Worst. Temp Job. Ever.

Today. Horrific.

Temp handler calls me with a job that may be two days but could spill into three days. It involves calling people who've signed up to attend an event and confirming their RSVP's. I'll have to do a phone interview so the job folks can ok my phone professionalism (i.e. that I don't sound ghetto) so I talk to them, and the guy says, 'Have you ever cold-called before?' Somehow, I managed to skip over the phrase 'cold-call', because I am dumb. I of course tell him straight up that I've never done phone sales, and he says it's between me and another temp, and he'll let my temp handler know by the end of the day. So whatever whatever, I get the job. *sound of tiny party horn fizzling*

I show up at the tiny office early, because I always am, and Job Guy is of course late, cuz that's rule one of tempage. Again, whatever whatever. I'm ushered into a conference room and offered water and coffee, and am shown the phone and stack of contacts. So, what is the deal exactly? Well, Job Company has arranged an event for Client Company. They've sent invitational emails to the contacts letting them know that if they attend a brief, catered two-hour presentation by Client Company on spam, content filters and firewalls they'll get two tickets to the last Nats home game of the season. My goal is to get people to say they'll come to the event, and then get their information so we can register them online for the event. 

Slowly it dawns on me (see above re: dumb) that this is not confirming RSVP's. This is sales calling. I'm now the guy who has to convince you to buy the timeshare before you can enjoy the free weekend in Miami. Blurgh.

There are a few teensy problems with this scenario. Problem one: I am not a saleswoman. Sales-folk, imho, are born and not made. They are adorable smiley gifts from heaven who have the magical ability to woo you out of your hard-earned money. Me: not so much. I just work here.

Problem two: everyone knows I'm not a sales person. Receptionists know it and wisely route me immediately to the voicemail of whomever I'm calling as soon as I say, "Hi! I'm calling from Client Company!" Out of 150 calls, I speak to maybe 20 actual people. 

Problem three: the company is selling spam protection services. TO PROFESSIONALS THEY HAVE JUST SPAMMED. Of the 20 people I talk to, at least 10 don't have the invite email because it is, guess where? In their spam filter. 

Problem four: does anyone in this town actually care about baseball? Really? Well, ok, today I learned that at least three people do care about baseball. Two of them have prior commitments. I sign the last one up, desperate at this point, despite his protestations that while he does want the baseball tickets, he's just a policy wonk lobbying on IT issues and shouldn't I be talking to his IT guy if I'm trying to sell IT solutions? I assure him it's fine because at that point I just don't care anymore. My point is, the something for nothing we're giving away here isn't worth much. Unless the food is really good which I doubt.

About halfway into the morning the Big Boss comes in and announces that Client Company's CEO will be coming to the event, so now they REALLY need people to show up! No pressure though! (I don't explain that as a temp I'm exempt from being pressured by anything Job Company says, beyond showing up and making a reasonable attempt at getting the work done. This is part of the appeal of being a temp. Big Boss looks at me like he knows this but would like to believe otherwise. I say I'll do my best.) 

As the day goes on it becomes crystal clear that I'm not selling the something for nothing very well. It's not that I'm not trying; I'm chipper, not too pushy, and use my years of training in the theatah to sound natural and not rush while including every selling point in one or two sentences. One british fellow says, "You'ah doing a veddy good job, and I see grrreat things in you'ah fewchah." Needless to say he's not interested in baseball. 

My throat starts to hurt and I'm watching the minutes tick by on the Cisco conference room phone. Outside the conference room I can hear the Big Boss shmoozing away. I walk in and ask why he gets to talk to people and I only get to talk to voicemail. He says, 'Oh, I'm using my personal business contacts, that's why, it's a little easier that way.' Oh right, and that's because YOU'RE AS SALESMAN WITH A NETWORK OF CONTACTS and I'm COLD CALLING. ALL IN CAPS. He says maybe it's the list, maybe it isn't as good as they thought it was. Considering that some of the people I call haven't worked at the companies we have listed in five years, as some receptionists inform me in frosty tones, I think perhaps he's right.

I start to feel delirious. I can't make another call. I could just walk out - would that be so awful? But I can't; that would make me look unprofessional to my temp handler. But do I really have to come back and do this tomorrow, and maybe Friday? Surely not. The bosses leave for lunch and I call Mrs. Pinchloaf to vent, and she is nicely sympathetic. The bosses come back and bring a guy from Client Company with them. He is Georgetown button-down handsome and looks me up and down, a look that is half assessing my money-maker and half assessing my possible portfolio. (It's a G-town thing, I'm pretty sure.) I probably fall short in both categories but I'm so tired of cold-calling I really don't care. When he leaves he says 'thanks for helping us out' as he walks by.

Somehow I make it to 3:30 and then 4:15. Just 45 more minutes to go. At exactly 5:01 I walk out of the conference room to tell them I'm leaving if that's ok. Job Guy says, 'we think we're going to go in a different direction tomorrow, but thanks for coming in.' He says Client Guy listened to a few of my calls and thought I talked about the products well, but still. I can't help it, I heave a sigh of relief right there and shake his hand. And get the hell out. 

In the parking lot I leave a hysteria-tinged voicemail for my temp handler, asking if they could please give me a heads up if the job involves cold-calling next time please, so that I can refuse to ever do it again. I do not say that I would rather enter the same 20 digit number into a spreadsheet five hundred times in a windowless basement room while rats gnaw at my ankles but the message gets through, as temp handler calls me back and is very apologetic and says she had no idea. 

Sales. Shiver. Sigh of relief.