"Oh my god!" "Oh my GOOOOOOD!" they exclaim to each other, embracing each other tightly.
"I haven't seen you in weeks!"
"I know, I haven't been working lately, my daughter just had her second baby."
I maneuver my way around the couple and head to the schedule board, thinking, Why would you want to come back here? Go, before it's too late.
A gaggle of Research Specialists congregate around the schedule board, looking up their survey assignment for the day.
"Fuck," one woman swears under her breath.
"Hmm?" I look for my own name.
She points to her name on the spreadsheet, her finger smacking the paper. Oh dear. She's on the West Virginia hospital research survey. It's twenty minutes long, which means hardly anyone gets a complete throughout the night.
"Might as well go home right now," she mutters, walking to her cubicle.
I find my name. I'm on a political survey of residents in Alabama. My cubicle is in the middle of the server room, which distresses me, because I prefer a quiet seat in the back, where I don't have to scream over fellow researchers who do not realize the volume of their own voices. I sigh, and make my way to my seat.
It's 5:01 pm, which means I'm technically late. I pull the office chair out from cubicle 83, and inspect it. A screeching horror movie soundbite plays in my mind, as I gaze upon the tattered fabric, stained with a suspicious brown outline in the center of the seat. I look around for a better chair, but unfortunately there are no open ones in this aisle. I'm not even sure if I'm allowed to switch.
I clock in quickly. Heading to the briefing room, I make sure to utilize the numerous hand sanitizer dispensers posted around the area. That chair has been through something, I think. Something unspeakable. And my germ-phobic, hypochondriac ass is going to be sitting in it for the next five hours.
The conference table in Briefing Room #2 is surrounded by women, about eight to ten, all different races and ages, from varying walks of life. Most of us look like we've just came from work, and we've all got beverage cups from assorted fast food restaurants.
Alan, one of the Quality Assurance supervisors, pulls up a chair beside me, and sits in it backwards, his arms hanging over the back of the chair. He flips through the survey packet.
"Alright, this one's really easy, guys. It's about fifteen questions and none of them are open-ended, which is great. It's a survey of residents of this county in Alabama about their local governments, so people are going to be pretty opinionated, but make sure you stick to the script. When you ask them if they "support or oppose" something, make sure they say one of those, not go off on a tangent."
One older white lady in the back is confused by the questions about trash pickup. Another woman answers her, somewhat condescendingly, implying that this is a really simple question and she should know what it means. Alan is more understanding, and is patient with the first woman and her questions. I could never be a supervisor. And I hope I'm not here long enough to where that becomes an option.
Finally, we disperse, making our way back to our assigned cubicles. I click my way through the sample survey, white letters on a black screen. Finally, I slip on my headset, and begin dialing.
The average completed survey amount for this project is two per hour. I get my first complete within five minutes. It seems fairly easy. I relax.
I dial the next number that pops up on the screen.
A scratchy male voice answers on the other end. "Hello?"
"Hi, my name is Marie, I'm calling from Data Solutions. We're conducting a survey of residents in Baldwin County about issues that affect your community. I promise we're not selling anything, we just want your opinion. Are you a registered voter?"
"What the fuck? I don't live in Baldwin County."
Oh good.
"How did you get my number?"
"Our research company provides us with them." I reply.
"Well they're idiots. I don't even live in Baldwin County. I live in Jefferson County!"
"My apologies sir, have a good night." I end the call quickly.
It turns out a lot of these numbers are incorrect, so I get this response more than once, albeit not always as irate.
The next couple hours are spent listening mostly to peoples' voicemails. I get a couple completes an hour, and soon I grow tired. My tailbone hurts from sitting, and this chair isn't the kind you can lean back in, it's incredibly uncomfortable.
I pop an anti-anxiety pill. Let's try to make this night just a little more enjoyable.
The med just makes me more sleepy.
I dial a number.
"Please enjoy this Verizon playback tone while your party is being reached."
Oh fuck. OH FUCK!
Sooner than I can react, the sounds of a Bruno Mars tune blast through my headset and effectively destroy what hearing I have left.
Disoriented by the cacophony, I fumble for the keyboard. I code the call as "no answer," even though it's only been connected for about five seconds. My heart pounds, Bruno wails through my headset, and a moment later I successfully end the call.
Why in the world do people have that on their phones? It's a nightmare to listen to. I'm traumatized.
On my next call, I successfully get another complete. I'm happy with my average. It ensures that I might someday end up rising in the pay matrix and make that coveted $11 an hour.
Moments after that, Alan the QA visits me at my cubicle.
"Mariah?"
"Maria."
"Sorry. Anyway, here's an evaluation from your last call."
I look up in the corner. It's a 4.0 out of 5, a bit lower than I was expecting.
"So, good rapport, very good delivery. You always sound very polite. A few problems with reading the script verbatim, though, you changed some words and made a couple sentences shorter. Just try to work on that next time."
"Okay."
"Oh, and uh, you sneezed."
"Excuse me?"
"You sneezed, and you were sniffling throughout the survey after."
I blink at him. "I sneezed."
"It just sounded unprofessional."
"I'm getting marked down for sneezing?" Which, of course, I cannot control.
The QA hands me the paper to sign, and I reluctantly scribble my signature. Whatever.
"Good! I'll let you get back to it."
I slide my headset back on, and pull my hood up. It's freezing in here. The monotony of survey interviewing envelops me again like a grey, fuzzy cloud, as I continue my torture.
"Hello? HELLO?!"
I'm startled. I glance to my right; it's Wendy. She's been getting lots of completes all night, which I don't fully understand, because her delivery is very sharp, almost rude. I wouldn't want to be on the phone with her very long, but some people must, because she's got five completes an hour at this pace.
"Sir. SIR. My name is Wendy. I'm calling from Southwest Research. RESEARCH. We're doing a survey." She continues with the script.
I probably would have hung up on her by now. People hang up on me all the time, and I'm usually very polite, but it's normal. It doesn't bother me. But I'm confused by Wendy's mysterious charm.
She ends up getting another complete. Damn, she's gonna hit that maximum hourly pay for sure. I peek around her booth. Wendy sits in her FedEx uniform, tapping her long, red nails against the desk. She glances back at me, raising an eyebrow.
"The fuck you looking at?"
I quickly jerk back behind to my cubicle.
I dial countless more numbers in the Jefferson County area code. I am aware of the pungent smell of Doritos emanating from somewhere in this aisle. I want Doritos. I glance around, but the culprit cannot be located. I suspect it's a girl with long, greasy hair and a grey flannel a few seats down, as I hear her belch once or twice, but I cannot be sure.
I sneak a peek back at her every so often, watching her converse with her neighbor, a guy with a beanie and blue jacket. Neither of them appear to be dialing, and from what I can hear, the conversation may be a potential drug deal.
Beanie Boy leans in conspiratorially to Grease Flannel. "You know, I got that loud if you're interested."
"Yeah?" Grease Flannel says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Give me your number," she hands her phone to him.
Beanie Boy keys his number in. "Or, you know, we could just go blaze in my Jeep after work."
A supervisor walks by, somehow ignoring the cell phone openly being used in the server room and discussion of "loud," whatever that is.
I'm perplexed.
I'm dialing and hanging up all this time. Mostly answering machines, as the night wears on.
Suddenly, "Yeh-llo?" from the other end.
I launch into my script.
We get through a few intro questions.
The respondent interrupts me. "What's your name again?"
"Marie."
He chuckles. "What are you wearing, Marie?"
I groan. "Really, dude?"
The respondent laughs.
I end the call. Will I ever escape this Hell?
About an hour later, I get a complete, despite a fumble where I accidentally skipped over a couple questions.
A purple-haired QA comes to my cubicle to give me another eval.
"Hey, Maria?"
"Yep."
She leans over, showing me the paper. 5.0. Nice.
"I just listened to your last call. Great job, you did really well, you stuck to the script, didn't take no for an answer. Good control of the respondent."
"I accidentally skipped a couple questions in there."
She hesitates, then laughs. "Oh, well, thanks for being honest! I came in about halfway through, but it sounded great to me!"
A wave of relief floods over me.
"You're doing a really good job. Keep it up."
I sign the paper, and she leaves.
I feel better about this situation. Maybe it's not so terrible, working here. Maybe this situation was attracted into my life for a reason. I think of the things I could do, the freedom I can have, with eleven dollars an hour. Possibilities flood into my mind; expensive food, better internet, a motor home. Joy fills my soul, and I thank the Lord for my purple-haired angel.
I hear a fart from the cubicle on my left. The scent emanates from the booth, sneaking around the wall.
Maybe not.
Around 9:50 pm, I finally rise from my chair. Lots have people have gone home by now, but I opted to stay until ten, as usual. I'm excited to go home. I'm hungry, and the stench of Doritos in my aisle has not dissipated.
I clock out, and avoid looking down again at my stained chair before making my way to the restroom before I leave.
Opening the restroom door, I hear singing. I lock myself into the handicap stall (the best one, in my opinion). It's Wendy, in the stall next to me, and I can't tell if she's on the phone or just insane.
"Thank the Lord, this night is over," she sings.
Ah, Wendy. How naive you are. There will be another, tomorrow. "Indeed," I say.
A couple minutes later, I make my way out through the emptying server room. The sensation of walking towards the door is glorious; I feel that I am strolling down a red carpet, into freedom. I stick my fingers under every hand sanitizing dispenser I meet, as though I am shaking the hands of my admirers.
*Names and details have been altered
Very accurate visual representation of me at work.
