I had to set up a new phone number once I moved out of my old apartment, and since then I’ve been deluged with upwards of 20 calls a day from the bane of man’s existence: telemarketers. I was on the Buzz-off List at my old place and had stopped getting bothered by these faceless cold-callers years ago, and apparently I’d taken for granted how nice it is to just be left alone as I work at home as a writer.
There’s a sweet science to dealing with these people. I mean, you can’t just say no, because they end up calling back a day later. And simply ignoring the call only guarantees they’ll keep trying you ad infinitum. Besides, it’s hard to decipher the numbers that show up on my caller ID. Who do I know in Florida? Texas? What if it’s a long lost friend, or someone calling to invite me to do a book reading or something?
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The thing is, you can’t berate these people, either. That’s a surefire way to guarantee they’ll call back simply out of spite. Telemarketers, by nature, are incredibly vengeful people.
So you have to get creative.
I’m street smart enough to know not to give out personal information over the phone, lest I want to wake up one morning in a tub with homemade stitches in my side and one of my precious kidneys missing. So I lie when they press me for details, but I always end up fumbling.
“Is this David Yoo?” a telemarketer will ask.
I’ll sigh into the receiver.
“Sorry, this is a business line,” I say, thinking it’s a sufficient conversation-ender.
“Oh, what kind of business is this?”
This always frazzles me, and I end up quoting George Costanza for lack of being able to think of a single other type of company.
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“Um, I-I mean, we, we’re in the, uh, importing exporting business,” I say.
A pause on the other end.
“Are you lying?” the voice asks.
I hang up the phone.
My other trick is to claim to be someone else.
“Is this David Yoo?”
“Oh, sorry pal, that was the former tenant. Dude no longer lives here,” I say.
“And who am I speaking with?”
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“Um … Jon,” I stammer. “Yeah, this is John … Stamos?”
“Sir, are you actually David Yoo?”
“Don’t call here again,” I snap, slamming the receiver into its cradle.
I even pull a move sometimes that most 8-year-olds would find childish, and pretend that the phone connection is bad.
“I’m sorry,” I practically shout. “If you can hear me just know that I can’t hear you. Phone line … bad. So … frustrating, wish I could hear you!”
“I just need a minute of your time, sir,” the telemarketer says.
“Can’t spare a minute, like I said, um, I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” I reply.
Silence on the other end.
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“Sorry,” I say softly, then hang up the phone.
OK, so none of these tactics have ever really worked for me, but the other day I finally did come up with an effective solution. The phone rang, and I answered sounding extremely pleasant, as to suggest that I was totally open to hearing their spiel. Midway through the marketing script, I suddenly kicked the door loud enough for them to hear over the receiver and shouted, “Jesus, who are you? Get out of here! I’m on the phone with the police and, oh Jesus, don’t, stop, no, what are you doing? Please!” and hung up the phone.
The telemarketer didn’t call back.
The thing is, I ended up staring at the phone for 10 minutes, feeling at first sad and then deeply hurt that the person didn’t try me again. I mean, the telemarketer heard me struggling with an intruder and made no effort to check up on me.
What kind of heartless monster would do that sort of thing?
—Dave Yoo
