April 26: A Moment of Your Time

As I lie in bed with the shades drawn, the ceiling fan quietly sends a peaceful breeze throughout my apartment. My eyelids grow heavy and my breathing becomes shallow and calm as sleep descends upon me. Dreams of cool brooks, grandiose swaying trees and sugar plumbs (or something like that) flicker through my mind's eye. My goose down pillows comfortably form to every contour of my tired and heavy head and my 1500 count thread Egyptian cotton sheets feel soft and cool against my worn out body. I'm in a world of clear blue skies and vibrant green grassy fields. The phone rings, destroying my fantasy world and sending me flying back into reality.

It's Chris from the National Rifle Association. He wants to know how I'm doing before he introduces himself. You see, if he introduces himself first, it allows me to hang up the phone faster. This way, he's insured a way to keep me connected; pretty smart if you ask me. He wants to know when the last time I went hunting was. He wants to know if I'm interested in preserving the second amendment from the government (or something like that).

I humor him by letting him know that I'm fine and out of habit, I ask how he's doing. I don't care how he's doing, but I ask anyway. I tell him that I've never been hunting and that he should save his breath; I'm not interested in what he has to say. But wait! He insists on trying to spark my interest with that second amendment thing. I interrupt him and tell him that I'm simply not interested. I tell him to cross my name off of his list and to move on to the next guy.

After ending the call, I ponder about what it must be like to have a job like that. I was rude to the guy because he unknowingly woke me from such a comfortable siesta. Granted, I probably shouldn't have been sleeping in the middle of the day, but still.

I can't imagine being forced to go into work every day and call complete strangers to get them to donate money or sign petitions or take surveys. No one likes being called by telemarketers and because there is that invisible shield protecting us, we don't have any problem treating these people like crap. Sure, the guy probably knew what he was getting himself into when he took the job, but it's one thing to know that you're going to get a few rude people and a completely separate issue to have to deal with them 99% of the day. It's got to wear a little thin, doesn't it?

I begin to feel bad for Chris. I was part of the problem. He'll go home tonight and his girlfriend or wife will ask him how his day was. He'll respond by saying how much he hates his job and how he hates being the bad guy; the stranger that no one wants to talk to.

As I lie in my darkened room staring at the silent ceiling fan, I regret my actions, but when I rub my eyes and realize how tired I still am, my empathy disappears. How dare he call me and disrupt my slumber. What makes him think I would want to hear his propaganda on the NRA? I long to return to my grassy fields of sugar plums and placid blue skies.