The other day, I called up two customers who had ordered a book. They were pretty snippy and, if you’ll forgive the term, a bit ghetto-fabulous, so I kind of pegged them for the “leave a message quick, bitch” types.

First impressions are tricky, though.

I didn’t want to call them, but, again, part of the job description. Just one second to dial the number, and another to get the phone ringing. One ring, two rings, three… Five seconds passed.

A woman came onto the line and began singing. I was about to break in–I’ve got little patience when it comes to telling people to pick their shit up–when I realized that I was hearing the first two seconds of a thirty-second R&B music clip.

While I listened to the woman talk about lovin’ her man ’til the break of dawn, I wondered if I could persuade my boss to give me a commission for having to endure stupidity.

Then the music faded.

I waited for the beep. One second.

Then another song began throbbing into my aural canal. Baby, baby, I neeeEEEEeeEEEEeed yooouuu…

Three seconds in, I was debating whether to just hang up and let the people call or come in for their damn order when a feminine speaking voice came on. Thinking this was one of the customers, I readied my cheery patter. But then I realized that it was part of the recording.

The two melded to create a cacophany I hadn’t heard since my second grade Christmas pageant. And that was some major ear rape.

I was able to understand this much from the slow, honey-thick voice: “Hi, you’ve reached the [baby, baby, oooh] of Dumbass and Mouthbreather. [My note: Obviously not their real names] We [uh-WOOOAAAHHH] to the phone right now, so [eeeEEEEeeEEEEEeeooohhh] message and have a bless-ed [uuunnhhh] day.” Fifteen seconds.

Back to the failed siren singing about roses, or champagne, or some other romantic crap. Another fucking thirty seconds.

“All this time, I could have been reading one-star reviews for Jane Austen on Good Reads,” I said to myself.

Then the music finally, finally faded, leaving my ears in peace.

A second of bless-ed silence.

BEEP.

It took half a second to register the sound, but after that, I knew just what to say.

“Record a normal message like the rest of the fucking world,” I said in an alternate universe where I wouldn’t be fired for saying something so nasty to a customer.

I just told them their crap had come in and they could pick it up at their earliest convenience, ending with my sweetest “thank you and have a great day.” Twelve seconds.

After hanging up, I turned the numbers over in my head until I came up with an approximate figure: 1 minute and 39.5 seconds. Just to leave a damn message.

Five more people to call. Thankfully, I had no more bit parts in Phone Call: The Musical.