Work Text:
The Telemarketer
“Hello, this is Tommy,” I say into my headset. “How can I help you?”
The person on the other end wavers. Something in my voice makes them pause. Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes you get a very cool woman on the phone and you can make her forget that she called to complain about something that’s wrong. Sometimes I put that “sexual” draw to my voice so it stands to reason that unsuspecting women who happen to catch me on the line may get a bit more than they bargained for. It’s always good to be in a position of power.
I’m just trying to make a buck to survive, this is how I make my living—uh, until the “big break” hits, I mean, the landlord expects his rent check every month so it’s just me and the voices across the telephone lines. I’m a musician and get gigs occasionally but it’s not enough to actually live on, I believe someday I’ll connect with the right people and I’ll have my limelight.
When I take the calls I document the vital information: name, age, address, phone number, & complaint. Amazing what people will tell a perfect stranger over the phone.
I easily transfer conversations in my head though.
“What is your full name?” becomes “What is your pleasure?” obviously it’s what I’d LIKE to say but don’t, just thinking that way makes my voice more enticing to the ladies.
“Are you the head of the household?” in my mind becomes, “Do you have a husband, boyfriend, or lover there?”
This caller caught me off guard though. It was a male voice. “Did you hear what I said?” he asks.
“Umm Umm, No sir, I’m sorry. What was that?” I stuttered, flustered. I mean a man usually doesn’t call in complaining about their “Glamour” magazine. I mean, this is a magazine about “fashion, beauty, hair, makeup, diet, health, sex advice, dating, engagement rings,” you know, things that women are always clamouring over so I became flustered for the first time since I’d started working here.
“I said I’ve called and complained to your customer service department several times already. I’ve paid an exorbitant amount of money to get personal home delivery service and it hasn’t shown for 3 months” irritation reflecting in the voice.
“Well, I –we – would be only too happy to oblige, I’ll do whatever I can to assist you. What is your account number please?”
“I was hoping you’d help me, Account 419485. Will you be bringing the magazines by personally?" He questioned.
“Personally? Uh…well we have a service for that, actually.” I retreat like a coward.
“Yeah, sure, that’s what I’m talking about: service. Businesses nowadays forget what that word really means. Used to be people took pride in their work. You pass this off to an outside delivery service—that person steals my magazine, and I still never see them. That’s probably what has been occurring for the last 3 months. Personal attention to detail used to be a mainstay. Last month when I called to complain I was told it would be delivered “personally” by someone at your company. Now, if you were to deliver this, say around 7, I would have a whole new image of your magazine. If not, I’ll just have to cancel my subscription and switch to your competitor who will be happy to take my money” he voices adamantly.
I look around for my supervisor, who is monitoring this call. He nods menacingly in agreement, to my outward annoyance and secret angst.
“I’ll have to check with my manager. This isn’t actually our policy” I say, my eyes never leaving the bosses. He nods furiously at me, but I pretend not to notice.
“You do that, I’ll hold” he states with confidence.
“Thank you sir, Hold, please” and I press HOLD and turn my attention to my boss, the weasel.
“Ben, I was not hired as a delivery person. I’m strictly a phone operator. This house call business is above and beyond the call of duty,” I ranted.
“Nothing is above and beyond the call of duty here, Ratliff, if this client wants home delivery today, we’ll give him home delivery. If we lose too many customers, we’d just have to cutback on phone operators, so basically you don’t have a choice. You do this drop and I’ll set the account up with a reliable service by next month” Ben demanded.
“And what do I get?” I hammer at him, enjoying watching him squirm. He knows he owes me big time for this.
“You? You get out of the office for an hour and our thanks for being a dedicated employee” he guffawed.
An hour? OH this will never do. I click the phone off mute and ask the necessary question, “I show 23350 El Sequnda Drive as your address, is that correct sir?”
“Yes it is” he responds positively.
“Hold again please,” I click the mute button again. “It’s at least an hour one way, Ben, and with traffic” my voice trails off. “Better allow for three, just in case. And I expect to be paid the whole time.” I figure if I’m being made to go above and beyond, I may as well milk it for all it’s worth.
“Three?” he sputtered. His mind is whirling at missed calls and lost sales racking up with my absence.
“Or you can get on the line and tell the guy HE’S not worth it” I hold the handset out in his direction. “Just tell him we’ll make sure we get it to him by next week.”
“Think he’ll wait that long?" Ben asks hopefully.
“To be honest, I doubt it,” I reply. He’s pretty peeved. He’s been paying for the last three months and we’ve not gotten the deliveries there on time once, and sometimes not at all. I think it’s now or…”
“Or?” he gulps with bug eyes.
“Or we lose him to “Vogue,” I say, goading him.
Ben gasps loudly, “Oh no, we can’t let that happen,” he stammers. “Look, I’ll personally make sure you get paid for the time you are gone. You’ll have to clock out since you’ll be out of the building, but I’ll fix your timecard.” He groveled. “I’ll even throw in mileage, Ok?"
I knew the threat of Vogue would get him. He perceives them as direct competition because his old friend is a customer service department head and Ben won’t be one-upped by that company.
I turn back to the phone, and say determinedly, "Sir, I’m on my way” and we disconnect. While I really wasn’t keen on doing this drop, it sure beat sitting here taking more calls and dealing with more complaints so I accept my fate. I grab the delivery sheet from the printer along with the mapquest directions, go to the storage room, and feeling generous I grab the last 8 months of the magazine. I figure I may as well really please the client. I walk out of the building with a grin on my face and as I stretch, I breathe in the fresh air. This should be an enjoyable 3 hours.
The drive from downtown L.A. to North Hollywood is a nice one. I consider taking side roads to enjoy the warm evening with just a hint of a beautiful sunset but decide I’m in too much of a hurry. Entering the 101 freeway, I suddenly become Mario Andretti, precariously shifting gears. I hate L.A. yet I love it also. On the radio, Beiber is belting out, “Baby, Baby, Baby,” Oh God I hate that kid. Reaching for the knob, it lands on another station, with the ending of the recent song, the DJ remarks: “And that was Adam Lambert with his hit, “What Do You Want from Me?” I shake my head, rattling it, like I just didn’t hear the DJ correctly. “What did you say?” “Who was that?” shouting out like the DJ would actually hear me through the speakers. I could have sworn he said, Adam Lambert. Grabbing the paper laying on the seat of my car, trying not to steer erratically, I glance and see the name, Adam Lambert. HOLY FUCK!! This is the guy I’m delivering to? Adam Lambert, the singing genius…I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. I mouth the word, Oh my GOD, as I see my exit and dart for it, cutting over three lanes of traffic and pissing off more than one already-annoyed driver. They say road rage is on the rise. My contribution today is a necessary evil: I now have a mission.
It seems to take 3 hours, with the starts and stops of street traffic, but I finally find El Segunda Street and pull up in front of 23350. A magnificent site, to be sure. Wow, complete with circular drive, what my real estate friend would call a “sexy” house. The entrance is gated, and I have to pull up and buzz in. I wonder tentatively if I should just leave the magazines by the gate, but my curiosity gets the better of me, plus I’m committed to deliver the magazines personally. I reach out and ring the bell.
“Yes?” a familiar timbre greets me, the one from the phone call.
“Mr. (gulp) Lambert? It’s Tommy from Glamour Magazine. Shall I leave what I have by the gate here?”
There is a long pause. For a second I wonder if he heard me. I look up toward the house for some clue and notice that fewer lights are on than before or is my imagination playing tricks on me? This is ridiculous. I’m like some testosterone filled schoolboy hanging around the playground hoping for the popular little girl to grace me with a glance. I’m too old to play this game. I pick up the magazines and hold them outside the window of my car, the top two starting to slide.
“Come around the back to the pool gate,” the voice suddenly appears again. And with that the gates swing open slowly. Great. I lunge out the window after the damn magazines, but it’s too late, the bundle lands in a small puddle that formed from the rain we’ve had the last 2 days. “Oh shit,” I mutter. “This is just great” as I swing open the door and pick up the magazine, shaking off excess water. I had one simple thing to do and I blew it. This will really make a great impression.
The gates begin to close again. I shift into second just in time to make it through before they shut me out for good, all the while wiping the moisture from the magazines on my car seats. I see a shirt in the back seat, reach around and grab it throwing it on them to help sop up. The papers are dimpled and wavy but hopefully still readable. The front page is all excerpts anyway, I console myself.
Pulling past the front of the house, my jaw drops at the uniqueness and beauty of it. I edge slowly around the back of the estate and it eases toward garages. This side, while still magnificent, with a flowing garden, is less formal. No one can ever say we don’t bend over backwards for our readers. This little stint proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that we’d stoop to any depths to keep subscribers.
Stepping out of the car, with the now mainly slightly soggy magazines, I walk up to the gate and raise my hand to knock when I notice it’s slightly ajar. Hm. I push it open tentatively. Inside, a walkway illuminated by lights stretches out before me, curving to the left.
“Mr. Lambert?” I call uncertainly as I follow the lighted walkway. Dusk is setting in deeper so I am grateful for the lighting. I see the pool ahead; lighting drifting up from inside, a split section must be the hot tub side. How inviting. I whistle, and blurt, “Wow, It must be nice to live like this”, my jealousy filtering to the surface.
A voice startles me, “It is, but just so you know, I’ve worked my ass off for almost 20 years to finally get a break to afford things like this. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth” he mentioned matter-of-factly, without anger or condescending. I still don’t see him but I know he is standing near and I inch closer to the pool area.
“Oh, Mr. Lambert, I didn’t mean to suggest you don’t deserve this or anything you’ve achieved. I just, well I’m, never mind, what’s the point” my eyes glancing, trying to locate his whereabouts. I finally see him standing near the fireplace in the cabana, his tall frame illuminated by the fire and boucing candlelight placed sporatically along a shelf, he was almost angelic like. I stare dumbfounded, forgetting my mission all together.
“The point,” he says, smiling kindly, “was to get you here.”
“Me?” with shocked reaction, as I continue to walk toward the cabana.
“Yes.”
“Do I know you?” I scour my memory banks.
“No, you don’t” Lambert retorted, “But I’ve heard about you.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” I stammer as I stop in front of him. My eyes taking in the radiance that emits from him. He tall, very tall, even if he wasn’t up one step above me.
Adam walks gingerly toward the edge of the wood frame, his dark eyes huge pools in the light. “I’m glad you came, Tommy.” He takes the magazines from my hand, and with a smirk, he tosses them in a garbage can beside a table. He raises his hand and traces an invisible line down the center of me from the top of my head to the tip of my nose, taking extra care down the middle of my lips, to my neck, to my sternum, to my navel, and he comes to rest his hands on the waist of my jeans. My pulse is racing wildly, and I involuntarily shudder at this soft touch.
“My album is out and we are heading out on tour so I’ve been working with management to find a pianist and bass player. I’ve already worked out a deal with my guitarist to go on tour but he mentioned this young kid named, Tommy Joe Ratliff, and he thought I should consider him. I’ve been to a couple of your gigs, stayed in the background, but I think you’re an excellent musician. I know I only saw you play guitar but do you know how to play bass? I think you’d fit in with the rest of the band and I’d like you to try out.”
Dumbfounded, having trouble grasping all this information at once, yet honored that he had researched my talent. “Thank you for your vote of confidence. I don’t play bass but I’m willing to learn. I’m a quick study. I know I can do it.” I say, practically salivating. Anticipation growing as my mind races that this could be my shot to the music industry.
“Not so fast. You haven’t got the job yet. I think you’re quite talented but you haven’t proven yourself sufficiently. It takes more than musical talent; it takes personality to command an audience.”
“Oh, I know I’m...” I stammer. He places a finger against my lips to shush me, paces in front of me like a lion in too small a cage.
“Oh yes. The ideal candidate possesses tact, be able to improvise and…”
“And?”
“And, most important, the ideal candidate interacts well with …well, with…me” he smirks.
“Well, I – I" start defensively ready to enumerate my strong attributes, but he dismisses me with a wave of his hand.
“Now, my management isn’t sold on you. There have been several other names mentioned for bass player.” He pulls me up one step, pulling me into the gazebo, runs a tentative finger over the first button of my fly and stares deep enough into my eyes to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “Convince me I’m not wrong.” Sexual tension is swirling and there is no doubt as to what he is requesting.
Like a robot reacting to a verbal command, I take a step forward hypnotically and crush myself against him. I slide down his body, kneeling before him, my arms still high up on his chest. His cock inches away from my face. His eyes sparkle with anticipation though he tries to give away nothing. Slowly I lower my hands to his tight hips. The silk robe covering him feels cool to my touch. I trace his long legs and thighs to his knees then back up the legs again, the hands sliding under the silk hem and he leans his crotch into me as I bury my face into the robe at his center. I slide the robe open as my tongue slips out to slide up the length of his exposed cock. I reach my hand around the taunt buttocks and slip my finger into their warmth. On my knees I edge forward and spread his legs farther. He can’t clasp them together now with my finger supplanted between them.
He strokes my hair and rocks into me gently. My other hand cups the balls then wraps around the base of his cock. He moans with pleasure and tangles fingers painfully in my hair. I begin to slide the cock into my mouth wrapping my lips tightly around the head, opening for more, letting it glide inside. The rocking has created one entity out of two. One entity, one mind, one desire.
Someone moans softly, though I’m not sure who. My fingers in his ass, spreading him wider, tracing ever-widening circles and scissoring fingers inside him. His nails dig painfully into my shoulders, as I know he wants release but I continue to tease. He wants control but I won’t give it up. He bucks faster and I can hear his labored breathing.
“Stop” he begs me.
“When I’m damn well good and ready,” I say, taking his cock deeper.
He begins to buck harder, trying to impale into my mouth, pushing it rapidly in and out. “Please,” he groans, “Please,” he whispers.
I smile secretly to myself. Who says I’m not good enough? I’m the ultimate negotiator.
“All right, fucker, if you insist,” I plunge my mouth as deep as I can, burying my face into his crotch, the pubic hairs tickling my face but I didn’t care. I drink his pungent sweetness, swallowing deeply as he orgasms over and over into my mouth, down my throat. As his spasms begin to subside I slide my tongue back up to the head to lick the cum off until he’s dry.
He totters on wobbly legs. I give his head one last lick, a teasing stroke and get smacked on top of the head for it. My fingers slip from his ass as I disentangle myself from his robe and stand facing him. His eyes open slowly and immediately zero in on my wet lips. I swipe the lingering moisture off my face, sucking the remnants off my fingers with a loud smack. He raises his hand to slap my face but I catch it in mid-stroke and wiggle an index finger at him.
“Now, what kind of way is that to treat your new bass player?” I smirk at him with confidence.
I chuckle and pick up one of the damn magazines from the garbage. I roll it up in a tight roll and smack him lightly on the ass and toss it back in the bin.
“You know how to find me when you’re ready for me to audition for your management.” I turn, following the path out that I entered through.
“Honey, with moves like that, there is no doubt I’m recommending you to join our band and I AM the top executive” he crooned.