The Telemarketer

Roger Judd tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, his subconscious telling him something was wrong. He opened his eyes, then felt around for the reassuring presence of his Sheltie, Gus. The dog was not on the bed, nor was he lying on the rag rug next to it. Roger rolled over, planting his feet on the carpet, still groggy from his fitful night. Gus was not in the closet either, where he’d sometimes snuggle among the dirty sweats and underwear in the laundry basket.

The red digital numbers on Roger’s bedside clock read 3:15. Where could that little stinker be?

Gus wasn’t hiding among the shadows in the living room. He wasn’t in the dining room. He wasn’t in Roger’s office, chewing on the printer cord. He wasn’t in the kitchen after a late night snack. Like the dog in the commercial, Gus had learned to bring him a beer.

The old house seemed to breathe as Roger made a second tour. There were so many little sounds you took for granted during the day. The frig turning on and off. The tick of the clock, the house settling, some little creature stirring.

Roger tried the front door. It was open. Had he forgotten to lock it last night? Sure Gus was smart, but not smart enough to undo a deadbolt. Roger checked it at least three times before he finally switched off the lights and went to bed, so that couldn’t be it.

But the door was open. Had the lock been picked? Had someone tried to burglarize the house? Roger imagined a scenario where Gus had heard the rattling of the lock and gone out to tear a chunk out of the invader’s leg, only to be swiftly incapacitated by a jolt of chloroform. No, he would’ve heard the barking. Roger tried to think back to last night; had he been distracted by something, had he fallen asleep reading? The only other time he’d forgotten to lock up he jerked awake at midnight, still holding the book upright.

When Roger turned on the living room lights, to get a better look at things, he noticed footprints. He followed the muddy tracks into his bedroom, where he drew back the covers revealing soiled sheets. Back in the living room, he checked the closet for Gus’s leash; it was missing. That settled it; Roger had been walking in his sleep.

#

Roger opened a jpeg file with Gus’s picture on it, cut it out and pasted it into a word processing file, then typed up some copy on Shetland Sheepdogs, erroneously referred to as Miniature Collies. Gus had blue-merle coloring with a palomino blaze down the middle of his forehead and a coat that shone like wheat in a summer breeze. Gus could walk across the room on his hind legs and play dead, his tongue dangling like a tongue on a shoe.

At the bottom in 36 point, Roger offered a hundred-dollar reward for Gus’s safe return. He’d pay a lot more than that for Gus. The dog was his only friend. They took long walks together, late at night when the moon was full and the houses on Roger’s block were dark. There’d be the occasional house lit by a pool of yellow light reflecting a solitary livingroom. Another introspective loner, he’d think and feel better, this despite the time he’d been arrested. "Whatcha doing out here at three in the morning?" the cop had said. "You some kind of perverted window peeper?" His sister Francine had to come and explain things at the station.

Roger ran off a hundred copies and sat there thinking about how to distribute the posters without going outside, something he hadn’t done, without Gus, in three weeks, except for last night, if indeed he had been sleepwalking.

Almost immediately he had an idea: the young girl who’d knocked on his door last week, asking if he had yard work she could do. She’d been awfully determined, pounding on his door, ringing the doorbell, yelling, "I know you’re in there." When he’d squinted through the peephole, he would have sworn she was Peppermint Patty in the flesh. A red, stringy bob, freckles, little yellow cat’s eyes. He guessed she was harmless so he let her in. You couldn’t be too careful these days with all the murderers running loose. Just last week he’d read about a home invasion where a mother and her two teenage children had been murdered for gas money. Roger had kept the girl’s name and phone number in the event his regular lawn maintenance service went on vacation.

"You want me to what?" she said.

"My dog is missing. I want you to post some wanted signs, maybe ring some doorbells."

"I guess I could do that. How many posters we talking here?"

"A hundred."

"This is going to cost you."

"I’ll leave them in the mailbox. I’ve got work to do and I don’t want to be bothered."

"Do you want to be bothered if somebody has seen your dog?"

Sarcastic little hussy. She’d grow up to be one of those tongue-splitters he’d read about in the paper this morning. Monkey see monkey do. And the parents were worse; the one kid’s parents had given him the money to have it done. He looked like a walking lizard.

For the next several hours, Roger put his nose to the grindstone, stuffing envelopes for Lighting Lube, an oil changing company. He got a quarter for every envelope. He invested another hour working on his mail order business; he’d contracted with several senior citizens homes to provide him with carved figurines, which he bought for two bucks a throw and sold on the Internet for ten. After that he had a bologna sandwich and a root beer for lunch, then made some telemarketing calls for an automotive glass company. These calls were getting harder all the time; he had to buy a "Do-not-call" listing, about half the people in the state, and those that weren’t on the list were getting crankier and more belligerent by the day. "Do you know your goddamn computer is hanging up on me?" one guy said, before slamming down the phone. Roger could sympathize; he hated those, too.

Roger had developed a patter he used on the rare respondent who actually welcomed his solicitation. "How you doing today, Wanda?" Always call them by their first names; it establishes familiarity and some of the older clients will think they know you from someplace. "Lovely day, isn’t it? It’s been such a long, cold winter." Everybody loved to talk about the weather. Then he waited for an opening. Sometimes they’d actually tell him how they were. Maybe the son or daughter hadn’t been calling often enough. He’d commiserate, and, bingo! he’d earn a juicy commission.

About four o’clock he knocked off and went into his living room, where he sat in his rocking chair looking out the window, thinking about last night’s sleepwalking episode. As far as he knew, he’d never done anything like that before. Just how far had he gone? And where the heck was Gus? Hadn’t had him neutered, so maybe he was out cattin’ around. Ha!

Shit. He’d have to go look for Gus himself. Peppermint Patty

had probably thrown the posters away, thinking she already had the money so why do any actual work. The little body mutilator. Just the thought of going outside made Roger’s knees start to buckle. Every time he went out there in broad daylight he broke out in a sweat that would rehydrate the Sahara.

As he looked through the peephole to make sure the repulsive footwashers across the street weren’t waiting for him to come out, the phone rang. It was Francine, whom he hadn’t heard from in six months.

"How are you, Roger?" she said.

She wanted something. Both of them were less than demonstrative. Not that there was any ill will between them. Just a year apart, Francine and he had been really close growing up, closer than most brothers and sisters. They’d taken baths together right up until they’d started school. But they’d drifted apart.

"Gus is missing," he said, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Who’s Gus?" she said.

"My Sheltie" he said. "You know Gus. I brought him along that time Mom had her stroke."

"Excuse me!" she said. "I thought Gus might be an actual living breathing human being. Anyway, here’s the reason I’m calling. Phillip and I are getting married and I want you to be in the wedding."

"Who’s Phillip?" he said.

"Are you being sarcastic?" she said. "Phillip and I have been going together for five years. We work together at the library. Don’t tell me you don’t know Phillip!"

He had no idea who she was talking about. He couldn’t believe she’d actually found somebody willing to marry a mouse like her. He’d always been the more outgoing of the two.

"Is he the one with the thick glasses and the goatee? I thought he was the yardman."

"I’ll ignore that. What about the wedding? We’re doing a traditional service and since dad is gone, I need somebody to give me away."

"You know I don’t do weddings."

"Make an exception. For me. Your only sister."

He gave a plosive sigh. "How long is this going to take?"

"The service will last an hour or so and you should at least make an appearance at the reception."

"The whole day shot, huh?"

"What else have you got to do? The last I heard you weren’t working."

"Actually I work from home these days. I’m in sales."

"Let me guess, telemarketing, right? How can the valedictorian of his high school class wind up–-"

"He drops out of medical school and then his business fails." Roger’s NASDAQ startup had tanked during the crash. "But you knew that, didn’t you?"

"Damn telemarketers are nothing but glorified door-to-door salesmen, but I’d much rather talk to real-live person than some drone who can’t pronounce my last name. Are you going to help me out or not?"

Maybe he could work a deal, get her to look for Gus. Or phone the police. He couldn’t bear to call them himself: a grown man asking a police officer to find his widdo puppy. "I guess it won’t kill me."

She told him the name of the church and the time he had to be there.

When he hung up, he felt even more miserable than he’d been before she called. This seemed to happen every time he talked to his family, or his former friends for that matter.

She was right about telemarketing. How could he have let himself sink so low? The last thing he wanted to do was to call total strangers, pestering them to join a record club. Times were bad, though, and nobody else was hiring. There were advantages, however; you could work at home, take the day off any time you wanted. That last one had been the decision maker.

He guessed he’d gotten used to staying indoors, except for those times he walked Gus late at night when his neighbors were in bed.

His neighbors would frighten anyone into seclusion. Mrs. Pearson called the police every time he played his stereo. She’d sued him because his cottonwood shed in her yard. Old Man Beckman, on the other side of his house, was worse. Once, when the power went off, Roger’d gone over there to see if Beckman had lights and the senile old bastard had waved a gun when he answered the door. The maniac had a shooting range in his basement. Now that had to be against the law, but so far no one had the stones to report him, not even Mrs. Pearson. The people across the street, the Warners, were Bible thumpers. When he’d first moved in here, Tom Sr. had come to the door asking him if he thought he was saved. He’d answered, "Saved from what?"

This had led to an hour-long treatise on the coming of the apocalypse. Roger had been stupid enough to argue that the world was better off than it had ever been what with eradication of disease, immeasurably better communication, and labor-saving devices. Warner had called him an ostrich, burying his head in the sand. Roger had said, rather diplomatically he thought, "We’ll just have to agree to disagree, won’t we?" When he went for a walk, he ran into another one of them. "Never look them in the eye," he told himself. That had not been a deterrent, however. One of them had grabbed him and harangued him with a lecture on a Popish plot to rule the world.

One of these next few days he’d have to venture out there again, not only to see if he could find Gus, but also to visit Sunnyvale Home for the Aged. He’d come up with an even better idea than carved figurines. The first time he’d been to Sunnyvale he’d found his grandmother in the annex, working on her macrame; some of the male seniors had been whittling little leprechauns, angels and toy soldiers, others were into oil painting. Some of the pictures hadn’t been half bad. The general public had no taste whatsoever. They’d pay hundreds for a unicorn on black velvet.

#

The wedding turned out to be much more than an hour’s investment in time; Roger had to be fitted for a tuxedo, he had to attend several practice sessions. He even agreed to a dinner invitation at Francine’s in order to get to know Phillip better. He’d been confirmed in his disdain for the man. Phillip was a joke teller and there was nothing Roger hated more than knock knock jokes. "Knock Knock?" "Who’s there?" "Oswald." "Oswald who?" "Oswald my gum." If he strangled the man, no jury would find him guilty. Roger left before dessert.

Still no sign of Gus. When he drove around the neighborhood after wedding practice, he found several posters attached to street lamps and there was one in the front window of the 7-11, a couple of blocks down from Roger’s house. No sign of Patty, though.

It was raining the Saturday Francine got married, something she thought was a prophecy of gloom. "Why does everything have to happen to me?" she’d said as her attendants worked on her dress in the anteroom of St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. She’d done something obscene to her hair; it was styled in crinkly ringlets that looked as though they had been dipped in 10W30. She’d also gone with the over-the-shoulders wedding dress, not a wise choice considering her cleavage deficiency.

"I didn’t think you’d show up," she said.

"You should worry about Phillip," he said. "Is he here?" Roger hadn’t realized he’d been pacing up and down wringing his hands.

"Would you stop that," Francine said. "You’re making me nervous."

The attendants chased him out of the anteroom. Rather than chat with Phillip and his entourage, Roger sat in the back of the church, reading last Sunday’s announcements. He was shredding the bulletin into tiny little pieces when Peppermint Patty elbowed her way into the pew. Her hair was done up in sausage curls and she was wearing a chiffon dress with patent leather shoes. "What are you doing here?" he said.

"I’m the flower girl," she said.

"I thought flower girls were supposed to be little kids," he said.

"I’m Phil’s niece," she said. "The youngest in the family."

"Sooo," he said. "Any sign of Gus? I was expecting a report before now, you know."

"That’s what you get for paying in advance. Besides, I thought Denise woulda brought him back by now. Told her Gus was yours."

"Denise?"

"She’s the lady has him. He likes it there; she gives him table scraps."

"Table scraps! What’s she trying to do, ruin his stomach?"

"Don’t shoot the messenger. Denise lives a couple of blocks down and a block over from where you live. She’s even more skittish than you are; you’re probably gonna need to go get him yourself. She knows you; she’s seen you and the dog walking around late at night. She even saw you get arrested that time."

"So how did she come to find Gus?"

"He was tied to the railing outside her door when she went out to get her morning paper."

The wedding went off without a hitch, if you didn’t count Roger tripping over Francine’s train during the wedding march, the best man’s inability to find the ring, and the fracas Peppermint Patty started when she caught the bouquet, the other attendants unable to deal with a midget catching their lawful trophy.

#

Denise Alpert was a striking young woman with an intelligent forehead, arched eyebrows and luminous, hazel eyes too large for her oval face.

Gus stood at her side, his small face darting back and forth from Roger to Denise, making that whimpering sound he made when he wanted to be petted.

"I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Alpert," he said. "I hope this money will–-"

"I don’t want your money, Mr. Judd," she said, her voice low and resonant like Karen Carpenter’s. "I should have returned your dog when Patty told me he was yours."

Patty’s name is really Patty? How weird is that! "I was wondering–-"

"It’s because of my condition. I have a social phobia. It’s a kind of stage fright; I can’t even have a hamburger at McDonald’s without having an anxiety attack."

Roger had seen this woman before. He passed by this address during his moonlit walks. She was one of the other lonely introverts awake at three in the morning. He sat down in the armchair across from her, clumsily touching her knee in the process. She shrank back as though she’d been electrocuted. He, on the other hand, felt more comfortable here than he’d been in months. "I know just how you feel," he said.

"You do?"

"I get dizzy just thinking about going to the supermarket for a half gallon of milk. I have it delivered. You’ll never know how long it took me to find a store–-"

"Have you been to see anyone?" she asked.

He reached down to ruffle Gus’s coat. The dog growled.

"No . . . no," he said. "I’m alone so much it’s perfectly natural to–-. I’m a telemarketer, you see, that and some computer businesses I have going. I can do my work from home."

Her lovely eyes glistened with empathy. "I have a therapist, Mrs. Rosen. We’ve tried everything. Desensitization, pills, nothing seems to work. Ever since my husband died."

"Your husband–-?"

"I’ve always been shy; Kenny helped me to get out and meet people. He was so extroverted he was just a joy to be around, always laughing and playing jokes."

"But you’re so beautiful. Guys wouldn’t care if you never said a word."

"Kenny’s death seemed to tip the scales. People were so sympathetic; I just couldn’t face them. I have money from Kenny’s insurance policy so there didn’t seem to be any reason for me to get out, and when I finally felt like I should, I couldn’t."

"What did your husband die of, Miss Alpert?"

"Another car ran a red light and he was–-"

The greenish-brown eyes brimmed over with tears and Roger reached out to hold her hand. This time she didn’t pull back.

She wiped the tears away with the back of her sleeve. "What about you, Mr. Judd?"

"I . . . I . . . dropped out of medical school. Everyone had such high expectations."

"We’re two peas in a pod, aren’t we?"

"I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ll get Gus out of your hair."

The dog, who’d been sleeping on the rug, eerily similar to the one next to Roger’s bed, jumped to his feet and scampered out of the room, looking back over his shoulder as if he were being chased by a timber wolf."

"He doesn’t seem to want to leave," she said.

"He’s acting awfully weird. Did you hear him growl when I tried to pet him?"

"Maybe he likes the table scraps I’ve been giving him. I didn’t know what else to feed him. I was going to call but I couldn’t seem to make myself do it."

Roger didn’t want Gus to leave either. If he took the dog away, he’d have no reason to return. "I’ll leave him here for now, if you don’t mind. I’ll bring over some dog food and his chew toys tomorrow if that’ll be all right, and we’ll try to reason with him."

#

Roger spent that evening rummaging through his bookshelves, looking for his Carl Jung. He never could find a book he was looking for. Had he given the damn thing away?

He needed that book, not some capsulized version of Jung’s archetypes from the encyclopedia. Those hazel eyes, that oval face. He’d seen Denise before and he was pretty sure he knew where, if he could only find that book! The thing was probably staring him right in the face. He found Jung’s DREAMS wedged in behind a copy of THE RISE AND FALL OF THE THIRD REICH.

When he opened the book, a slip of paper fluttered to the carpet. He’d seen Denise someplace else besides on his early-morning walking tours with Gus and now he knew where.

The next morning he was up before the light shown in his window. He showered, brushed his teeth, flossed, had breakfast. Still only 6:30. He tried to read his morning paper but found himself reading the same headline over and over. He paged through the phone book. Had to be her, D. Alpert. The address seemed right.

She answered, sounding tired. "Denise, Roger here, Gus’s owner."

"Yes, certainly. I remember."

"I’d like to come over now to bring those things if it’s not too early." He thought his voice sounded manic, like the guy on the Federal Express commercial. Why hadn’t he been able to wait a couple of hours?

"That would be nice," she said. "I’ll be waiting for you."

#

They sat knee to knee. Even wearing a ratty old bathrobe with her hair mussed from sleep, she looked beautiful.

He showed her the picture he’d found in the Jung book. "I never was able to read him all the way through, but I thought the stuff about archetypes was fascinating, especially the material about the anima, Jung’s term for the feminine part of a man’s personality."

"I never took much psychology, just the general ed in college," she said.

"According to Jung when a man becomes interested in a woman he projects the feminine side of himself onto that woman, sometimes causing all kinds of grief when the poor thing doesn’t measure up. I drew that picture of a woman I saw in these recurring dreams I have. Look, it’s dated June, 1991.

"But this looks like me."

"I think I must have recognized you when I walked by here all those times. That’s why I must have been sleepwalking. My subconscious."

"Are you sure you didn’t draw it after you left here last night?"

"I swear I drew it years ago. Look, the page is yellowing." Gus nosed between them, panting, his eyes twinkling the way they always did when he was happy. "Look at Gus," he said, "He’s a regular little Dolly Levi."

#

Six months later, Roger and Denise were married at St. Anthony’s Catholic Church, with Peppermint Patty--sausage curls and all--serving as the maid of honor and Gus as best man. Roger had been readmitted to medical school and Denise had opened a gift shop to help with tuition.