Telephone Pirates
The 99% True Confession of a Reformed Telemarketer
by
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The instant I stepped through the door of National Distributors, I was struck by a horrible premonition. "THIS IS GOING TO BE MY LIFE!" Time froze. Everything was in suspended animation. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move! Even my soul was paralyzed by this flash of the future. That’s how powerful it was. Then SNAP, the universe jolted back to normal speed and catapulted me into present time. My eyes were irritated by the sting of the light bulbs in the ceiling fixtures. My lungs filled with the heaviness of the air. The dullness in the room seemed rudely disturbed as I stepped into it. And, believe it or not, my mood actually had to drop a couple of notches in order to match the mood that was permeating the atmosphere. To my right, there was a small glass display case which had, obviously, been empty for a long time. Next to it, badly scarred from cigarette burns, was a wooden counter, than another glass showcase, with a few dirty glass dishes and a stained punch bowl in it. Behind the counter was a desk with a telephone, an adding machine, and a typewriter on it. The wall behind the desk was bare, except for an old kitchen clock, and a closed door at its far end. To my left were a couple of more empty cases, and another bare wall. Looking straight ahead, there was a long hallway with three doors on the right side and two on the left. At the far end was another door, probably a rear entrance, and just before that there appears to be an alcove, but I couldn’t tell what was in it. All in all, the place was much bigger on the inside than I had imagined it to be from the outside. Yet, it still felt cramped. Leaning against the walls, eyes closed and blank faced, was an assortment of nondescript characters, while two others, who looked like they’d be more at home hanging around bus stations, were huddled in the corner engaged in an animated conversation (probably about various men’s room facilities around town.) Another, fidgety, character in a black raincoat was nervously pacing back and forth playing a game of two-handed pocket pool through his raincoat pockets. He had a large, round head, curly red hair and pink white skin. Oblivious to everything around him, he could easily have been struck by lightning and not even known it. And, from the charged look in his bugged eyes, he already had been. All I could think of was that he reminded me of an Irish snowman on speed. Stretched out on the floor in front of me was the only oddity in the room. He was long, lean, six feet, and was immaculately dressed in brown slacks, a beige Ban-Lon turtleneck shirt, a brown & beige plaid sports jacket, and, of course, brown loafers and brown socks. Balanced perfectly on his stomach was a crisp brown paper bag, rising and falling in sync with his snoring. His face had either been spared the aging process, or had been completely refitted. His hands, his neck, his salted brown hair, all said "fifties", but that face would have you believe "thirties". Though manicured and polished from head to toe, he seemed quite comfortable stretched out on carpeting that can only be described as two-day-old crusted oatmeal. The fidgety snowman seemed to focus on me and a look of recognition appeared on his face. He headed straight for me. "Hi," he said, stopping just a few inches shy of a head-on collision. "It’s, aah, me, aah, Buddy. You haven’t, aah, been here for a, aah, while, have you?" His nearness, and his assumption of familiarity, made me very uncomfortable. Creepy, crawling bugs stirred inside of me and I had to take a step backwards in order to keep them from chewing their way through me. Who did he think I was, anyway? Did he really think he knew me, or was he just putting me on? The way he was speaking, like a poor imitation of John F. Kennedy, only added to my suspicion of him, and my feelings of uneasiness. So I answered, somewhat unfriendly, but with a degree of caution, "I’ve never been here before." "Oh?--Aaaah! Then, aah, you must, aah, be new," he said, as if he’d just made a great discovery. "You, aah, look like someone who, aah, used to, aah, work here." I knew then that he wasn’t putting me on. As repulsive as it was, he really had thought that he’d recognized me. "Well, it, aah, doesn’t matter," he went on. "Naaa, they, aah, come and , aah, go through here like, aah, flies on, aah, horse sh--, anyway. Did you ever, aah, see a, aah, big wad of, aah, horseshit with, aah, flies all over it? All of the, aah, buzzing around and, aah, fighting for their, aah, dinner? Ooooo! It’s, aah, really something to, aah, see." His eyes were twinkling now.
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About the Author
Born November 21, 1943 in the Bronx, New York I attended New York City public schools and graduated, at seventeen, from William Howard Taft High School in 1961. While still in Junior High, I saw the original cast of "The Music Man" on Broadway and instantly fell in love with the musical theater. I immediately started writing songs and little plays. During high school, I studied the French horn and played 2nd horn in the school orchestra and band. Then, at seventeen, I had my first songs published by Hill & Range Music Publishing Co. After graduation, though still writing, I worked as an office boy for a food brokerage company who sold food and household goods to commissary stores on military bases, including the company owned product, Formula 409. When the owner of the company moved the offices from the Chrysler building to Westport Connecticut, I made the daily commute until I was called to basic training in the U.S. Army Reserves having enlisted in a Medical Reserve unit in the Bronx to avoid the inevitability of being drafted. I completed my six months active duty in the spring of 1963 and became a regular fixture in the hallways of the Brill building and 1650 Broadway, which were the center of the music business universe, at the time. I had songs recorded by various R&B and Pop artists. In September of that year I signed my first exclusive songwriters agreement with the legendary Don Kirshner, president of Columbia Pictures music publishing division, Screen Gems-Columbia Music, having been brought to his attention by music business giant Charlie Koppleman. During my years at Screen Gems I constantly rubbed shoulders with Carol King, Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil, Neil Sedaka, Howie Greenfield, Helen Miller and Carl D’Errico. I had dozens of songs recorded, including: "MAKE ME YOUR BABY" by Barbara Lewis; "IT’S MY LIFE" by the Animals; "PRINCESS IN RAGS" by Gene Pitney; "WORKIN’ ON A GROOVY THING" by the Fifth Dimension; "THE KIND OF GIRL I COULD LOVE" by the Monkees; and "NO EXCESS BAGGAGE" by the Yardbirds, to name a few. I wrote with Helen Miller, Carl D’Errico and Neil Sedaka. My songs have been featured in television shows and in motion pictures. Helen Miller and I wrote the title song for the highest rated TV movie of it’s day, "MAYBE I’LL COME HOME IN THE SPRING" staring Sally Fields and recorded by Linda Rondstat. By the end of the sixties, I was itching to write a musical for Broadway. So, Helen Miller and I left Screen Gems and signed contracts with the king of Broadway Show publishers, Tommy Valando at Metromedia Music. There I wrote the original story, book and lyrics to "MAGIC VALLEY" a youth oriented musical about communes. Sadly, like so many projects, our dreams were crushed when the producer couldn’t come to terms with backers and directors. I did, however, write special musical material for Gregory Hines and his brother and father for their Hines, Hines and Dad nightclub act, as well as write and produce their records. Helen and I also had songs recorded by Bobby Sherman and we even wrote the theme song to his TV series, "GETTING TOGETHER." In 1973, after a management change at Metromedia at the expiration of my first contract period, I moved my wife (my childhood sweetheart who I had married in 1968) and my two small children to California. I found that the music business had changed, though, singer-songwriters were the new craze, and no one was looking for a lyricist who couldn’t sing (I can’t sing a lick!). After banging my head against the wall and getting no where, like Marvin Kravitz, I found myself almost broke, without an identity, and on the verge of losing my family. This is when I became entangled in the world of telemarketing and have been both its master and slave for twenty plus years. I’ve been divorced since 1975, my children are now grown and I have one grandson.