THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 9, 1995 TAG: 9507090183
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Medium: 69 lines
I have a hang-up about hanging up.
The phone, that is. I am a telephone solicitor's dream.
While my husband stands there drawing his finger across his neck, then slamming his fist down on his palm - the international sign for ``HANG UP!'' - I'm on the phone saying, ``What company . . . ?'' ``What kind of survey . . . ?'' and ``How much is the grand prize again . . . ?''
I'm on the phone more often with solicitors than with people I know. Time-share salesmen. Vinyl siding people. Volunteer fire departments. Credit-card companies. Light-bulb sellers. Charity groups. Alumni associations.
They can track me down better than most relatives. I think they smell a sucker a million miles away.
``Hey, maybe vinyl siding is just what we need - on our brick house,'' I say.
The truth is, I hate to hang up on these folks. I always imagine them sitting in some sweatshop earning money for starving families. And I can't overcome years of good phone etiquette to hang up midpitch.
Besides, there's always that outside chance that I will win something. Find a better deal. Save millions. Get that call from Ed McMahon asking for directions to my house so he can drop off my prize.
But the calls are starting to wear on me. Especially those cleverly timed to ring right when I'm drawing the first spoonful of steaming supper to my mouth.
Long-distance phone-company folks, in particular, have my number. They call constantly, with their unceasing plea, ``Do you wanna switch, huh, huh, huh?''
There's this one guy, Tony, who won't give up.
``No, I don't want to change,'' I tell him.
Not because I like my long-distance service. Not because I've given one iota of thought about the price. Only because I've had to build up resistance to his unrelenting pitch.
``Can I ask why not?'' Tony implores, wondering if I have some reason for turning him down besides being a complete idiot and not knowing a good deal when I see one. ``Would you like to know how much you could save by switching?
``No, I wouldn't.''
``Is there some reason why you want to spend more money with the other company?''
``Yes, because they don't BUG ME ALL THE TIME.''
Then, just as I'm about to hang up, he invokes my father's name. ``Did you know your father, John Simpson, has joined a program to give you savings, too?'' he hurriedly says, like a door-to-door salesman slipping his foot in the doorjamb.
This guy is good.
``My father?'' I say, momentarily stunned by this ingenious trump card.
My husband, meanwhile, stands there with bulging eyes, his signal for, ``Get off the phone before you sign over the house!''
``No, I don't care what my father did,'' I tell Tony.``I'm not switching, no-no-no-no. Leave me alone, pleeezzzz.'' I'm starting to feel like those brow-beaten people in interrogation rooms with one-way mirrors and bright lights.
Someday soon the tele-terrorists will call again. They know I am easy prey, ripe for the kill. Who knows the names they are gathering to deliver the final blow?. A childhood friend. A long-lost cousin. No, not third-grade teacher Mrs. Ashby! Please, Tony, no!
Maybe I should have my husband answer the phone more often. by CNB