Dial D for Dick

Years ago, I was a headhunter who recruited actuaries.

Proof positive of how much I
love being on the phone.

An actuary's work is a little like an accountant's, only snore-ier. They’re the ones who calculate probability of death and things like that and they often work for insurance companies.

I’ll preface this by saying that I was a bad recruiter; I was a very bad recruiter. I was such a bad recruiter that I spent less time at my desk than I did hiding in the ladies’ room. I lacked sales skills and I hated being on the phone, which I was, almost constantly, when I wasn’t in the bathroom – in other words: roughly half the day not counting my lunch and two coffee breaks.  

Worse was that the nature of my work, talking someone into quitting a job and hooking up with my client’s company, felt to me like stealing. Whenever I tracked down an actuary who qualified for a position I was looking to fill, got him on the phone and pitched the opportunity, I was nervous and awkward and couldn’t get the words out. I hated being a recruiter.

One day, I dragged my sorry carcass onto the phone for another day of telephonic misery. I was trying to reach a man by the name of Dick Smith (I’m making up the last names but the Dicks were real) and called into the company where the phone was answered by a receptionist.

“Hello,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, “May I speak with Dick Smith?”

"Just a moment," she said before transferring my call. Seconds later a man answered.   

           

“Dick here.”

           

I introduced myself, rising above the knots in my stomach then launched into the details of the job. I must’ve prattled on for three minutes straight with Dick listening politely, asking an occasional question, then allowing me to continue. When I finally shut up, he said, “That sounds like a terrific career move, but you're looking for Dick Smith and I'm Dick Jones. Hang on while I transfer you.”

           

Instantly my stomach resurrected my breakfast and I began catastrophizing the horrible end now awaiting Dick Smith and his family: rumors flying that he talks to headhunters, his boss firing him and his wife divorcing him. What felt like hours was just seconds before a husky, elegant female voice cut in: “Mr. Smith’s office; this is Phyllis.”

“Hello, Phyllis. I called in a few minutes ago and asked to speak with Dick Smith – you know him, he’s your boss." Of course she knew that Dick Smith was her boss. “Anyway, I called in and asked for him, but somehow I was transferred over to Dick Jones and must have talked to him for almost five minutes before he told me that he wasn’t Dick Smith at all, but was actually Dick Jones. So anyway, it was just a bit of a mix-up and I’m hoping you can help me, because you see, it turns out that after all that talking, I'd totally gotten hold of the wrong Dick.”

There was an exquisitely timed pause before Phyllis, cool as an April breeze, replied, “A mistake any woman could make.”

I’m happy to say that I’m no longer an actuarial recruiter but I have no idea what happened to either Dick after that.

They probably work for Phyllis now.