Cold Calls

I don’t like telephones and avoid making or taking calls until absolutely necessary. But my husband is mindful and decent, answers all calls, even the 1- 800 ones. He’s been Canadian all his life, which may account for his moral diligence.

I’m talking about 8 o’clock last night. The phone rang. I could tell by the sound of my husband’s voice that the call was for me and someone was going to ask me for money. He handed me the phone with an uncharacteristically sly smile. Deal with it. I sighed my ill humour but took it.

Good evening, Miss…is it Lou-gas? Already I knew it was my Alma Mater calling. I had not honoured my last pledge, due to financial difficulties, so I braced myself for some very artful guilt-tripping. (Were you ever helped by a bursary, or scholarship, Miss Lou-gas?) Instead, the young man started to tell me all about the wonders of the Robarts Library. You must be familiar with it, Miss Lou-gas.

Well, actually I had never stepped inside it, but I felt much relieved that we were not going to dance around the subject of dishonoured pledges. I told him that I had watched the library being built when I was a graduate student. His vocal cords did a strange little bird call, not wanting to call me old, exactly, but needing to indicate that he understood what I had just revealed. And then I told him to hold on while I turned the radio down. That’s when I realized that I didn’t mind talking to strangers, especially the young – just didn’t like the abrupt surprises that come with answering the phone.

Don’t know why I had to tell him I’d been listening to a CBC account of the continued repression that was happening in Syria. Surely to impress on him that though I was old, I was still engaged with events of our times. Also, let it be said that he had a strong accent, and I guessed that he, too, was keenly interested in world events, the thrust for independence despite cruel reprisals. In fact, I think that’s what I was after— I wanted to hear a young voice express concern and consternation for what was happening on our planet. By his response I could tell that clearly someone had passed him the baton, and he had taken it. It was good to know. I liked him.

It’s odd what bonds are possible between strangers. Outside the constraints of any social boundaries, we established a sort of trust. I sensed he was far away from home, and perhaps was susceptible to a voice that carried no agenda, made no demands and told no lies.

As the older person in a discourse, one might be aware of the opportunity to impart some wisdom. I don’t remember recognizing wisdom when I was in my twenties. Practical advice, yes, such as: take care of your kidneys and wear woollies when it’s cold. Wisdom came from the strangest sources, and often went unrecognized until some specific predicament arose. Easier then to let the young man in on what the terrain looks like, way out here in his future. Hey, we’re still having fun; we’re still rocking, as amusing as that may sound. Most of all, we have great perspective on who he is, how wonderful he is simply because he is young, starting out on his long, exciting, frightening, mysterious journey. We can tell him that all young people are beautiful and that pricks along the road can be detoured. The world is large, but wherever you go, there you are! (I love that one. Thank you Jon Kabat-Zinn.) We wish them a long fruitful life, and, towards that end, before they put the phone down we can be excused for reminding them about the woollies.

 Next, of course, he had to tell me about the various services and functions that Robarts provided, and how much it cost to continue the excellence of it’s programs.

In my mind I was already calculating what sort of donation I could make to his cause. I didn’t want his efforts to go unrewarded. Maybe a smaller pledge. And then, in a flash I saw the truth of this whole situation — what he was required to do — what was to be achieved — and at whose expense.

I said to him: I know this is your job, but the person you are talking to is an artist, and artists are not doing very well under the current economic circumstances. Wouldn’t it make more sense for you to talk to corporations, or to those who are profiting?

Ah, you are an artist! His game changed instantly. He then proceeded to tell me about his own aspirations in architecture and design, &c. As for corporations, he had, in fact, approached several, and mostly they were very rude. Most often, the person at the other end simply picked up the phone and hung up.

I sympathized and told him that I could never in a hundred years do what he was doing. Cold calls. Absolutely true. But that is another story.

Now he was making different bird sounds, soft cooing ones. Then he thanked me for our conversation and wished me a good night. And that was that. He let me off the hook. No pledge. No guilt. 

                                                                     *

That phone call from a stranger reminds me of another one, so, so different, many years ago…as many as 40! I was in my early 20’s, married, reading a book in the evening with my first born daughter fast asleep in the adjacent room. My husband was working late. The phone rang, and the second I said hello, I knew there was a heavy-breather at the other end.

What are you doing? a voice asked in a hoarse whisper.

I played dumb. I’m reading a book. How does this work? I was wondering. This was something I’d read about, and I knew that I was supposed to accuse him of perversion and slam down the receiver. But I was curious to know more.

What are you wearing? he asked.

Sweater and sweatpants. Um…how does this work? What are you doing? Are you, like, looking at a centerfold or something?

The breathing normalized. Yeah. Sometimes I get so…so…you know…and I just dial a number and work it off. Or something like that.

So you just dial at random?

From the phone book. Sometimes the wrong person answers the phone but you sounded nice.

Really, I laughed. Just the way I said Hello? You sound pretty young. Are you a student or something? I sensed I was talking to someone roughly my own age, a bit younger.

Second year at U. of T. He perked up, sounded almost proud telling me this.

Really! So you must be pretty smart. What are you taking?

Mostly interested in psychology…might switch to pre-med. Don’t really know.

I took some psychology too. In fact, maybe you know my husband. He teaches—

CLICK

Later, I told a girlfriend about the call. At age twenty-four I had thought it was pretty funny, especially the speed at which he hung up.

My friend looked at me with incredulity. Of all the things she knew I had done, this was the dumbest, she said.

It was my turn to look incredulous. She was a coke-snorter, for heaven’s sake! At her parties there was always a special “powder room”. At the time I had been so naïve I hadn’t even known what it meant, and had entered in thinking to fix my lipstick! It was a strange room, full of mirrors, but no one was looking into them. Instead, several heads were bent over a table.

As for the ‘pervert’, maybe he learned a lesson. In any case, his first serious girlfriend would sort him out. Or not. Once a pervert….?  I really don’t know. Sex perverts have nowhere to go in this world. Once they’re discovered, it’s over. They are the social lepers of today. No one wants even a “safe house” near them. Has anyone thought of “pervert colonies”? I understand that in the middle ages, people with red hair were thought to be agents of the devil and, so, were cast out. They formed their own little colonies and survived the best they could. In the case of “sex perverts”, it would be interesting to see what moral codes they would work out amongst themselves. Would they calibrate the degrees of “perversion”? How many? How severe? Mother Theresa, where are you?