I worked alongside a guy with polio- yes, polio– and a pedophile. The sad thing is, he wasn’t the only one in the room. Pedophile, that is. I’m pretty sure the older, stumpy gentleman in the cubicle next to mine was the only person alive who had fucking polio. The last person I heard afflicted with the disease was the legendary FDR, who boldly commanded our nation through the darkest days of the Great Depression and World War II. This polio victim hawked newspaper subscriptions over the phone, like the rest of us scoundrels.

Oh, yeah- there was also a rapist. One we knew of, anyway. I suspected a few other colleagues were guilty of the crime but had somehow escaped conviction. A hundred or so of us commission-only salespeople toiled in the dank, cavernous warehouse roughly the size of two basketball courts. The majority of employees were drug addicts of some sort who attended AA meetings with the alacrity of, well, a junkie. A good percentage of these folks had been incarcerated at some point in their lives. Yep, these were my peers. The guys I mingled with at the annual Christmas luncheon (El Pollo Loco takeout) attended ever so briefly by the septuagenarian owner, a self-made billionaire. Telemarketing is pretty much the shittiest job in the civilized world. It’s no surprise, then, the checkered past of my co-workers.

Along with the inordinate number of pedophiles- and, really, one is far too many- a motley assortment of oddballs filled the gray, lifeless cubicles. One memorable miscreant was a slovenly, ultra-conservative Marine in his sixties with an affinity for porn and, strangely enough, noise abatement. This chubby, bespectacled gentleman was a licensed pilot (or so he claimed) and his mission in life was to eradicate all laws that forbade his fellow aviators from flying in the wee hours of the morning. He believed this curfew- imposed by ‘goddamn liberals’- was directly responsible for at least one pilot’s death over the past few decades. Hell, he even wrote a book on it. During the week, he slept in the backseat of his ratty, piss-yellow 1984 Mercedes in the company parking lot. This maneuver saved him precious gas money on his hour-long commute to the boonies where his like-minded whackjobs resided. He subsisted off two foods: baloney sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies, which he judiciously rationed throughout the day.

Back to the rapist. Like the noise abatement avenger, he also happened to be a Marine. Early one Friday morning- during a special campaign with juicy leads for qualified salespeople – two uniformed cops shuffled into the room. Most of the telemarketers kept pitching, kept selling, adhering to the ‘always be closing’ mantra. I, for one, immediately hung up my phone- curious, if not stupefied, by the presence of the police. There were murmurs between the cops and the sales manager. Moments later, the sales manager beckoned a youngish, stout Marine, who was promptly escorted out the back door by the two policemen. I wondered what the hell had just happened. A close friend of the Marine happened to be seated in the cubicle next to mine. He uttered, in the most nonchalant manner possible: ‘Ah, he must’ve raped someone.’ As if it was the most natural thing in the world, like a pigeon taking a shit in a park. Of course he would get busted again for rape. Oh hum. Once again, for at least the millionth time in the past month, I wondered what the fuck had become of my once promising life.

Regarding the pedophiles- a sentence that should never be uttered, not even in impolite company- there was an accidental one and a purposeful one. Despite the disparate intentions, they both served time in jail. The accidental one was a wiry, goofy looking guy whose face resembled a catfish- whiskers and all. He had a terrible stutter that severely limited his sales ability. This impediment, however, did not dent his confidence. In fact, he was incredibly (read: delusional) optimistic. Though he never cleared 30 grand in his 40 plus of life, he boasted to everyone that he was going to be a billionaire. It was just a matter of time.

Apparently, this middle-aged, strange looking future Forbes 500 member responded to a Craigslist ad for an escort. The girl- and it was actually a girl– showed up at his apartment for a rendezvous. Well, the cops showed up and arrested him. She turned out, of course, to be under 18. And now, for the rest of his existence, the catfish billionaire will be branded as a sex offender. The only job he will likely qualify for is the shitty one I’m writing about here.

The other Megan’s Law violator was more deliberate about his deviancy. In a way, he fit the profile much more than the delusional stutterer. He was around the same age- early 40’s- but had a wholesome, sitcom dad from the Fifties look. Like many of the drug addled wannabes in the room, he was an aspiring actor. I caught him a couple times watching YouTube on his computer- episodes of Bones, I believe- and was creepily fascinated with a teenage girl on the show. It turns out, a few years later, he was arrested for downloading child pornography. I don’t know how long his sentence was- he can still (and should) be rotting in jail for all I know- but his mug shot is readily available online.