Nowadays, I conduct guerilla warfare against telemarketers – drawing them into protracted, seemingly endless conversations, from which withdrawal seems impossible and victory is always elusive. I play a game called “Uh”, where I try to keep the person on the line using nothing but the word “Uh” in all its tonal varieties.

Hello sir, this is -------- from -------- how are you today?

Uh.

Fantastic sir! I’m calling on behalf of -------- which is a ------ for ------------, does that sound like something you’d be interested in?

Uh!

Great! And so, let me just quickly confirm – are you still residing at --------- Apt -----?

Uh…

Turns out sir, there is actually someone in your area today, when would be a good time to meet?

Uh??

My all-time record was somewhere around eight and a half minutes…

I wasn’t always like this. They’ve driven me to fight back. Telemarketers are like barnacles on the bottom of your boat, unless you’re constantly scraping them off, they just cling and multiply. They invite other barnacles to join, until the hull is nearly covered and you begin to sink.

It starts small, a harmless conversation with a clearly overworked telemarketer. You hear them out, politely say you’re not interested, then wish them a blessed day. They add your name to a list.

Then their associates start calling and sniffing around for a sale as well. “No thank you, but have a great day,” you tell them. Again, what you perceive as a decisive ‘no’ they regard as ambivalence.

They are like the creepy colleague who asked you out a few years ago. They imagine that ‘no’ means ‘yes’. They believe you’re dropping hints to keep up the pursuit, when in fact you’ve done nothing of the sort. Your friendliness is like an open door, inviting them to keep trying. They keep adding your name to more call lists.

Word starts to spread around the telemarketer community that there is a guy in Michigan who will listen attentively and give you constructive feedback on your sales call. He won’t curse at you or slam the phone down.

The rumors about me have grown more and more outlandish:

“He’ll give you encouragement and pray for your sick grandpa. He’ll send your family a Honeybaked Ham around the holidays. He’s a guaranteed win if you’re slumping in your sales calls.”

And so, the lists I’m on accumulated. The calls came constantly. Like hordes coming over the mountain, these telemarketers were coming for me. They called, they texted, they spammed my inbox. My reputation went global and I was even being contacted in other languages.

It got so irritating that I had to take action. They drew me into a battle I never wanted, but I had to defend myself. I began to learn the ways of a guerilla fighter - improvising, making decisions on the fly, and using old tactics in innovative new ways.

I would lie in wait, ready to spring a trap. How could they predict the ambush that was awaiting them?

Most egregious of my foes was a company in California selling solar panels to the elderly. The calls were in Spanish and would come in the late afternoon looking for a man named Señor Hernandez. At first, I tried to ignore them, but their staff was very persistent. It led to the invention of a game called “Si” (The Spanish version of ‘Uh’).

¿Hola? ¿Es este el señor Hernández?

sí..

Buenas tardes señor, llamo en nombre de --------, que es un --------- para --------, ¿te parece algo que te interese?

sí!

¡Perfecto! Entonces, permítanme confirmar rápidamente: ¿sigue residiendo en --------- Apt ---?

sí…

They must’ve called fifty times but never seemed bothered by the calls going nowhere. Yet, Señor Hernandez was an enigma to them. At times he sounded like a 35-year-old white guy who spoke fluent English with a mid-western accent, while other days he was a 90-year-old Latino man who seemed disoriented and lonely. On his darker days, Señor Hernandez would only say one word: “sí”.

Yet this confused old man, who seemingly lived alone and probably had lots of money squirreled away was the perfect mark for their solar panel scheme. So, they became more aggressive, pushing for sales and one day even offering to send a technician to the house within the hour.

Before sending him, they just wanted to confirm my address one more time. I was happy to oblige. I live at the corner of 1st and 2nd Street between Washington and Jefferson.

The salesperson was thrilled, victory was within sight. They were sending someone right away!

…But the technician never made it. He was swallowed up by the jungle, another victim of the misdirection in this ongoing guerilla war.

That was the final blow for the solar panel company, they never called again. How can one successfully telemarket when you can’t tell friend from foe?

When Ernesto Guevara went up into the mountains of the Sierra Maestra he became El Che.

When a solar panel sales technician showed up to the front door of a confused homeowner in suburban California, on that day, I became Señor Hernandez.

My reputation has changed. Gone is the nice boy with Honeybaked Hams. They’re removing my name from the sales lists, it’s just too dangerous.

DO NOT CALL is written in the column next to Fralick. In hushed whispers around the call center they discuss the six telemarketers I took out just last week. A new guy chimes in “Ya’ll talking about Señor Hernandez?”

“SHHHH! DON’T SAY THAT NAME OUT LOUD!”

Meanwhile, there are still a few remaining lists out there that I haven’t been removed from….

My phone rings, a fresh youthful sounding voice is on the other line. He’s already dead but just doesn’t know it yet.

Good afternoon sir, this is ——— from ——— how are you today?

Uh…………

Señor Hernandez (Uh)