I Am a Victim of Telephone

I was woken up at about 1:00 this afternoon (or, in other words, after about four hours of sleep) by the telephone. Now, normally when I'm working nights, I turn the ringer off and the volume on the answering machine all the way down before I go to sleep, but apparently this morning I forgot. So, OK, I stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen where the phone is, shut the damned thing up in the middle of the 25th repetition this year of that idiotic pre-recorded debt-consolidation-company spiel, and staggered back to bed. It seems, however, that in my half-asleep haze, I neglected to shut the ringer off as well, and lo, some short while later I was interrupted again by someone named "unavailable" who must have sensed the withering waves of hatred radiating off of me in response, because they got scared and hung up after two rings.

Unfortunately, the seething, urge-to-commit-violence adrenalin flooding my system at this point made it effectively impossible for me to get back to sleep. I just kept lying there thinking about how much I'd like to find that smarmy debt-consolidation guy and wake him up in the middle of the night and castrate him with a blowtorch.

Seriously, I'm usually a fairly laid-back person (at least when I've been getting enough sleep), but telemarketers make me see red. They make me see shades of red that don't even have names. I usually just refuse to pick up the phone when the caller ID reads "unavailable," instead letting the machine hit them with the "I HATE telemarketers! Leave me ALONE!" message. (Those who read this blog who actually make a habit of calling me on the phone can vouch for said message's existence, as well as the slightly hysterical edge in the recorded voice.) I'm seriously thinking, though, of picking up the phone from now on and giving them the following spiel once they've gotten around to asking me if I want any of what they're selling: "No. Because I do not do business with companies who feel they have to right to interrupt me at home, whatever I may be in the middle of doing. And as for you, I know the economy's bad, but are you that broke and desperate that you can't find a less evil job? I mean, I used to work fast food. I even wore the silly hat. But at least under that hat I still had a shred of human dignity." I wonder how far I'd manage to get before they hung up?

By the way, if I've offended any people with telemarketing jobs who, by some chance, happen to be reading this blog... Good. For gods' sakes, people, I know everbody's gotta eat, but you've got to be able to find yourself a less immoral way to make a living. Like prostition. Or grave robbing.

And if you think I'm being sarcastic about that, you don't know me nearly as well as you think. In fact, that's the exact problem. You don't know me at all, and you don't have the slightest idea what you might be intruding on. I might be asleep (as, indeed, I was). I might be having sex (not bloody likely in my case, but you don't know that). I might be watching my favorite TV show. I might be reading a whodunit and have just gotten to the point where they're about to reveal the murderer. I might be waiting desperately by the phone for news of a loved one. I might be wedged into a crawlspace with a wrench in my hand and a bunch of bolts clamped between my teeth. I might be sitting alone, crying. I might be eating dinner, or cooking dinner. I might be tending to a child's boo-boo. I might be in the middle of a complicated math problem. I might be on the verge of a scientific epiphany, about to grasp the breakthrough notion that is dancing just on the tip of my mind, if only nothing happens just then to break my concentration. I might be writing a story or essay and have finally achieved that state where the writer seems to disappear and the words flow from fingers to screen as if they've got an independent existence of their own (and do you have any idea how elusive that particular state is?). I might be just lurching into the house with heavy bags of groceries balanced in my arms. I might be just about to dash out of the house, very nearly late for work. I might be sick as a dog, to the point where the short walk into the next room to get to the phone exhausts all the strength I have. You don't know. And apparently you don't care, either, you bastard. But you have no right to come intruding into my life and my home on the basis that it might just give you a way to line your greedy little pockets with my cash.

(Hmm, maybe I should read that paragraph to the next person who calls and see how far I get...)

Deep breath. OK, I'm done now. Unless you are a telemarketer, it's safe to come out. Really.

Oh, and twenty points to anybody who can tell me where the title of this entry comes from.