The Summer I Lost My Confidence

The summer before starting university, I moved to a new city. Florence, the biggest city in my region. Compared to the tiny Lucca, it felt like a metropolis.

I remember walking its torturous streets, all knotted and garbled like loose hair after a windy day, filled with the confidence that only a careless teen could muster in the face of imminent failure.

My family has modest roots —which is a kinder way to say mom was terrible with money, and often even a pair of second-hand shoes was a luxury—so they couldn't afford to pay rent for me too. But I was young, and I was reckless. I thought I would manage to find a job alongside my studies and pay rent for myself.

Life slapped that confidence out of my face pretty quickly.

The unemployment office refused to let me subscribe. It conflicted with my status as a student, they said. And since this was almost a couple of decades ago, my roomie and I didn't have any internet. Not that I would have known what website to look for: I wasn't even aware that temp agencies were a thing!

I didn't have anyone to ask for help, so I did what they do in the movies: I marched around the city with a stack of resumes and circled potential jobs in the free newspaper. Despite being a pretty shy person, I applied relentlessly, and a few odd jobs fell from the job tree here and there.

A one-day gig giving out promotional fliers for a new pizzeria.

A gig selling newspapers door-to-door that turned out to be unpaid and somewhat of a cult.

A pyramid scheme that was too fishy even for me to fall for.

I tried waiting tables, selling goods, and promoting products. I even almost became a model at some point (they were looking for alternative body shapes, and a fluffy shortie was alternative enough, but I didn't have the money to print out a photoshoot, so they had to let me go).

Then, finally, I got a job that lasted a little longer.

A call center job.

It was about selling English and/or Computer courses to people. Ney, it was about "Helping people update their skills for the contemporary work market". I liked helping, and they paid per call, so I didn't need to be good at sales. Which I was not. Still am not.

It all started well. They reeled me in by offering a free crash course on how to handle a phone call. I was very good at reading the script, an innate acting talent, they said.

We are doing a service to people. We are giving them a chance to buff up their resumee and be relevant on the job market.

And I believed it. So at the beginning, I was pumped.

The employees were all female, attractive, and quite older than me. Our boss/team leader/salesman called us his "secretaries" because our job was to try to secure an appointment with people interested in the product for him to have a talk with and finalize the sale.

Three cents per phone call, no matter the duration, no matter if they even picked up, as long as it rang at least ten times. A whole three euros if you placed an appointment, and a mysterious "bonus" on top of that if the person turned into a client.

It sounded fair, but it soon started smelling fishy.

We were given a list of local landlines. The script required us to tell people we called on behalf of the local school, the one where their kids likely attended, for a research project.

But when I used that phrasing on the phone, I was told to tone it down, change the language, and make it into a subtle hint instead. As it turned out, there was no affiliation with the school; it was just a ploy to sound reliable and prevent people from wondering how we got hold of their phone number.

We then had to say we needed to fill out a questionnaire about the local people's knowledge, to inform the school about what lessons they should offer at the recreation center, and we were absolutely not selling anything.

Technically, we weren't. Technically, we were at most going to send the salesman to their home, and he would do the selling. He was exceptionally persuasive, I was assured.

We were urged to do whatever we could to get our hands on mobile phone numbers. Those were valuable and could be reused for other projects. Additionally, it would have been a lot more convincing to start the conversation with "Your mother gave me your number because she believes you could benefit from our service".

And, we were zeroing in on unemployed people.

"We are giving them a chance to buff their resumee, update their skills for the contemporary work market, and become relevant again", they said.

But it turned out the courses were barely an introduction that wouldn't provide any real skill, yet cost a whopping 2000 to 3000 euros! Back in the day, it was the equivalent of 3 to 4 months' worth of salary for the average Italian worker.

For most people, that represented all of their savings.

For unemployed people, it could mean being unable to buy food and having to secure loans just to attend a few months of a once-a-week introduction to computers course.

I was shocked.

They kept telling me how we were doing people a favor, but the spell was broken. I lost all faith in the organization and was unable to secure a single appointment. I resorted to merely informing people of this opportunity rather than trying to push for an appointment with the salesman.

Then there was that one call.

He sounded like a lonely man in his forties, with a deep and somewhat fragile sadness in his voice.

I offered our services without pushing. He had no interest, of course. He had a job that needed no English or computer knowledge. Following the script, I asked if he had children. A daughter. Can I get her phone number so I can interview her, too?

He paused.

I could hear his breath becoming irregular.

She took her life earlier this week.

I was barely more than a child myself and had no wisdom to offer him. But I reckoned he needed to talk. He was lonely, and he was grieving. So I offered him the only thing I could, a sympathetic ear.

My team leader soon noticed that I was taking longer than usual and started listening in. He gestured to me to cut the call. I shook my head.

"Just hang up on him", he mouthed.

"I can't." I mouthed back.

I gave the sad man my whole attention and listened carefully as he explained his daily fight to find meaning. His wife had passed a few years prior, and he didn't have anyone around to help him grieve, but he turned to religion and found some solace and support in the church's community.

He thanked me for my time and thanked god for giving him a friendly ear when he most needed it.

I felt a mix of warmth and disgust.

My contract was terminated the day after.

We do it for you, the boss said. You'd end up working a lot of hours and earning nothing.

You lack the necessary "faccia di..." he paused for a moment, so I could understand what he meant, "...bronzo" (Italian for poker face). He chuckled, satisfied with his own linguistic smarts. We both knew he meant "faccia di culo" (a vulgar way to name somebody shameless).

We both knew it was because of that phone call, but he could not say it.

He was right about me earning nothing, though. I ended up with 127,80 euro to account for the six weeks I worked there. Not even half a month of rent. Not good for my self-esteem.

That job sucked.

...

What was your worst job? Share it with us by participating in Kay Husnick's challenge!