They brought me in on a six-week contract to “optimize client contact channels”—which, in plain English, meant building a phone system so soul-destroying that most callers would hang up and blame themselves.
I needed the money. Rent. Food. Weed. Rent. No khakis.
“Keep it simple,” the manager said on my first day. Then he leaned in, whispered, “Every call we don’t take? That’s savings.”
So I gave them The Tree.
The menu options went like this:
“For account help, press 1.” “For billing questions, press 2.” “To make a payment, press 3.” “To cancel a payment, press 4.” “To hear today’s motivational message, press 5.” “To request a callback, press 6.” “For store hours and location info, press 7.” “To report a technical issue, press 8.” “For general information, press 9.”
(Pause.)
“To speak with a representative, press 0… then 2… then 9… then pound.”
The manager loved it.
“You’re a genius,” he said. “Now add a Spanish option—but make it lead to a busy tone.”
We tested it. Almost nobody made it to pound. Most callers gave up somewhere between the hold music and the motivational message, which was delivered daily by Cheryl.
Cheryl also handled all the actual calls—when she was on-site. She worked half-days. The half that didn’t involve being anywhere near her desk.
I asked her once, “How’s it feel being the human face of a vast corporate labyrinth?”
She took a long drag of her Virginia Slim and squinted like she was aiming at me.
“I don’t even listen to them anymore,” she said. “Half of them just yell ‘agent’ into the phone like it’s a magic spell. I let ‘em scream into the void while I finish my Sudoku.”
She paused and added, “Most people don’t need help. They just want to be heard. That’s what the system’s for.”
“But you are the system,” I said.
She exhaled sideways, not even looking at me. “I forward most of it to voicemail,” she said. “And I don’t check voicemail.”
Management adored her. Low complaint volumes. High “call deflection rates.” That’s what they called it—deflection. Like we were judo-flipping old ladies away from their pension accounts.
Then came the rollout of Vicki—the artificial intelligence they swore would revolutionize human indifference.
“She’s going to replace Cheryl,” the manager said, grinning. “No sick days, no smoke breaks, and she never files a harassment report.”
Vicki had a calm Midwestern drawl—the kind of voice that made you feel like she was going to bake cookies and gaslight you at the same time.
When callers finally made it to pound, after thirty minutes of wandering the keypad, Vicki would say sweetly, “I’m transferring you to a specialist now. Please hold while we return you to the main menu.”
And back they went—like salmon up a dry chute.
“Efficiency,” the manager said, standing beside a whiteboard that read: CLIENT SATISFACTION UP 12%.
Cheryl lasted a week after Vicki came on. Vicki was already setting “new benchmarks” in empathy simulation and call avoidance.
“Where’s Cheryl now?” I asked.
“Florida, I think,” the manager said. “Testing vape pens for some wellness startup. Fully remote, so no real change for her.”
I nodded and went back to my desk, pressed play on the queue. Line 2 lit up—someone yelling “Representative!” into the void.
Vicki answered, smooth as warm butter. “Your call is very important to us.”
In the breakroom, Cheryl’s chipped “World’s Best Listener” mug was still by the sink, filled with dried creamer packets and stir sticks. Someone had balanced a used floss pick on the rim. Nobody rinsed it. Nobody moved it.
At 4:58 that afternoon, I got the email:
Subject: PROJECT COMPLETE—THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE
In the body was a link to an “optional offboarding survey” that didn’t open.
I passed Cheryl’s desk on the way out. Someone had taped a printout over her phone:
DO NOT ANSWER—ALL CALLS HANDLED BY SYSTEM.
The line was lit, steady and silent.
That final evening, as I walked back to my apartment—rent paid—I wondered how long the manager would last before artificial intelligence replaced him, and I found myself smiling for the first time in six weeks.
