FLEXING MUSCLE AT THE COLLECTION AGENCY

Louise Solomita, city editor

It was the very beginning of summer and I needed some quick cash to go backpacking through Europe. My long-standing part-time gig at a Laval café wasn’t going to cover it. So for a brief but memorable period, I became that most hated person on the other end of the phone line: a collection agent.

How bad can it be, I asked myself before starting. I would be paid $10 an hour (!), and it would only be for a few weeks, anyway.

I was a quiet literature student who hated confrontation. What was I thinking?

The first few days were the worst. Wearing an uncomfortable headset, I stammered and mispronounced names, was ridiculed, bullied, threatened and hung up on.

Worse than not meeting my daily collection quotas, I sympathized with the people I was calling. They often had bigger problems to deal with, and I felt their rage toward me was justified. (“I have children to feed, what’s wrong with you?” “Those CDs were only supposed to cost a penny!”)

I stared obsessively at the clock and looked longingly out the window of that dreary north-end Montreal office.

But then, something happened a couple of weeks in: I started to get the hang of it. My voice rose over the debtors’ protests, and I became threatening and convincing. (“Do you really want us to keep calling over and over?” “No — YOU listen to ME, sir!”)

My boss bought me a jelly doughnut after one shouting match that left me pink in the face but weirdly exhilarated.

When I abruptly quit a few days before my flight, I was relieved. This new, aggressive me was not someone I liked. I learned that despite my calm and friendly exterior, there’s a pretty scary person not too far below the surface — she just needs a little incentive.