The chatter of familiar voices echo in my headset, as I lean back in my plastic lawn chair I couldn't be much happier. My body and mind are exhausted from a long day of school, yet I have a spurt of energy that keeps me awake. As I sit in front of a ragged computer that looks to have been made in the eighties, I glance around the room and see many of my friends staring lifelessly into their computer screens. From five o'clock to nine at night, I am forced to sell satellite dishes over the phone. This form of sales is cruel to both the unsuspecting customer and the underpaid telemarketer.
             After school, most students head to a job with a tidy workplace and sturdy facilities. For me it seems to be hell. It starts when I park my jeep in its assigned mud hole and trot through the small marsh to the door. Inside the building the smells of must and mildew burn my nose. The small room is cluttered from top to bottom and wall to wall with satellite dishes and other television equipment. The ceiling is missing tiles and dripping water, and the carpet is stained with tobacco juices and spit. Along the walls of the room is where my night of work begins. Each telemarketer has their own table, plastic chair, and computer linked to a headset and an automatic dialer. For the next four hours I fight to stay awake as calls are sent to my headset every fifteen seconds.
             On average, a telemarketer makes about five hundred calls in four hours. These calls consist of hang-ups, verbal arguments, and occasionally a successful sale.
             During my career as a telemarketer, I despised the calls which became verbal arguments. The whole time I am being cussed, the only responses I can give are yes and no. In my eyes, being screamed and yelled at without being able to defend yourself is deplorable and downright wrong. After every one of these calls I felt degraded, ignorant, and helpless.
             On top of a crummy workplace and a degradin
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