I Used To Work In Call Centers
I used to work in a call center.
And I own a Kimber .45 and carry a Concealed Weapons Permit to prove it.
Call centers are crazy places – and since I have worked in more than just a small handful, I can safely declare myself as somewhat of an expert when it comes to what kinds of things happen in call centers.
One day, I was a supervisor in a call center sitting in my office when one of my employees stopped in and asked me if he could talk to me for a second.
“Sure, come on in and sit down” I said.
He began his story.
“Justin, I really like working here. My boss is great and I like what I am doing. But I have a problem. I know that everyone told me how we get paid here, but I didn’t think it would take this long before I sold something and so I borrowed $1,500 from my roommate a few weeks ago.
Well, right after I borrowed the money from him he found out that I was sleeping with his girlfriend and we got in this huge fight and now he calls me all the time and says he wants his $1,500 back.
I keep telling him that I don’t have the money, and then finally last night he said that if I didn’t have the money by next Friday he was going to find me and shoot me.
So I was wondering if there was any way that I could get some kind of advance so I could give him his $1,500?”
And then he stopped and just looked at me.
And my physical body had somehow been converted into a stone statue as he told his story and I couldn’t move a muscle or utter a word.
And the thought raced through my mind: this guy sits exactly 34 feet from you for roughly 8 hours a day.
And I just stared at him as-if-I-had-just-heard-the-most-crazy-thing-I-had-ever-heard-in-my-life.
And after what seemed like 10 minutes, but was probably closer to 10 seconds I finally managed to get an answer out of my mouth:
Let me talk to someone.
And he said thanks and left my office.
And after I sat back and drank a Diet Pepsi and stared out the window for most of the rest of the afternoon, I did what any sane, reasonable American who drives an old Ford truck and is from the wrong side of the tracks in Flagstaff would do:
I went down and bought a Kimber .45, a holster to hold it where no one could tell I was carrying it and signed up to get a Concealed Weapons Permit that very weekend.
And after I told the employee that the imaginary figure who made these kinds of decisions said “no”, I have to admit I was somewhat curious as to what would happen next…
But it turns out that nothing happened.
No one showed up to shoot anyone.
But if I ever end up working in a call center again, at least I will be prepared.