At what point did I become a maggot?
The transformation first came to my attention after a series of obscure phone calls last January. I was working as copy editor of The Free Press. In the middle of the night, I received six frenetic voicemails asking, what does it feel like to be a maggot.
Maggot?
Yes maggot, he said when I called back the number left on my caller ID. Meaning I never wrote original copy myself; I just diddled on everyone else’s.
Maggot: one that feeds off others for sustenance, crawling grubby and legless out of someone’s steaming pile of waste. Kelly Osbourne. Dr. Phil. At least three Wayans brothers.
Me?
At the time, I wrote off the charges as a nefarious representation of my obvious grammatical talents (check out my pure silver use of the semicolon). But then, a few weeks ago, the claims solidified as I became a new type of maggot-the maggot you hang up on.
I started working a temp job at a marketing company downtown to pay for rent and mac and cheese. I do not peddle products to the lonely and vulnerable. I give surveys to them.
The job appeared reasonably easy. Read prepared copy over the phone exactly as written. Mostly local calls, too. Like putting an ice cream cone in the governor’s mailbox, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
My first foray into telemarketing brought a blow to the ego not seen since I flew headfirst off my bike into a bush while checking out a cute boy across the street when I was eight. Nine people in a row hung up on me. In confusion, I asked a 12-year old boy if he purchased a new car in the past four years.
I felt dirty, but I made $75 in less than three hours. That, combined with a perverse interest in the vaudeville acts of late capitalism, has kept me employed for the last month.
And I have endured through the many stages of maggotdom, which I have taken the time to outline here for your benefit.
Stage I: Righteousness of the Unrepentant Maggot
What kind of rude prig are you, hanging up on me? MY indignation is evidence of a massive lack of self-awareness about the invasive nature of my job.
Stage II: The Bargaining Maggot
In the 10-second window before you hang up on me, I will do whatever it takes to keep you on the phone, including varying the style of my introduction to make it more attractive to you, whoever you may be.
Stage III: The Maggot’s Rationalizations
My survey-taking is a service to mankind. By the tone of my voice, I will convince you of this as well.
Stage IV: Self-Loathing Maggot
I am a maggot. You can sense my grim self-hatred by the way I stutter over words.
Stage V: Self-Loathing Maggot Pretend
You think I loathe myself. Pity is my new technique. No! Bad maggot! Bad!
Stage VII: The Maggot Repents
I am a maggot, and I am sorry. I will assist you in hanging up on me.
As the weeks drone on, I’ve cycled in and out of these stages of maggotdom. I am predominantly filled with a grim self-loathing I have as much tenacity as a Sublime cover band. The turnover rate for telemarketing is six weeks, or so I’ve heard. Thank god I’m a masochist.
Elizabeth Baish can be contacted at [email protected]