The first real job I  had was telemarketing. I was seventeen, optimistic and stupid. I honestly believed that the Better Business award on the wall meant something and that my boss, a lamp tanned slickster, was misunderstood. The product was a nation-wide business directory, a glorified phone book. It contained a useless spectrum of geographically and thematically isolated contacts, from strip joints to law firms. We were provided with a standard script, no deviations allowed. Making a sale depended only on smooth delivery and tone of voice and the familiarity I trained into my voice implied some kind of relationship. I quickly discovered the minimum number I needed to unload in a given week to not get fired, sold exactly that many and spent the rest of my time dialing wrong numbers and talking to myself.