Brent Taylor The third rule of cold-calling: Speak with authority—especially when you don’t know. “What is authority, anyway?” Marty said. “Simply presenting yourself as one who knows. After all, who knows anything for certain? Before Columbus, they thought the world was flat.” That first morning, I watched him make call after call, get rejection after rejection, his demeanor never changing. I found out later that he was going through a divorce at the time, not to mention final exams at school. Still, with each new call, he maintained that slick, seamless motion with which he found the next number on the call list with his left hand, picked up the phone and dialed with his right. “Columbus died in prison,” he’d told me, putting the receiver to his ear. “Penniless. You want to make sales? Let people live in their flat world—that’s Rule Number Four.” Of course he was making the rules up as he went along (“Rule Number Five”), but using his method, I made it through my first week as a telemarketer. Really, it’s guided me ever since. When I left ComAmerica, I worked a couple of IT jobs before I finally started my own business doing website maintenance. Cold-calling was how I got my biggest account—an online dating service for people already in relationships. It’s also what saved me with Beth when we first started dating. The first physical date we went on was disastrous. I couldn’t look her in the eye through dinner. I sweated through my shirt. When the waiter cleared the plates, she beat me to the check. Dropping her off, we even shook hands. It couldn’t have gone worse. But, a week later, I called her. When she didn’t call back, I called again. “I admit,” she said, when she finally answered. “I’m surprised you called. You hardly said a word the other night.” “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I wasn’t feeling well.” “I thought you decided you didn’t like me.” “No…no way. How could you think that?” “I know this is silly, but I have this thing about my accent…I thought you were poking fun when you asked me if I was from L.A.” “No, the music was loud—I didn’t even notice your accent.” “Well, you’d think after living out west for nearly five years, I’d be over it—but it’s like some people hear it, think you’re ignorant.” “It’s lovely,” I said. “I think so—like steel guitars.” There was a long silence. Her stereo played softly in the background. “That’s really sweet,” she said. “Nobody ever told me that.” Crab Orchard Review
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