asked, still looking at the resume.

  “Two years,” I said. “You have an old resume there. I’ll give you a new one.”

  I handed him a copy of my updated resume. He read for about another two minutes and I wondered what could possibly be taking him so long. I’d only listed three jobs and given a brief description of my education. Even if he read the whole resume twice it should have only taken him several seconds.

  Finally, he rested the resume on the desk and smiled at me politely. I knew, for whatever reason, my background hadn’t impressed him. That isn’t to say that he didn’t think I was qualified for the job, but if one of my qualifications had really piqued his interest, I knew he would have made some sort of comment about it. By saying nothing he was basically saying “So, why do you think I should hire you?” I knew it was up to me to impress him now with my personality. But I didn’t want to seem over-eager. I had to find the right balance.

  “So why did you leave your job in advertising?” he asked.

  I had prepared for this question. I told him it was because I’d been thinking about going into the creative end of advertising and I wanted to take some time off before I made the career change. He seemed to buy the explanation, if he was listening at all. I knew the point was just to hear me speak and that it didn’t really matter what I said.

  “So Ed tells me you have some computer experience?”

  From the way he phrased the question, I guessed that he was uncomfortable with computers, a
nd that he might be impressed with a younger person who wasn’t. So I talked extensively about computers and databases, using as much lingo as possible, hoping that it might impress him. Although I saw his eyes widen with interest once or twice, he didn’t seem to care one way or another about my computer experience. Suddenly, I realized that I might be overdoing it – making myself sound dull and pompous – so at the end of my speech I down played my computer skills, going for the modest approach, saying that although I knew a lot about computers, I didn’t consider myself an expert by any means, and that it probably sounded like I knew a lot more than I actually did. It was too late. He was already looking away and I sensed that he was about to remind me about his non-existent meeting. I feared that the interview was going nowhere.

  He asked me a few more questions about my background – what I majored in at college (marketing), what my salary was at Smythe & O’Greeley (seventy a year, but I didn’t want to make myself sound over-qualified, so I said fifty) – then he started telling me about the job I’d be doing at A.C.A. In a dull, methodical tone, he explained how A.C.A. was going to be restructuring, but how he envisioned the company becoming the number one reseller of telephone services by the year 2000. He said that the key was to stay two steps, not one step, ahead of the competition, and that meant taking full advantage of the new marketing technologies. He gave me xeroxes of articles from various marketing magazines which all explained how companies needed detailed databases of potential clients in order to market new products to their customers more efficiently. The idea was not new, but Mr. Simmons seemed very excited when he spoke about it. This confirmed my suspicion that Mr. Simmons knew little or nothing about computers and databases. I wondered if I’d sounded intimidating before. Then he started talking about how A.C.A. needed to focus on MCI and Sprint customers, but how the company had no way of focussing specifically on these markets. He asked me if I could implement a program where telemarketers could input such information into a database and I said that many such database programs already existed and how I was confident the company could build a huge database of information. He nodded politely, exhibiting no particular positive or negative emotions, then he asked me if I had any questions for him. I didn’t, but I knew it was bad to say nothing, so I asked him about the company’s sales volume and what their projections were for the future. I didn’t listen to the answer. I was angry at myself for asking such a banal question. Finally, he said that he’d love to meet with me longer, but he had that meeting to run off too. Yeah right, I thought. Then he said that he was going to be interviewing for the job all week and that I could expect to hear from him by Friday. My heart started racing. Friday? That was as good as telling me that the position had already been filled. He didn’t even tell me to call him later in the week or that it had been a pleasure meeting with me. I was about to lose my chance to enter the working world again and it felt like a large hollow hole had reopened in my stomach. I knew what I had to do. I had to make an impression on him. He had to take a personal interest in me or I didn’t have a chance. I’d noticed two pictures of sailboats. In one of the pictures he was standing on a dock in front of a yacht, his hand resting on the hull.