Not What He Called For

It was a heavy phone day. Not all of my work days are, but there are enough of them to make me fantasize about the day when my book sales reach a point where I can quit the account-managing job to just be a writer. But for now, my day job consists of fielding a lot of phone calls for my clients, covering everything from order status to product questions to catalog requests.

And so when the phone rang and a young man came on the line saying, “I’d like to get one of your catalogs,” I thought nothing of it. Those are usually the easiest calls, so I said sure and asked for his name and address.

And that’s when I knew that this would be no ordinary catalog request.

He verbally stumbled several times just giving me his name, and midway through his address the poor guy halted, apologizing, berating himself (“I should know my own address; I should know my own address”). I assured him it was okay, to take his time, because I knew. I got that tingling at the back of my neck; I knew that I was speaking with a young man who had a developmental disability of some sort, perhaps autism, perhaps not. And he was requesting a catalog of self-help CDs.

He finished giving me his address, and I thanked him, telling him when he should receive his catalog, expecting him to hang up then. But he didn’t. He said something that made my heart ache.

“Are you hiring any male phone operators?”

Then, in the seconds that I mentally formulated a response, I heard his mother in the background, gently correcting him. “Patrick, that’s not what you called for.”

My tears came then, because in that instant I realized that she was me and I was her. How many times have I stood by the phone, coaching Neil through calls in the exact same way? Teaching him phone etiquette? How many times? Will I be in her shoes ten years from now, with my adult son doing his damnedest to try to be independent, trying to get a job – any job – any way he can? I wanted to reach through the phone, to hug her, to tell her I know. To tell her I’m there with her.

I took in a quick, empathic breath and told Patrick that I’m sure he would be a wonderful phone operator, but we weren’t hiring any new people right now. He said, with sincerity and grace, “That’s okay. But I’m really glad that you have a job. Because it’s hard to find jobs these days, so I’m happy for you that you have one.”

I almost gasped at that point – his candor, his gentleness, was overwhelming. I thanked him and wished him the best on his job hunt. I hung up the phone and sat there at my desk, at my job that I fantasize about leaving, and thought about all the Patricks who are just trying to get any job, who with the help of their loving mothers are requesting self-help catalogs, who for all the world wish they could be in my shoes, have a job they can be proud of, and who are genuinely happy for those that do. I was deeply moved, and profoundly appreciative.

It may not have been what he called for, but I’m so glad he did.