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Death of a Telemarketer

Story about a brain haemorrhage.

I dream of a better world, and that is why I work as a telemarketer three days a week. You know. The phone rings, and by accident you pick it up, regretting it immediately.

"Hey, you are talking to Ambiorn Happy, I am calling you to sell you a newspaper, an online subscription, a new insurance (covering everything), four pink rubber shoes, a trip to Africa, three hungry children who die if we do nothing. They're starving! They're dying. What do you say, would you have two or three! We have extra offers for three, do you want three, or do we have to settle for two!"

And then the confusion rises inside of you. What was he saying? Where does he call from? Have I ordered anything, what will he sell to me?

"No thanks," you say hesitantly, but that only causes the telemarketer to continue, and you begin remembering your last boyfriend or girlfriend who never listened to what you said, and you're still a little pissed about it.

"Well then, we've got a deal, I just need your social security number now, the last four digits, your address, the size of your bra, your shoe size, the number on your credit card, we do only have three pieces left, this is really a fantastic offer, the price is really low today, you will be happy, really happy. "

And you can feel yourself getting mad now. "Why doesn't anyone ever listen to what I say!" And you get angry and you yell:

"Now listen, Ambiorn Happy - is that your name, Happy, nobody is called that, Happy! Fuck you, Happy. I say no thank you, and have a nice day!"


Well, that's such a job I have. I am a telemarketer while dreaming of a better world. I have been doing this for 20 years. Because I'm good at it, no not really.

It's because I'm an artist. Fuck it. I write books, I am a photographer, I teach sex, live with hands-on, paint pictures, create wonderful inventions, lot's of fun. And a problem. I have too much imagination and there is no money in that state of mind.

That's why I work as a telemarketer, 3 days a week. It pays about twelve thousand before tax, eight thousand after tax, and then I can pay my rent. I like that.

My boss is tall and thin, a little aggressive, loves big cars, golden glasses, and a gold watch, and gold finger rings, and a heart of stone.

He is hard and strong, well, except for an excessively high blood pressure that his doctor had said could be dangerous for himself.

Typically, we hire new people on Tuesdays. They arrive to the company in big buses. Quite young people, not like me, quite young. Great guys, lovely girls, young people with a high self-esteem. They have the courage of life, they are delicious, they are the ones everyone wants to be in love with, or become friends with, or just for a night, for an hour, for a moment. They are so delicious and no one has ever said no to them.

After the welcome meeting, they typically start right away. They call everyone. People who are dying are saying "Hello, who is this?" Or people who have just moved away from mum and dad. "Hello, this is James, who are you?"

And then they sell. Anything. But some days you may be unlucky to call a carpenter. You know, an old bastard who has nailed many roof structures, in rain and wind, and they say as they usually do:

"Yeah, hey, I'm calling to tell you about a really good deal we have right now, just for you, and it's only today, may I ..."

"Fuck you, you fucking phony!"


- And it hurts. Every single no is like a kick into one's self-esteem. And after three months, the young people are yellow and blue, and they don't love telemarketing anymore, and start crying, and get sick, and have a stomach pain, and get tensions in the neck, and just hate life, and crawling along the wall until the boss sees her or him, and then he usually says:

"You, in my office now."

And we all hide and look through the glass pane into the boss office, we can see the person that collapses on the chair in front of him, because now is is the end of our sweet colleague's career as a telemarketer. And that's it.

Right. So dreaming of a better world and earning a living as a telemarketer is a tough business. My boss is the only one in the company to really makes a fortune.

And then here the other day, last week, he says to me. "Ambiorn, in my office please!"

Oh. I go in and sit down, I can see my colleagues through the glass pane looking at me like I'm an old dog that no longer makes sense.

A toothless old dog. A fighting dog with a walker. I'm done. And the boss says:

"I have been happy for you for many months, Ambiorn, and I am truly sorry because I know how much it means to you that you have money for your rent, and we both know how old you are - how old are you, it's 55 isnøt it - and it's hard to find a new job at that age, but I hope the best for you, Ambiorn, so thank you for the effort, we'll settle it here, I unfortunately have to..."

And then he fell over with a brain haemorrhage. It was very unfortunate, but also a bit of fun. He collapsed and slid down from the chair, down to the floor, dead, like stone dead.

I go out to my colleagues, a little upset, but they all smile, pat me on my back, nodding approvingly and say to me:

"Hey Ambiorn, you've always dreamed of a better world, now you've got it."

Thank you for your time, my name is Ambiorn Happy, I dream of a better world and work as a telemarketer three days a week.

Viking i Hverdagen Dirty Søster Bonustid Aisha, min elskede Aina køber en seng Englen fra Ishøj The Suicide of my Little Brother The death of a telemarketer Min lillebrors selvmord En telefonsælgers død

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Bogland er et no-money-no-profit forlag som udgiver historier skrevet af forfatteren Ambjørn Happy. Bøgerne på Bogland er billige, hvis du vælger at høre dem som lydbøger eller læse dem som e-bøger. Eventuelle papirbøger sælges til trykprisen. Formålet med Bogland er at underholde og sprede gode historier. Forlaget er non-profit. Kernen i historierne bygger på virkelige begivenheder, pakket ind i fantasi og dramatik.

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