I met Frank when I turned 17. A couple of days before my 17th birthday actually. I had just gotten a job at a telemarketing service and it was our first day of training. I've heard stories about this place. All of the eclectic people that walk in and out of this place. You're pretty much guaranteed a job, at a really decent price. All you have to do is sell your sould for a couple of hours, sit at a comfortable desk and chair, and twiril your headset around.
Our training was for credit cards. We would take credit card applications over the phone and deal with customer service applications.
You know that nervous pit of your stomach feeling before facing the unknown? I get that everytime I face a crowd of people I don't know. I don't know why I've always felt like that, but I have. People make me nervous, as plainly as I can put it. I get tongue tied, sweaty palms, and I'm sure anyone could see my heart pounding through my cotton t-shirt. The worst thing that happens is my stuttering. I've never has a serious problem , more like the occasional fumbling of the words in akward situations.
I"ve come to our first day of training early. When I got hired, they took me to a room to get an ID card. Here I was 17 and my own little security ID card. Saying that I was a little excited may be an overstatement.
Coming into training, I found my assigned building. Number 7. Lucky number 7. This may be a good day after all. After fumbling a little swiping the card to unlick the door, I meet the security guard. He's black, tall, and lanky. Hardly looking like he could tackle down someone who would want to over run this telemarketing barn, but he looked determined. That's all that matters.
"What are you here for doll" He looked over his VIBE magazine.
"Training it looks like" pointing down to my interview attire. I had even taken the time to iron the only formal clothes I had owned.
"Alrighty miss, you'r going to want to go down this hall and wait in the break room. You're trainer will be in with ya'll shortly." And with that, he went back into his magazine, defending us from danger.
This place kind of looked like a school. The beige, tiled, floors, with the pale painted walls. Little awards here and there, and what looks like company statements, framed. I take my time, because I see at the end of the hall, a purple sign that says Break Room. In the middle, I see a break in the hallway, another hallway leading to what seems like restrooms. I'm about 20 minutes early, so I figure fixing my hair a little more, and dabbing on some lip gloss wouldn't hurt anyone.
For a second, I even consider bolting. My warm bed is waiting for me, my car that I got a couple of months ago to get to and from school is sitting 200 feet away, my diet coke still sitting in the cup holder. I mean, I didn't really need a job, my mom and stepdad have always spoiled me, but for some reason, I wanted to work like the rest of my teenage compadres. I've never been one to follow the herd, but I guess I wanted to at least
