From Where I Sit...

Something switched over in me a couple months ago.  I had been taking the easy way out, avoiding the difficult but meaningful act of making my contribution. I have a hard and fast new policy:  The telemarketer WILL hang up first.

I share my strategies in hopes others might pick up the thread.  We have a chance to create a small but important cultural shift, putting a serious dent in unwanted calls while having some fun along the way.  It would be unkind and, much worse, unimaginative to insult, curse or yell at a telemarketer.  That’s off the table.  Creativity is fun and more rewarding.  There are several types of calls, all requiring a different strategy.  I’ve utilized most of these though one still sits on the bench waiting to bat.

The Switcheroo

The caller asks to speak to John.  “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” the unwitting target answers.  I fell for this more times than I’d like to admit.

The caller uses this as his launching pad, “Well maybe you can help me.  I’m Bob with the Benevolent Society of…”  Click.  Well that was the old me.  This caller is asking for John, no last name specified.  John can be anywhere, such as:

• Sad voice. “John passed, just a few days ago.  It’s been so difficult, God.  I’m sorry, were you an old friend?”  When I used this, the caller said he would “update his records”.  Turns out he and John weren’t all that close.
• Exasperated, bordering on hysterical. “No, he left, he just left.  No one knows where he is.  The police have been looking for him, they say he’s done terrible things.  I need to keep this line open but when did you last talk to him?”  This is next in the rotation, can’t wait to see how it goes.

The Direct Call

This caller is asking for me by name, likely using the Do Not Call Registry as a prospecting tool.  Sadly for him, my name isn’t phonetic so he butchers it.  Now I’ve got one on the hook and I really have fun with these. I channel the slow talking stoner personality living somewhere deep inside me or go somewhat manic.    Either way, I try to very nicely cut the person off with questions having absolutely nothing to do with their call.  And my kids LOVE when I do this.

• “What’s your favorite number? If you say eight then I’ll know you’re a Libra.”  The key is to not stop.  Free-associate, whatever you need to do but don’t give up the reins.
• “What’s that SMELL? Hold on, I’m going to another room.  I think my wife fed the dogs chili again.”  Non sequiturs are the name of the game here.  Remember, there are no wrong answers.
• “Wasn’t Mork & Mindy awesome? Jonathan Winters with Robin Williams – a couple national treasures.”

Alternatively, I always enjoy doing my imitation of Hannibal Lecter.  Trotting him out for some Q & A always makes for a short call.  I just close my eyes, picture Anthony Hopkins in his cell and let it rip:

• “Quid pro quo Clarice. Tell me your worst childhood memory.  And don’t lie, I’ll know.”  And goodnight to you too, sir…

The Auto Dial

This is another crowd pleaser but it’s important to be on your toes.  I’ve done this one a couple times and the timing is challenging.  There are a couple of clicks and someone will start speaking.  The cue is right when the human begins to speak:

• With Great Enthusiasm!: “WRFU – You’re the 13^th caller and you’re on the air!  For the Disney weekend and $2500 in spending money, how many rings of hell are in Dante’s Inferno?”  This is a big favorite of mine.  First there’s the paradigm shift, they were calling to bug me but now there’s something to be won.  Next they need to process this and will want the question repeated.    When they ask however, all they get in return is “five more seconds…”.  Then, “I’m sorry, next caller but stay on the phone, we’ll want to get your phone number.”  The irony in the last sentence is just too delicious.

I’m fairly certain my new policy has decreased the number of calls I get.  On the other hand, it may just feel that way because I enjoy them so much.

John Bishop decided he needed a better way to support his family.  A longtime brick layer, he was undecided between opening a mortuary or a barbeque restaurant.  He mulled it over until one night he had a dream he was running a restaurant next door to his home.  In 1958 he and his family opened Dreamland Barbeque next to his Tuscaloosa home.  That’s the story they tell today but I tend to believe his nickname played a part as well.  A guy who answers to “Big Daddy” probably knows his way around a rib and brisket platter.

The place looks the same today as it does in the photos from ‘58.  My son and I ate at Dreamland when we were in town for an Alabama football game a couple years back.  One of my best friends is a ‘Bama alum and said it wasn’t to be missed.  My son, a skinny swimmer, dove into a full slab of ribs, eating to the point of physical discomfort.  Sauce dripping over a broad grin, he looked like a rodeo clown at a funeral.  This was the start of his love for great barbeque and over time it’s spread to our other two kids as well.

It was this love that took us to Clemson University on our college tour this spring.  After seeing a couple schools in North Carolina the next stop was to be in Atlanta but Clemson is almost, kind of, on the way.  In addition to being home to football’s reigning national champions, it’s also near The Smokin’ Pig, a famous BBQ joint that the hosts of ESPN’s Gameday speak of reverentially.  The boys were not about to miss this opportunity.  We did our own walking tour of the Clemson campus, with obligatory trip to Memorial Stadium, before arriving at The Pig at 10:50 am for the 11 am opening.

I’ve found that the roadside BBQ joints have the same general vibe but every one is still unique.  The Smokin’ Pig is outside Clemson, on the edge of Pendleton, South Carolina.  The restaurant itself is small but situated on least three acres to accommodate parking and a waiting area where guests can have a drink and play cornhole or catch while waiting for a table.  With my family playing cornhole, I thought I’d chat up the hostess.  She looked to be in her early 20s, maybe a college student.

After exchanging how-ya-doins I wanted to learn a little more about the place.  “I see you have a lot of people here on a Thursday morning.  I’m curious why you’re only open Thursday through Saturday?”

She had a slow, southern accent but like many young people nationwide, she answered with a declarative sentence in the interrogative voice, her tone higher at the end of the sentence than the beginning, thus sounding like a question.  “Ya know, I never really thought about that?  I s’pose it’s cuz folks just don’t eat barbeque durin’ the week?”  This habit only drives me slightly nuts.  I’m some distance from perfect myself which might explain why we were seated so quickly.  She’d had enough of entertaining this bozo from California.

About now you’re wondering, where the hell is he going with this?  Maybe with a dash of why am I even still reading this?  I’m getting there, I am.  My family gave me a smoker last month for Father’s Day.  It’s a Weber Smokey Mountain which looks like someone took R2-D2 and painted him black.  It was a nice gift but do you have any idea the kind of pressure I’m now under?  I’m trying to follow in the smokesteps of an individual called Big Daddy, for God’s sake.

I’ve been doing some reading and watching some Youtube videos and feel like I’ve learned a little bit, enough to avoid a total write-off cook.  Last weekend we were doing a pork butt (also referred to as a pork shoulder or Boston butt, there’s more jargon around every corner) and found myself in the local barbeque store looking for a new meat thermometer.  This group is overly helpful, like wish-I-never-walked-in helpful.  “So what are you cooking this weekend?” the big man asked.

“Well, my boys and I are smoking a pork butt and need a new meat thermometer.”

“Great, sounds great.  And what are you injecting it with?”

I smiled sheepishly, “Uhh… Love?”

His chin moved slightly left, eyebrows up to about the ceiling.  It was like I had wet my own pants right there on his floor.  It turns out you can buy giant syringes to inject marinade throughout the six to eight hour cook.  OK, so now I know.  I managed to fight him off this time, walking out with just my new thermometer and a couple new seasoning rubs.  I may not be so lucky next time.

The smoker is truly magic.  Sure the food’s pretty good but I’m getting hours and hours of time with my kids, at least one of them helping the entire time.  And that time is long – like up to eight hours, split between serious conversation, good laughs, a little learning and some solid BS-ing.  They haven’t figured out yet that you don’t have to stay with the smoker through the entire cook and I’m sure not telling.

I’m very lucky.  If Big Daddy Bishop had chosen differently, I just may have gotten a black suit for Father’s Day.

I spoke to my friend Larry today.  He’s more like an uncle really, just without the genetic link.  The machine gun tempo of his speech makes cell phone conversations a challenge.  It’s like someone speaking Spanish, but in English.  Larry is 67 years old yet the enthusiasm of an eighteen year old blasts through the phone.  He is an energetic, exuberant, bombastic ball of energy.  He also happens to be fighting pancreatic cancer.

Before you read further, know that there’s some ripe language ahead.  The potentially offensive language is included because it’s authentic.  If colorful language isn’t your thing, now is a perfect time to close your browser.

He called to let me know he’d just gotten back into town.  I never knew he’d left.  “So my chemo is three weeks on and one off.  What the fuck am I gonna do, sit around?  I was in Portugal and Spain.  Incredible.  Went with my sister and brother in law.  He’s the greatest guy you’ll ever meet but the fucken’ guy has two speeds:  slow and stopped.  That works in a museum, but not on the streets.”  You have to imagine these words coming out in under four seconds.  “Saw the Dali museum outside Barcelona.  You have to see it.  Great painter, weird guy.  He didn’t even bother to put his fucken’ skeletons IN the closet.  Stories you wouldn’t believe.”  And I wasn’t going to ask.  When he gets going it’s more fun to let the stories flow than to break Larry’s stream of consciousness.

We met over fifteen years ago through work and had our share of fun together.  Larry was my client before he became my de facto uncle.  Over the years and the work done, there were many dinners and even more drinks.  His energy always amazed me.  I’d be ready for bed just as he was getting tuned up.  To most people over sixty, “swinging from the chandelier” is a figure of speech.  Beyond the crazy times, Larry was always there when things weren’t great, when I need direction in my career or just an ear.  He’d follow up daily to see how things were going.  There were also a couple years we didn’t speak.  We had a business disagreement that I took personally.  I deeply regret telling him we’d never work together again and that “going forward, you don’t know me”.  Time passed and we began speaking again.  I’m grateful for that.

Larry was diagnosed about eighteen months ago.  Ironically enough, he’d just lost 45 pounds off his 5’10” frame through diet and exercise when he found out he had cancer.  We got together in May at the annual shopping center convention in Las Vegas.  I was talking to someone when I felt a hug from behind.  I turned to see a bald pate and must have looked confused.  “Who’d you think it was, Telly fucken’ Savalas?”  Within two minutes Larry is telling stories to three guys about his travails, always laughing.  “So this chemo isn’t all bad.  I’ve lost more weight than I should, but guess what?  My dick looks huge!”  One of a kind.

None of my calls were returned in June.  I called a mutual friend and learned Larry had been in the hospital the entire month, beginning right after the convention.  It started with sepsis then he’d slipped into a coma, things looking bad enough that last rites were administered.  He bounced back and got home right after the Fourth of July.

I flew down to Orange County to visit him shortly thereafter.  I walked into Larry’s house to find two full-time nurses, Doug and Mary, and Larry in his chair watching, what else, a show about flipping real estate.  I asked him about his close call.  “Look I’m a street kid from Chicago.  I’m not going that easy.  Father Tim was a little quick on the draw with the Rites.  The Big Guy upstairs doesn’t need me yet.”  We had a great visit, Larry anxious to hear about deals I was working on.  He was thin and frail but his attention fierce as I spoke.  Just as suddenly, he ended the visit with a clap of his hands, announcing “Well, let’s pick this up another time, I gotta have Doug take me to the crapper.”  Okie doke.

Larry is inspirational in his unique and imperfect way.  He doesn’t feel sorry for himself and won’t allow anyone to pity him.  Twice divorced, he lives alone if you don’t count the parade of friends through his door.  He’s a devout catholic but curses unrepentantly, often in the course of stories and jokes I wouldn’t repeat.  I’ve approached his door over the last year with a light sense of doom, convinced he can’t keep this up forever.  I leave shaking my head and chuckling, wondering if death itself can ever pull this off.  I also leave with a sense a possibility, hope and determination about my own life.

I visited again in late August.  This time Larry answered the door himself, his nurses dismissed and wisps of hair on his head indicating improvement.  “I’m buying a Kroger anchored center in Indianapolis at a 9 cap.  A fucking 9 cap, you believe that?”  He’s exchanging jabs with the grim reaper but a 9% return on a shopping center is the lead story.  It takes a while but I steer the conversation around to how his health.  “My cancer markers are probably lower than yours.  The doc says I’ll be the guy to dive from the 10-meter board through the eye of the needle.  He doesn’t know everything though – he put me in a pine box 12 months ago.”

There’s no way to know how long this goes on.  In truth that applies to any of us.  Larry’s battle has forced me to think.  I consider more carefully how I treat others and where my emotional investments belong.  It’s also become clear that some things, previously high on my priority list, simply don’t matter at all.

We ended our last call the way we have all of them in the last year or so.

“I love you Patrick.”

“I love you too, Larry.”

Good evening and welcome to Flight 1658, with overnight service to Detroit.  At this time, we’d like to offer pre-boarding to any passengers requiring assistance getting down the jetway and any active duty military personnel.

My son Nick and I are rabid college football fans.  We have a tradition of traveling to a game each year in one of the “Cathedrals” of college football.  Last year, we visited Tuscaloosa and watched Alabama play Tennessee.  We saw Notre Dame another year.  This year, Nick chose Michigan to see the Wolverines play Wisconsin in The Big House.

We will begin our Premium Boarding and now welcome on board our First Class passengers.  Our Premium Platinum Members are also invited to board at this time.  Please proceed to the First Class Red Carpet on my left.

To minimize time away from school and work we take Thursday night redeye flights.  This gives us the opportunity to tour the university and experience the towns on Friday.  It’s a bit exhausting but we find so much to see and do that it keeps us going.  This year, we did the official university tour in the morning and had a ball roaming around Ann Arbor all afternoon.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are not ready for General Boarding.  Please move back from the gate or return to your seats as we continue our Priority Boarding.  We now warmly welcome our Glittering Diamond Bonanza members, our Scintillated Soaring members and the Silver Circle of Platinum Amigos. You may also use the Red Carpet line.

This is a boy’s trip so we don’t exactly go all out on accommodations.  I book a basic hotel, checking online reviews just to confirm the place is clean.  For airfare, I selected the “Basic Economy” fare from one of the major airlines.  It’s the cheapest and good enough for two guys flying overnight, right?  I didn’t get seat assignments but was told we could choose them prior to the flight.

We continue boarding and invite Roaming Minstrels and Giggling Puppeteers to board.  If you happen to be traveling with a physically challenged imaginary friend, please come forward.  We will also now invite our Zone 1, 2 and 3 customers to board.

I called the airline a couple days before the flight and eventually reached a human.  It seemed.  I explained I’d be traveling with my son and, while it doesn’t seem I can select seats yet, we would like to sit together.  “This isn’t a full flight, you should be able to sit together but your fare doesn’t allow you to select seats yet,” she declared.  It was further explained that I could upgrade our tickets but it probably wasn’t necessary.  We could always change seats at the gate.

Twenty-four hours prior to flight time I was at last able to “select” seats.  “Basic Economy”, it turns out, allows the traveler to choose absolutely any middle seat in a row that doesn’t recline.  We did get seats in the same row so sign language or throwing things to each other remained possibilities.  Fabulous.

Since you refuse to leave, we will now allow you, our least profitable customers, to line up to my right in the “Chute of Shame” to have your boarding documents checked for authenticity.  You should be thankful the FAA doesn’t allow us to seat you on chicken coops in the cargo hold…

I’ve paraphrased a bit here.  The absurdity of the boarding process had the two of us laughing.  In fairness, I have to say that once on board the flight attendants were among the friendliest and most accommodating I’ve encountered.  But something is getting lost in the airline’s effort to grab the last dime.

The point of air travel is not simply flying people from one place to another.  It’s the opportunity to bring people together.  It’s visits to see family, trips with friends, flying to business meetings, even traveling alone to experience a different culture.  In the end it all comes back to one thing:  people, brought together.  In separating people purposely, you’ve failed before the wheels leave the tarmac.  As a practical matter, boarding all middle seat passengers last means that every aisle passenger has to get up to allow another person to access their seat.  This is the airline clearly saying efficiency is less important than getting a thumb in the (perceived) cheapskate’s eye.

To the airlines and service providers in general:  charge me more.  Whether it’s an airline or any other service.  Charge all of us more.  Charge whatever it costs to treat us like people.  I understand you need to reward your most loyal customers – and you should.  That means sometimes I won’t get the seat or exact service I want.  But next time I’m squeezed next to a mustachioed man-bun with an apparent deodorant allergy, I’d just like to know you cared, that you tried.  I might even choose to fly your airline next time.