You’re great at listening to people. Soon there are dozens, hundreds, thousands of strangers murmuring in your ears.
Sometimes you wonder if the voices will ever stop. Then you remember that, if they do, you won’t be able to make a living.
You spend hours talking to people, but nobody actually listens to what you’re saying.
You hate people, but disembodied voices don’t seem to bother you.
How many times will old strangers mourn the loss of their loved ones to you? How long before it becomes obvious you no longer care? They’re just one less person to talk to.
There is nothing but dead air on the other end of the phone. You know no one is going to answer. You ask, “hello?” one more time, just to be sure.
“You’re a real person! I’m so glad I’m not talking to a robot,” says the stranger on the other end of the phone. They laugh, as though they expect you’ve never heard that before. You laugh, too, forcefully, and assure them, remind yourself, “oh, yes, I’m definitely a real person.”
You’re thankful for the days you wake up with your throat on fire and voice missing.
Don’t bother getting to know the new hires. In a week or two, they’ll walk out of this place and never come back. It makes you wonder what makes you so special, or possibly what you’ve done to deserve still being here.
Your voice is a tool. Your voice is a weapon.
No one speaks, but something is breathing on the other end of the phone.
Someone once told you, “you have such a nice voice. You should work in a call center.” You thought it was a compliment at the time, now you’re not so sure. A prediction, perhaps. Maybe a curse.
You become so used to scripted conversations you forget how to navigate real ones.
It becomes a knee-jerk reaction to be ready to speak at the sound of a beep. You start to wonder if this is how Pavlov’s dogs felt.
Answering machines will thank you for your call. They will be the only things that do.
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