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One fascinating aspect of my job is that it offers tiny glimpses into aspects of others' lives that one would not otherwise see. Including, and perhaps especially, those one would perhaps rather not know about.
Yes, I have a story here.
Job-Related Duty #1792 is requesting overtime change from pay phones. When a call on a coin-op phone gets close to its cutoff point, the callers hears a recording asking for more money; if the phone doesn't detect more change deposited within x seconds, the call rolls over to us, in case the caller did deposit coins that went undetected. We wait x seconds longer, asking for change twice more before disconnecting the call. This means, of course, that we get to hear several seconds of the conversation in progress. We're not doing it secretly, since we announce that we're on the line as soon as we get there, but if the caller ignores us or doesn't catch on that we're not another recording, the conversation will sometimes continue unabated.
Needless to say, this has the potential to get interesting. We're not allowed to linger beyond the boundaries of our duties, mind, but those duties do require us to be on the line and listening for a time. Most of the time it's pretty mundane stuff (which admittedly has its own fascination), but occasionally I'll end up with a slice of domestic drama, with callers too keyed up to care about Mr. Operator Guy to pause in their screeched infidelity accusations and promises to get caught up on the child support payments honest-and-for-true this time.
And then there was today. Whoa, Nellie, was there today.
I had been on the boards for less than an hour when a coin overtime call from the Boston suburbs came in: a man chatting with a woman, the former mid-30's-ish with a businessman's demeanor, the latter in her 20's, friendly and wielding a Massachusetts accent thick enough to slice, batter-dip and serve fried with hash brown casserole. "Please deposit thirty-five cents for the next minute," I said as the man was finishing up some statement about that evening's arrangements whatever they might be.
Neither party heard me, apparently, because the next voice was hers: "Look, it'll be fine. I'm not getting out of the car. I'll just stay put, we'll have some mad sex, and that'll be that."
I almost didn't hear his reply, what with the metallic "ka-POING!" sound of my eyebrows flying up. "I've been told that so many times," he said with a hint of wariness. An ongoing relationship, then.
Or not. "I'm not like those other girls," she laughed, "I'm from Winchester." She used the tone one uses when borrowing money off of one's stepbrother.
"Please deposit thirty-five cents for the next minute," I said again, a little louder. This was entirely too fascinating to hang up on, but my continued employment was at stake if I didn't follow the company's dance steps.
It was around then that she handed the phone to another pleasant-sounding woman about her age, also speaking in Bostoniforous tongues. "It's going to be okay," she repeated. "She's not getting out of the car." I wondered, just for a scarce moment, if she were in the process of setting up a date between this guy and her...friend? Sister? With a guaranteed quickie in the car? It....
Oh, great God's golden gravy boat, they can't be...?
"Hey, now," he said in full corporate swine-broker mode, "that's what I paid for last Saturday. And did I get it? No, I did not."
Ohhh, yes indeedy, they are. John, hooker and pimp, respectively. I grabbed my Pepsi and put my feet up on the desk.
Ms. Big Pimpin' was trying to seal the deal. "Look, nobody's going to jail this time, all right?" Ooo, backstory! "I was the one who went to jail last time. Everything will be fine. She's going to stay in the car, there's going to be sex, and—"
It was around this time that my manager ambled by, so I played the good little homunculus and cut off the call the way I should have thirty seconds earlier. (Later, I asked if I should have turned the information over to the police, which is being checked on for future reference." But ye gods, for all my griping, there are those nights when I do I do I do love my job. (Oh, and if you have any use in your life and works for the phrases, "I'm not like those other girls, I'm from Winchester," by all means do so. Make me proud.
Yes, I have a story here.
Job-Related Duty #1792 is requesting overtime change from pay phones. When a call on a coin-op phone gets close to its cutoff point, the callers hears a recording asking for more money; if the phone doesn't detect more change deposited within x seconds, the call rolls over to us, in case the caller did deposit coins that went undetected. We wait x seconds longer, asking for change twice more before disconnecting the call. This means, of course, that we get to hear several seconds of the conversation in progress. We're not doing it secretly, since we announce that we're on the line as soon as we get there, but if the caller ignores us or doesn't catch on that we're not another recording, the conversation will sometimes continue unabated.
Needless to say, this has the potential to get interesting. We're not allowed to linger beyond the boundaries of our duties, mind, but those duties do require us to be on the line and listening for a time. Most of the time it's pretty mundane stuff (which admittedly has its own fascination), but occasionally I'll end up with a slice of domestic drama, with callers too keyed up to care about Mr. Operator Guy to pause in their screeched infidelity accusations and promises to get caught up on the child support payments honest-and-for-true this time.
And then there was today. Whoa, Nellie, was there today.
I had been on the boards for less than an hour when a coin overtime call from the Boston suburbs came in: a man chatting with a woman, the former mid-30's-ish with a businessman's demeanor, the latter in her 20's, friendly and wielding a Massachusetts accent thick enough to slice, batter-dip and serve fried with hash brown casserole. "Please deposit thirty-five cents for the next minute," I said as the man was finishing up some statement about that evening's arrangements whatever they might be.
Neither party heard me, apparently, because the next voice was hers: "Look, it'll be fine. I'm not getting out of the car. I'll just stay put, we'll have some mad sex, and that'll be that."
I almost didn't hear his reply, what with the metallic "ka-POING!" sound of my eyebrows flying up. "I've been told that so many times," he said with a hint of wariness. An ongoing relationship, then.
Or not. "I'm not like those other girls," she laughed, "I'm from Winchester." She used the tone one uses when borrowing money off of one's stepbrother.
"Please deposit thirty-five cents for the next minute," I said again, a little louder. This was entirely too fascinating to hang up on, but my continued employment was at stake if I didn't follow the company's dance steps.
It was around then that she handed the phone to another pleasant-sounding woman about her age, also speaking in Bostoniforous tongues. "It's going to be okay," she repeated. "She's not getting out of the car." I wondered, just for a scarce moment, if she were in the process of setting up a date between this guy and her...friend? Sister? With a guaranteed quickie in the car? It....
Oh, great God's golden gravy boat, they can't be...?
"Hey, now," he said in full corporate swine-broker mode, "that's what I paid for last Saturday. And did I get it? No, I did not."
Ohhh, yes indeedy, they are. John, hooker and pimp, respectively. I grabbed my Pepsi and put my feet up on the desk.
Ms. Big Pimpin' was trying to seal the deal. "Look, nobody's going to jail this time, all right?" Ooo, backstory! "I was the one who went to jail last time. Everything will be fine. She's going to stay in the car, there's going to be sex, and—"
It was around this time that my manager ambled by, so I played the good little homunculus and cut off the call the way I should have thirty seconds earlier. (Later, I asked if I should have turned the information over to the police, which is being checked on for future reference." But ye gods, for all my griping, there are those nights when I do I do I do love my job. (Oh, and if you have any use in your life and works for the phrases, "I'm not like those other girls, I'm from Winchester," by all means do so. Make me proud.
