by Nic Olson
‘You are wasting your time, buddy,’ he said to me.
A cold call, they call it. When you get backhanded over the phone. When someone who doesn’t know who you are, what you are calling them for, why you work at a call centre in the first place. When that someone knows exactly what to say to make you question everything you’ve done in your life. That’s a cold call.
A hot call, I call it. When I am bored at work and call Toby and World of Trout to let him know of his Merchant Processing rate options, but actually talk about the status of the store, and the work being done by the boss. That is a hot call.
A bad call, we call it. When VanMassenhoven raises his arm after a slightly paralleled stick is visible from a poor angle. Accroche, they call it. He’s booed. That is a bad call.
A good call, I call it. When I decide to buy six Boreale beer instead of milk and cereal. That is a good call.
A booty call, the kids call it. When booty is exchanged for little more than a hello and a goodbye. That is a booty call.
I am wasting my time, regardless of what I do. I now know this, thanks to a disgruntled shop owner in New Brunswick.
School, wasting my time.
Work of any sort, wasting my time.
Watching hockey, wasting my time.
Reading books, wasting my time.
Life is but a waste of time, I guess. But I do love wasting it in different ways. Like making all these kinds of calls.