Telemarketer Won’T Take No For An Answer

All I said was no. But it was too late.

James, the telemarketer, already had my name and phone number. Information I didn’t give him. Information I didn’t want him to have.

After listening to his sales pitch for a company that sounded like, but wasn’t, a charity, I politely declined.

No, thanks. Simple answer, the thanks added out of respect for this person trying, like the rest of us, to make a living.

Well, he countered, how about the smaller assortment. I’m sure you could afford that.

No, thanks. I don’t need the products.

What do you mean you don’t need the products? Everyone needs them. How many can I set you up with?

None, thanks. I’m not interested.

At this point, I should have ended the conversation. Maybe he would have given up, gone on to the next name. But I doubt it. This wasn’t about selling something.

Don’t you have even a small amount of goodness in you? he asked. Or are you just a selfish cow? You know what happens to cows, don’t you? They burn in hell.

I was startled by his response.

Take my name off your list and don’t call me again, I said. Then, I hung up.

He called back immediately. Six times in two minutes. At least I assumed it was him. I didn’t answer. The Caller I.D. identified the calls, as it had identified his first one, as unknown name, unknown number.

A few months passed. I got another phone call. James again. He started off on the same script, this time adding that God would bless me if I helped the underprivileged.

James, I said, we’ve had this conversation before. I’m not interested. Now please, take my name off your list. Wrong thing to say.

Hey, you listen to me. I’m not taking your name off anything. Now, what are you going to order?

I cleared my throat.

Don’t call me again, I said and hung up.

The phone rang back immediately. And rang, off and on, for the next four hours. Unknown name, unknown number.

A few more months passed. I was talking on the phone to a friend in Seattle when the call-waiting beep alerted me there was another caller. I was expecting my sister to phone, so I decided to check the other line. As I switched over, I caught the last piece of the new caller’s conversation. Some people will tell you they don’t want anything. Your job is to grind them down. Grind them until they give in. They always do.

James again. I still don’t want anything, I said. And please, take my name off your calling list.

I switched back to my Seattle friend. A few seconds later, the call-waiting signal came in again. I figured it was James, but on the off chance it could be my sister, I switched over. It was James.

What he said can’t be printed here. He was enraged, unhinged. And then he said he was going to kill me. He told me precisely how he would do it.

I hung up. For the next three days, the entire weekend, I got an average of 10 calls per hour, every hour. Unknown name, unknown number. On the few occasions I answered the phone, it was James, screaming into the phone. Don’t you ever hang up on me again.

I hung up. On Monday, I called the phone company. The operator told me to file a police report and to call the Federal Trade Commission. Get it on record. She said they can put a trap on my phone that will trace all calls. But the trap is only good for two weeks. So we have to wait for James to call back. I filed a police report. When he calls back, they said, confident that he will, tell him the measures you have taken, then hang up. If he calls back, hang up. Don’t engage in any conversation with him.

No problem. I called the Federal Trade Commission. No number or address can be found for the company James gives when he calls. This, I’m told, is not unusual.

And you probably don’t know this, the representative told me, but many companies use inmates for their telemarketing. They are calling from prisons. Of course, the screening process is supposed to be stringent, but people fall through the cracks.

People like James? If he follows his usual schedule, I should hear from him in the next two weeks. Odd, how this stranger has invaded my life. My name and number sold without my knowledge or consent.

And now, I watch the phone, waiting for James to call.

writer who lives in Spokane. Contact her care of The Spokesman-Review, P.O. Box 2160, Spokane 99201, or Kcorspence@aol.com