The way telemarketing works, they bring in a group of thirty temp workers for a trial period then keep the ones they like.  During the first meeting of our first day at the call center we were told our name was Simon.

“This is so, when the clients call back saying they spoke to Simon, the sales representatives will know which campaign they’re dealing with.”

It was weird at first, being Simon.  We were so used to our real names, they often just came out.

“When I forget to say Simon,” one of my coworkers said, “I immediately hang up, and try again later.”

 I would have done the same, except I messed up nearly every time.  The phone would ring, and someone would answer, and I would say hi, and then my real name.  Is it possible to be addicted to calling yourself yourself?

“Not only does it affect your performance,” my boss told me in a whisper as he leaned next to me by the coffee, “but not saying you’re Simon could jeopardize the entire campaign.”  And he reiterated the need from the sales perspective

So I wrote Simon on my hand.

“Hi this is Simon,” I said on the phone, “calling on behalf of EDC software…”

And that was my first real sell. 

“What do you think Simon is like?” my coworkers joked.  “What’s his full name?”

“Simon Cowell…Simon le Bon.”

“So British?”

“Ha ha yeah he’s definitely a Brit.”

“So like a go-getter Brit guy, mid-twenties, squeaky voice.”

“And a faux-hawk haircut, just an inch or so too long.”

I laughed by myself, but I didn’t join in.  The truth is I played my own Simon game.  Calls like these can’t be like normal calls.  You try to picture you and the other guy in a room talking, and it sickens you– the lines you feed him, the things he says because of the lines you feed him.  And you deserve it, because you’ve changed the act of conversation from sharing to pushing.

So I pretended to be Simon.  Simon was the guy who can do that.  Simon was good at it. 

My sales got better.

“Simon Superior!” my coworker called me.  “Big Simon On Campus!”

Even the higher-ups started to notice.  The moment I walked in the door, at 8:30 sharp every Monday through Friday, I picked up my stride to the long-legged trot of The S Man, Si Guy to his friends, the prick in Brooks Brothers who calls all his acquaintances “chief.”  It got so natural going home felt disorienting.  I had to remember to drop the act in front of my girlfriend.

“You’re not ‘Simon’ here,” she would remind me with a kiss.  “When you come home I get the nice guy with the dopey grin, that’s the deal.”

One day I went to the French sandwich place for lunch.  After ordering no mayo and getting mayo, I went up to the counter and demanded a new sandwich.  Leaving the shop, it occurred to me that I had never stopped being Simon since I left the office.  Then, instead of going back to my desk to eat my lunch, I somehow wound up in a men’s boutique two blocks away.  I returned to my desk with a new tie, and had the most productive afternoon of my career. 

In the mornings we all greeted each other with a smirk:

“Hey Simon.”

“Morning Simon.”

“How’s it going, Simon?”

I saw the same ties I had taken to wearing, power stripes replicated on thirty unique necks.  Among the women I noticed a new hair trend– cropped hair, short as a boy’s, gelled to point in the center.

It was the kind of thing where, you hate this song on the radio.  You hate it so much it obsesses you.  When it comes on, you have to mock it, so you and your friends will crank up the radio and scream out the miserable lyrics.  Just for a laugh.  And then eventually, after so many laughs at the expense of the song, the joke becomes the whole point.  You don’t hear the music, you hear the joke.  And then when you’re driving by yourself, and the song comes on the radio, you don’t know how you feel, and you can’t decide how to react. 

“We’re very pleased with your output,” our boss told us in a morning sales jam session.  “It takes a family.  We’re all pulling together.  Noses to the grindstone.  Power through.  It takes a team of Simons.”

“It takes a team of Simons.” We all said.

Yet discord percolated in the cubicles. 

One of the Simons, the short Puerto Rican who I think used to call herself Alicia, had been coming in early and staying late.  Those hours of the day were rarely fruitful, but what few sales she could scrape up gave the Simonita a leg up on the rest of us.

“It’s not what Simon would do.” Said a fellow Simon as we conspired in the break room.  “Simon works normal business hours.”

“We have to confront her,” another one suggested.  “We can’t allow this to continue, it just isn’t fair.” 

“Who are you to say what Simon would do?” The Puerto Rican Simon countered when we cornered her in her cube.  “When I come here, I’m Simon– and what I do is work hard to be on top.”

“We all work hard,” someone said.  “That isn’t the point.”

“And it’s not about being on top!”

“I think that’s exactly what this is about!” The Puerto Rican Simon yelled.  “You’re all so jealous that I’m doing well, that soon I’ll get promoted, that I’ll stop having to say I’m freaking ‘Simon’ on the phone and I’ll be allowed to just be myself.”

Then I got animated.  I shoved through the crowd of blue button-down shirts and gelled hairstyles and grabbed the insubordinate woman’s chair firmly at the arm rests.

“Now you listen to me.” I said.  “You think this is about you but it’s not.  What you’re doing…you’re messing with who people are.  You can’t go around saying Simon is whatever you want– Simon is what we are.  It’s not up to you, it’s up to us.  All of us.  Together.  That’s how it works.  And if you don’t want to be a team player, then maybe some day soon you’ll wake up some morning to find you aren’t Simon anymore.  You’re nobody.” 

Then things were different.  When we smiled at each other in the morning it was no longer because of a joke.  Our wardrobe wasn’t a costume, it was the clothes we preferred.  No airs were put on for phone calls, and I went home each night to a clean bathroom full of products and an increasingly distant girlfriend.  My numbers quietly climbed to the top, and my coworkers started coming to me with questions.

“Hey Simon,” one would say.  “Do you think Simon likes Basketball or Baseball?”

“Hey Simon, I’ve got this rash, see, and I’m wondering if Simon ever chafes?”

They were becoming frequent, but easy enough to dispatch.  The idea of Simon was so clear to me, like a poem I’d memorized and could recite backwards.  All I had to do was read it to the disciples. 

Then our bosses called a meeting.

“OK guys, big news today.” Said one boss.

“Huge news!” Said the other.

“We’ve got a brand new client.”

“Major client.”

“Massive return potential.”

“Stratospheric.”

They handed out packets on the new product.

“Now when you guys call, the client has requested you use the name Jesse.”

There was no movement in the room.

Then somebody asked, “Why?”

“Well,” said a boss, “Simon was for the last campaign.  This one is Jesse.  We think it’s better, anyway.”

“Kind of androgynous!” the other boss said.

We floated back to our cubicles, silent and listless.

“This can’t be happening,” somebody said.

“That’s not who we are.”

“Simon,” somebody asked me, “What do we do?”

I gnawed on the end of my pen and tapped my desk.  Arranged in front of me was my phone, my computer, my jar of pens, a motivational poster, a tiny statue of Bart Simpson, a Chicago Bulls mousepad, and a printed out joke email that someone from the office had sent me.  I looked upon my stuff. 

My bosses were in a glass-walled conference room at the other end of the office.  I could see them ranting and gesticulating to three or four other middle aged men in fitted suits as I marched hurriedly down the hall.  I felt pushed, and I kept remembering pieces of the argument I had with my girlfriend that morning, pictures of her face red and moist from tears, the sound of NPR in between her shouts.  When I got to the conference room I flung the door open like it held stolen goods.

“What is your name?” I asked the room.

My two bosses looked flabbergasted, the men in suits looked mildly amused.  “Excuse me,” said one of my bosses, “can you see we’re in a meeting?  Can this wai–”

“My name is Simon,” I told them.  “What is your name?”

“Your name isn’t Simon, your moron.” The other boss said.  “Your name is–”

“What makes you think,” I asked.  “What makes you think you can decide who I am?  Huh?”  The men in suits made motions to leave but the bosses gestured for them to remain seated.  “You just decide to get in front of a room of people, all smiles and bullshit, and tell them suddenly they have to change who they are?  Do you know who I am?  Do you even know?”

“You’re fired.”  Said one of my bosses.

“Fine.”  I said.  “Whatever the fuck ever,”  I said.  “Simon–out.”

I packed my things and left. 

It was hot outside.  It must have been June, because there was plenty of green to offset the city’s neutral grays.  I walked for a while, 

carrying my briefcase and a cardboard box filled with pens and a motivational poster and a tiny Bart Simpson.  The sun made my head perspire, and my hair began to sag with each step.  Finally I stopped at the park and sat on a bench.

There was this squirrel who grabbed a fallen piece of pretzel and ran up a tree with it.  I had no idea squirrels could eat pretzel, but then I guess it makes sense being a scavenger when you’re an animal living in the city.  Underneath the tree was an old white man in high waisted pants talking to a young, fashionable black girl.  It was hard to say what their relationship was, but they didn’t seem close enough to be family– blood, adopted, step, or otherwise.  Maybe family friends, or maybe this old guy used to teach this young girl.  But where did they come from?  The same place?  The same country?  What was it like being him, and what was it like being