Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs

“And then I met Zeb, and—I’m in love with your friend,” Jolene blurted out. “I know y’all have been close forever, and I want us to get along. I really do.”



“OK,” I said, at a loss to drum up any other response.



“You’re not upset?” Zeb asked, sounding suspicious.



“Why would I be upset?” I asked. “I mean, I haven’t had much time to process the information, but it’s not as if Jolene can help being what she is, any more than I can help being a vampire. In fact, you were born this way, right? You had even less of a choice than I did. It would be hypocritical of me to go all crazy just because my friend is dating a—”



“Werewolf,” Jolene said for me.



“Right.” Of course, that probably wouldn’t keep me from going all crazy later, but I had to give myself some credit for being able to string that many words together through the shock.



“I’m so glad you feel that way!” Jolene squealed, throwing her arms around me. “We’re going to be really good friends, I can just tell.”



As Jolene gave me a neck-cracking hug, I narrowed my eyes at Zeb, who smiled and shrugged. Great. My best friend was dating a werewolf, who also happened to be a hugger.



13



Vampirism can lead to a wealth of new and exciting career opportunities, including overnight-delivery driver, stunt person, and custom perfume blender.



—From The Guide for the Newly Undead



I may be the only person in history to have a telemarketing career lasting a total of three hours. Apparently, vampire powers do not translate to phone sales.



I’d reviewed the promotional material on Greenfield Studios. Despite its claims that the company brought quality family photography to the people without the high overhead or “high-pressure sales tactics” of in-store studios, I was just as uncomfortable with the prospect of shilling for them. But I’d filled out an application and given my word. And if my Anglo-Saxon Protestant heritage had blessed me with anything, it was a profound guilt-based work ethic.



Since I wasn’t going to be seen by the public, I abstained from my gal Friday look and wore jeans and my lucky blue sweater. (“Lucky” in that it was my one sweater that had never been stained.) Now sporting a lemon-yellow track suit, Sandy met me at the front entrance and led me through the lobby to a shiny pine door. It was a lot like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, only instead of a magical room where everything is made of chocolate, I got a backroom filled with headset -wearing chain-smokers. The clamor of desperately pleasant conversation was deafening. The room was as dingy and chaotic as the lobby had been spotless. Green contest entry slips exploded out from in-boxes in each cubicle. Poster-size performance charts were layered on top of each other on the wall, listing who’d made sales that night and who hadn’t. The stained floor was littered with old entry slips, crumbs, and cigarette butts. And casting an evil eye over it all was a banner that read in huge red letters, “If you don’t sell, you go home.”



Inspiring.



“Greenfield Studios is a national operation with call centers across the country,” Sandy chirped. “Half-Moon Hollow is our latest branch to open. Our field representatives pass out these entry slips at community events, school fairs, fundraisers. And if people are interested, they fill out their personal information. The slip clearly states that even if they don’t win the cruise, we reserve the right to contact them for future promotions.” Sandy handed me a neon green slip that screamed, “Win a cruise for two to the Bahamas from Greenfield Studios!” where some poor sap named Aaron Miller had traded his phone number and an evening ’s worth of peace for a shot at a vacation.



“Each shift, you receive seventy five slips. You call the numbers, remind the customers that they willingly gave us their entry information, and let them know that our traveling studio is coming to their hometown.”



“Traveling studio?” I said, my heart sinking just a degree further.



“Yes, our photographers travel to mid-price hotels, where they set up a portrait studio in a conference room or suite and take family pictures by appointment. Your job is to arrange the appointments and persuade the customer to preorder one of these.”



Sandy rifled through a pile of papers on a nearby desk and found what looked like a normal wall clock until she turned it so that I saw the face. Some poor family with stiff, uncomfortable smiles was frozen in time there, forever pinned beneath a minute hand that seemed to be sprouting from the mother’s chest like a grotesquely ornate spear.



“Wow.” At least I knew what the exciting new product was: the scariest freaking clock I had ever seen.



“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Sandy sighed. “Every year, the company comes up with a new promotional item. Last year, it was throw pillows with the family photo silk-screened on. This year, it’s kitchen clocks.



“You’re paid minimum wage plus a two -dollar commission per appointment booked. You book an average of three appointments in an hour, or you will be sent home. If less than fifty percent of your bookings follow through with their appointments, your commission will be reduced. You pay for use of your headset, phone line, and office supplies.”



My head spun as I realized the level of sleaziness I’d let myself slip to. Eyes closed, I said, “Let me get this straight. My job is to call these people at home, remind them of a contest entry they made months before, not to inform them that they ’ve won but that I’m now using that information to try to talk them into bringing their family to a motel room to have their picture taken by a total stranger? In a temporary studio that will disappear in a few days?”



“And push the clocks,” Sandy reminded me. “We like to call them a ‘memory that will last through time.’”



“Is there an actual cruise?” I asked, holding up a contest entry slip.



“Yes, the CEO takes one every year,” Sandy said with a conspiratorial wink.



I looked around the room at the sadly desperate women, shuffling through their entry slips, joylessly logging their bookings on the progress charts. Each had a pleasant, cheerful voice and a face that looked like ten miles of bad road. And they all seemed to be wearing track suits in varying stages of shabbiness. Any time between calls was spent bent over their cubicles in a racking cough. Their endless streams of smoke had already stained the walls a lovely shade of nicotine gray. And if I wasn’t mistaken, one of them appeared to be taking a sponge bath in the ladies’ room with the door open.



What had I gotten myself into? In terms of looking back at how your life went horribly awry, it was possible that accepting this job was worse than stumbling into vampirism.



Waving at the tendrils of smoke curling around my head, I cast a sidelong glance at the little plaque on the wall that declared the office a “smoke-free workplace.” Sandy laughed and threaded an arm companionably through mine. “I know, it’s not really all that legal to let them smoke inside like this, but they just couldn ’t work without a smoke every once in a while. And the breaks would kill our productivity. So, we just let them enjoy a nice cigarette while they work. It saves so much time, and everybody ’s happy.”



“What about the nonsmokers?”



She smiled. “You know, everybody who has come to work here eventually started smoking, so it’s never come up.”



Well, there was something to look forward to. At least I knew I couldn’t get lung cancer.



Sandy led me to an empty cubicle. The ladies on either side of me never broke their stride in their pitches to acknowledge my presence. Sandy didn’t make any effort to introduce me, and I assumed that was intentional. Sandy strapped a freshly disinfected headset over my ears and handed me the script, a tip sheet titled “Never Take ‘No’ for an Answer: How to Battle Common Excuses” and a green slip containing the name and phone number of Susan Greer of Portland, Oregon. “Shouldn’t I get some sort of training before I start making calls?”



“Oh, there’s no better training than jumping right in,” she said. “And you’re a quick study, I can tell. Just take a few seconds to go over your script, and dial the number.”



I stared at the script long enough to realize that the words weren’t making any sense in my head. No matter how long I sat there reading this thing, I would never be able to translate it into a tempting sales pitch. With Sandy sitting at my side listening to every word, I dialed the number and prayed that Susan Greer wasn’t home. No such luck.



“Hello!” I shouted into the receiver when a female voice answered. “Is Susan Greer available?”



“This is Susan Greer,” the woman said, a weary note of suspicion creeping into her voice.



“My name is Jane, and I’m calling this evening on behalf of Greenfield Studios. Our records show that you have indicated an interest in having your family portrait—”



“Not interested,” Susan grumbled, and hung up.



I shot a guilty look at Sandy. “It happens all the time,” she assured me. “Just try again.”



This time, I dialed Jamie Hurley of Portland, who was not much more receptive than Susan Greer. “Did you really interrupt my dinner to call me about this?” she demanded.



I closed my eyes and tried to pick back up on a spot in the script I remembered. “Our records show that you have indicated an interest in—”



“How did you even get my number, anyway? I’m supposed to be on a no-call list!”



When I stopped reading the script, I had time to process exactly how small and guilty I felt calling this poor woman. I scanned the excuses list for “How did you get my number?”



“Oh, um, well, you entered a contest to win a Caribbean crui—”



“I don’t have time for this,” she fumed. “I can’t believe you harass people at home like this. How do you live with yourself?



How do losers like you even get jobs? If you call me again, I’m going to file harassment charges!”