1-800-LESS-TAX (standard:other, 676 words)
Author: davidg.	Added: Apr 23 2001	Views/Reads: 3192/1	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This story came after i heard an advertisement in a sub place - its about America from an outsider's point of view.

1-800-LESS-TAX 

I had lived in Chicago for about three months and had been working at a
tele-marketing place downtown. 

1-800-LESS-TAX. 

I had the job of phoning up unsuspecting individuals and ask them if
they wanted to "Spread the weight of their taxes over a long term 
period, in a method that was approved by the IRS." The manager said 
that my accent would be good for business. 

The unsuspecting individuals always shouted at, or hung up on me. 

I didn't really care for the first few weeks, as the money was good, but
soon it really started to piss me off. Every insult seemed to circulate 
around my head until I left for home, by which time I had fifty or more 
insults packed into my brain. 

My dandruff had also started to get worse. Every time I scratched white
flakes descended from my scalp onto my desk and into my keyboard. This 
was really distressing, as my head was now constantly itching, 
producing these huge flakes from nowhere. I think increase in cranial 
activity was to do with my diet. 

Every evening after work I went into this little shop that sold subs. I
always ordered a turkey sub with extra cheese, some evenings I splashed 
out on a cookie too. The little Polish man behind the desk always gave 
me a discount because he liked my accent. 

My apartment was spacious and lonely; I had yet to procure the
furniture, which was going to make my apartment more "homely." I was in 
a decent neighborhood, with a lot of career conscious neighbors. 

All I had brought with me from home was some CD's, books and my guitar.
I had stayed with a friend until I had secured a job. 

My work mates were very similar to me in that they were mostly young and
didn't care about the job. Sometimes a few of us went out for drinks 
after work, but after the novelty of my accent wore off they stopped 
asking me. Another reason for their dislike of me may have been to do 
with the long rants I would go on after a few drinks of how terrible 
the U.S.A was. It wasn't that I hated the U.S.A so much; it was just 
there were a few differences, which seemed to intrude into my everyday 
life. I hated the fact that people in shops would be so fake and 
over-friendly. I preferred home, where people didn't even pretend to 
care, where they would be openly horrible and unkind. I longed for 
unkind people, people who didn't talk to me, or comment on how 
"awesome" my accent was. Another thing was the sarcasm. I mean, I can 
cope with sarcasm and I love a sarcastic bastard every now and then, 
but Americans seemed to be on a crusade to be sarcastic about 
everything, no matter how miniscule it was. 

1-800-LESS-TAX was starting to wear me out. I needed a change, every
morning I walked to my dandruff covered desk and counted down the 
seconds until I was allowed to leave. The problem was that I had to 
work; there was nothing else to do. I had to make what seemed like 
thousands of phone calls each day. I couldn't read, or talk to my work 
mates; I couldn't even go to the toilet unless I went during designated 
times. The city was starting to suffocate me. The steel and glass all 
around seemed to suck the life out of me. 

I decided to go home, for good. I needed to get back to rain and good
humor. I left immediately and soon got a job back home, working as a 
cashier in a supermarket. 

One day I decided not to go into work. I made myself some breakfast,
walked over to the phone and dialed the code for the U.S.A., then 
dialed 1-800-LESS-TAX. I phoned up about fifteen times and either hung 
up, or shouted abuse at the unsuspecting tele-marketer. It felt good. 
They knew it was me though, they recognized my accent. 


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