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Richard Nixon's glittering half-life sarcophagus / Re: ATTN MORTALS: Post ITT for a quest to make you more Holy™.
« on: April 10, 2011, 11:35:58 pm »
The phones go off in the evenings. We are not receptionists. We are dispatchers. A receptionist is someone who is there to help you. A dispatcher is someone who you are interrupting from doing actual work. So when the receptionist turns the phone off in the evening and you get a voice that sounds like it would happily toss you a heavy stone while you drowned, you are talking to the dispatcher.
“Dispatch.” That is all. It is the department, perhaps the name of the speaker. No ‘how can I help you’ or ‘how can I direct your call,’ just ‘dispatch.’ In fact, we don’t really want to help you. It just happens that helping you is the fastest way of getting off the line.
“Hi, I’m not sure if I have the right department. I’m looking for the caseworker for NS unit.”
“Administrative staff has stepped out for the day, you’ll have to call back tomorrow during business hours.”
Click.
We don’t take messages. We don’t take them from one staff member to another, we don’t take them from civilians to inmates. We connect you to the right phone extension or to the right person, and the faster we can do this the happier we’ll both be.
“Dispatch.”
“My boyfriend got locked up and I want to put money in his canteen.”
“I’m going to send you to the inmate information line.” Transfer, click.
That’s because we know how communication works. You get the gist but the details get all mangled up. And when you’re giving a story with details, it’s the details that get questioned. Can’t answer a question about something we weren’t directly privy to, so we send you to the person who was. We are the middle man, and we are more than happy to cut ourselves out.
“Dispatch.”
“I’d like to speak with Officer Smith.”
“I’m going to send you to the control desk.” Transfer, click.
The phones rings and one of seven people are on the line. The first can’t string a thought together, but can manage a sentence. The second has something clearly in mind, but can’t actually speak it. The third doesn’t understand that you can’t solve all of their problems. The fourth manages to talk without a fraction of a pause, somehow not breathing. The fifth can only speak in shrieks. The sixth is your boss. The seventh is an actual nice person. One through six overlap. In two years I have spoken with seven a total of three times, and they probably only qualify because it was a very short conversation.
Then there’s the calls coming from a line that you can tell from the ID are going to be misdials.
“Sheriff’s Office.”
“Hello, is this Dr. Springer’s office?”
“No, this is the Sheriff’s Office.”
“What number is this?”
“It’s the number for the Sheriff’s Office.”
They never believe you. Like you were mistaken. No, sir, you’re right, this is Papa Gino’s Pizzeria, answering for a county sheriff’s office three times was my mistake. Let me offer you some bread sticks.
But every so often the phone can be difficult instead of a nuisance. It is for these reasons that Pete has learned to avoid it.
Pete’s the newest hire, the only one with less time than me, and holds the title of the reddest human being I’ve ever met. The office is thankfully devoid of sharp objects, because I’m fairly certain he is composed entirely of blood, which upon disturbing would then spray like a power wash through our equipment. Pete’s a simple guy. The processes of the office that have an established solution are the ones he’s quite good at. They don’t require very much judgment or, well, thinking.
The phone is where that gets complicated. People are on the other line of that thing, and they are notoriously untidy.
Pete’s more of an ambulance call kind of guy. The ambulance calls on the radio, they tell you the hospital they want to talk to, and you patch their signal through to that location. Clean, simple, totally unlike humans on phones.
So rather often, they get me. And, worse, they get me when I’m busy. And, even worse, they might even get me when it’s so busy that I haven’t had a moment to eat my supper. Hungry people are funny things. Call me at one hour and you’re just an inconvenience. Call me at another and you are an obstacle preventing me from undertaking a biological imperative which falls under the category of a requirement to live. That needs to be addressed suitably.
“Dispatch.”
“Hi, I wanted to know if someone is there.”
“Yes. Several people. Thanks for checking.” Click.
“Dispatch.” That is all. It is the department, perhaps the name of the speaker. No ‘how can I help you’ or ‘how can I direct your call,’ just ‘dispatch.’ In fact, we don’t really want to help you. It just happens that helping you is the fastest way of getting off the line.
“Hi, I’m not sure if I have the right department. I’m looking for the caseworker for NS unit.”
“Administrative staff has stepped out for the day, you’ll have to call back tomorrow during business hours.”
Click.
We don’t take messages. We don’t take them from one staff member to another, we don’t take them from civilians to inmates. We connect you to the right phone extension or to the right person, and the faster we can do this the happier we’ll both be.
“Dispatch.”
“My boyfriend got locked up and I want to put money in his canteen.”
“I’m going to send you to the inmate information line.” Transfer, click.
That’s because we know how communication works. You get the gist but the details get all mangled up. And when you’re giving a story with details, it’s the details that get questioned. Can’t answer a question about something we weren’t directly privy to, so we send you to the person who was. We are the middle man, and we are more than happy to cut ourselves out.
“Dispatch.”
“I’d like to speak with Officer Smith.”
“I’m going to send you to the control desk.” Transfer, click.
The phones rings and one of seven people are on the line. The first can’t string a thought together, but can manage a sentence. The second has something clearly in mind, but can’t actually speak it. The third doesn’t understand that you can’t solve all of their problems. The fourth manages to talk without a fraction of a pause, somehow not breathing. The fifth can only speak in shrieks. The sixth is your boss. The seventh is an actual nice person. One through six overlap. In two years I have spoken with seven a total of three times, and they probably only qualify because it was a very short conversation.
Then there’s the calls coming from a line that you can tell from the ID are going to be misdials.
“Sheriff’s Office.”
“Hello, is this Dr. Springer’s office?”
“No, this is the Sheriff’s Office.”
“What number is this?”
“It’s the number for the Sheriff’s Office.”
They never believe you. Like you were mistaken. No, sir, you’re right, this is Papa Gino’s Pizzeria, answering for a county sheriff’s office three times was my mistake. Let me offer you some bread sticks.
But every so often the phone can be difficult instead of a nuisance. It is for these reasons that Pete has learned to avoid it.
Pete’s the newest hire, the only one with less time than me, and holds the title of the reddest human being I’ve ever met. The office is thankfully devoid of sharp objects, because I’m fairly certain he is composed entirely of blood, which upon disturbing would then spray like a power wash through our equipment. Pete’s a simple guy. The processes of the office that have an established solution are the ones he’s quite good at. They don’t require very much judgment or, well, thinking.
The phone is where that gets complicated. People are on the other line of that thing, and they are notoriously untidy.
Pete’s more of an ambulance call kind of guy. The ambulance calls on the radio, they tell you the hospital they want to talk to, and you patch their signal through to that location. Clean, simple, totally unlike humans on phones.
So rather often, they get me. And, worse, they get me when I’m busy. And, even worse, they might even get me when it’s so busy that I haven’t had a moment to eat my supper. Hungry people are funny things. Call me at one hour and you’re just an inconvenience. Call me at another and you are an obstacle preventing me from undertaking a biological imperative which falls under the category of a requirement to live. That needs to be addressed suitably.
“Dispatch.”
“Hi, I wanted to know if someone is there.”
“Yes. Several people. Thanks for checking.” Click.
