The Pennsylvania Firefighters Fund
I approached the unmarked black door and stood in confusion on a block in Sheepshead Bay under the train one late summer’s morning. There was no sign, only a thick coat of paint tarnished by knife-scratched graffiti, so I wondered if I was at the correct location. I stood in my white collared shirt tucked into my khakis, my neck straining from my blue tie. A three-story brick building, and the overhead train tracks that stood close to it, blocked the sun. I was wedged in the middle, cloaked by a deep shade. Looking up I noticed that the windows on the building where I was to have my job interview had been covered in wood and cardboard. I knocked three times and waited for the door to creak open before realizing that there was a doorbell, also covered in knife scratches. I rung the highest bell, and a click came from a talk box.
“Yeah?” garbled a voice.
“My name is Kenneth, I’m here for the 11 am job interview.” I replied.
There was no response, only one more click followed by a loud buzzer that expanded into a dim, fluorescently lit hallway. It echoed like an alarm until the door slammed behind me, and all was silent. This was a residential building, but nobody seemed to live here. The only sign of life was a narrow black staircase with thick, uneven steps that lead to a room lit with even more fluorescent lighting. Though I felt cautious, I was still optimistic.
I reached the top of the stairs and entered a waiting room that was so narrow in width, the five chairs available seemed more like an insult than an invitation to sit. I approached a middle aged woman sporting strong perfume, hair several shades of blonde from what I assume were several different boxes of pharmacy-brand hair dye, and a look of apathy in her eyes that you were warned to be wary of in high school. Since high school was only a year behind me, I felt a little uneasy with myself, having arrived quite literally at that apathy’s doorstep.
“Fillloutttanappl-a-cashin”, she said in one long effort from her standing desk.
“Where are the applications?” I replied. She nodded to the wall, where a single glued bin containing pieces of paper hung. I took one and sat down. It was hard to read, as the application was printed from a machine low on ink, more than likely, printing the text slightly diagonal. The application only asked for my name, phone number and address. “God damn it, Lauren,” I thought to myself.
Lauren, a classmate of mine from Sheepshead Bay, was a chain smoker who followed every cigarette with chewing gum. Lauren liked to skip class occasionally to drink from her flask. She had a boyfriend named Al who was a sanitation worker that took pleasure in beating her and dodging arrest warrants from the police. Not because she reported him, but because he beat someone on the job with a baseball bat. Despite all of this, Lauren didn’t want to leave him. In fact, Lauren seemed to be a magnet for these sorts of people. So, it’s no surprise that when I was in a financial bind, and needed a job immediately, my asking Lauren for a lead would be reciprocated with “I know a place where you can go and make easy money. These guys are friends with Al.”
“Great,” I thought. “Where do I go?”
Danny, a short and muscular man with a tanned face, a thick Brooklyn-Italian accent, greased up hair, and too much aftershave approached me. His watch shone as bright as the oil on his forehead. He glanced at my application thoroughly despite it only having my name, phone number and address.
“Come on in. Let me show you around.”
The single square room housed about 30 computers almost all of which were occupied by young men and women. Some were in shirts, some in sweatpants and hoodies. They were talking softly on headsets. These computers were old, grey and had wires that all tangled together. They were aligned in rows of three that extended to two long windows which showed a view of the train. The walls were bare. The lighting was also fluorescent.
“You’re gonna sit down here, you’re gonna make calls and you’re gonna collect charity,” Danny told me. “Read this script, stick to the script and be assertive.”
So, telemarketing.
“Cool,” I thought to myself.
“This is commission based, you hear me? Commission based. That means you gotta collect in order to get paid. If you collect enough, I’ll promote you.” Danny pointed to the corner of the room, as if there was an office or a lounge that I could earn my way to, but there was only a corner. “Just hit the return key on the keyboard, and a name and number will generate. You press ‘C’ and you call that number. Good luck.”
I stared at my tiny computer at my tiny station. I stared at the keyboard that was covered in dust. I stared at the black screen with a single bright green marker. I hit “return” and the marker disappeared for a few seconds before a name and number with an area code that wasn’t from New York appeared. I pressed “C”.
“Hello?” a voice said on my headset. I took a deep breath and read from the script.
“Hello! I am calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Firefighters Fund. We are an organization collecting money for the families of wounded and deceased firefighters who got hurt or killed in the line of duty. Would you like to make a small donation?” I said in my most pleasant evening voice. Click. The person hung up.
“What are you doing bro, I said assertive” said Danny who appeared out of nowhere. “Act like a man. Don’t ask, demand.” Demand. I pressed “return” and another name and number appeared. I pressed “C.”
“HELLO. I AM CALLING ON BEHALF OF THE PENNSYLVANIA...FIREFIGHTERS FUND! WE ARE AN ORGANIZATION COLLECTING.” - CLICK - “Hm, too assertive.” I pressed “C” again. “Hello! I am calling on behalf of the…” This time I was on the phone with a middle-aged man for a few minutes before he said, “No, thank you.” It was the day’s personal best. I wished him a good evening. Danny swooped in.
“Good evening? Are you fucking serious? Do you want to get promoted or not bro?” he said as he pointed to the corner. “Don’t be a pussy. What kind of man are you?” While I was trying to figure out why it was that Danny was calling me a pussy, I looked out the window and a train roared by.
“Hey Danny, why are we collecting money for a firefighters fund in Pennsylvania?” There seemed to be a pause in the room, and a few workers side eyed me.
Danny got in my face. “Don’t worry about that. Your only job is to collect.”
Right. We were stealing.
The room was hot. As the hours went by, I breathed deeper and faster. I was sweating through the back of my shirt. I kept telling myself that all I needed was a week’s paycheck and that would be it. I decided to stop being Kenneth and become Danny. I sat up straight, puffed my chest and stiffened my neck. I pressed return on my keyboard and a name and number appeared. I pressed “C.” An elderly woman answered the phone.
“Hello?” she said pleasantly.
“Hello! I am calling on behalf of the Pennsylvania Firefighters Fund. We are an organization collecting money for the families of wounded and deceased firefighters who got hurt or killed in the line of duty. Would you like to make a small donation?” I breathed calmly.
“Oh, how much of a donation are you looking for?” she replied. I looked at my paper.
“One hundred and fifty dollars.” There was a silence between us.
“One hundred and fifty, oh my, that sounds a bit much. Can I make a smaller donation?” The sincerity in her voice would have evoked a response from my conscience if I was Kenneth. But I wasn’t Kenneth. I was Danny. Danny had no conscience. Danny wins.
“You could ma’am, but the recommended donation is one hundred and fifty, as we are covering funeral costs and hospital bills and children’s tuitions.” I said with direct intent.
“Oh, that is awful,'' she said. “Give me a moment.”
There is a pause on my headset, and I looked at all the other workers, focused on their task. I felt a rush. This is what everyone else is feeling. She returned to her phone.
“I would love to make a donation,” she hooked.
“Great. I’m just going to need a credit card number, address, and you will be mailed a thank you.” I reeled. She gave me her credit card number slowly, and I typed it into the computer system.
“It’s very noble of you to be doing this,” she said.
Once I had her information, I said thank you and I hung up. All I had to do was press the enter key, and I would collect my first payment. I felt relief. I also felt like a crook. The sun was getting low now. I could see it through the window of the building where I was sitting in a room with thieves, ready to join their ranks. I pressed a key on the keyboard, and one digit from the woman’s credit card number disappeared. I wasn’t Danny. I deleted another. I am Kenneth. I deleted another number. I am. I deleted more numbers. I am fucked is what I am if I don’t get the hell out of here. I made sure the number was completely erased then I got up from my seat and walked towards the exit. Danny was nowhere to be found, but the front desk woman yelled “EXCUSE ME. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” and then he appeared like a Buick crashing through a wall.
“Where are you going?” I was about to tell him that I quit, until I saw it. He was standing by a doorway. Behind him was an office with a few other men who looked exactly like him, and they were all looking at me.
“I’m going out for a cigarette.” I told him, looking him in the eye.
“Did you get that sale?” He was testing me.
“I did.” I’m holding my bluff.
“Really?” He said as one man stood up behind him.
“Check my computer. It’s there. I’m going for a cigarette.”
As Danny walked into the room, I turned around and walked towards the exit. I tried to find my application on the front desk to take with me, but I only saw a pile that I didn’t have time to go through. I flew down the narrow staircase, kicked open the big black door, and was hit with a cool breeze and the low light of a setting sun. I ran for the nearest train station. As I ran, I took off my tie and opened my shirt. My phone rang. And rang. And rang. Lauren was calling me. I let the phone ring and she called some more. Someone much wiser than me once said, “sometimes the only thing more important than knowing what kind of man you are, is knowing what kind of man you aren’t.” I thought of the promotion corner and laughed.
By Kenneth Sousie
Illustrations done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Jose Daniel Benitez for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/