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“No, thank you. I have no need for your services,” I said.

“May I ask how much you pay for your long distance service, Mr. Lee?”

“I really couldn’t tell you off the top of my head.”

“Well, I’m sure we can reduce your monthly phone bill if you have a moment.”

“I really don’t have a moment. I’m sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but I really do need to get off the phone.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Lee. And may I say your English is very good.”

“You’re welcome… wait… I’m sorry… did you just say that my English is very good?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what prompted you to say this, may I ask?”

“Well, it’s just that your name is obviously foreign. Were you born here?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t.”

“That’s what I mean. You don’t have any kind of accent.”

I sank back into my chair, all my bodily energy bleeding out of me. Was she serious? She couldn’t be that stupid. I couldn’t be talking to a sitcom character.

No, she couldn’t be serious. This was a sales technique. She just wanted me to stay on the phone longer, right? But what kind of sales tactic starts off by insulting your mark? “I’m sorry, but are you serious?”

“…I’m not sure what you…”

“You don’t see how someone might be incredibly offended by what you just said?”

“I’m so sorry, but I meant no offense.”

“That’s what makes it so outrageously offensive.”

“…I was just complimenting you, Mr. Lee. I wasn’t…”

You “wasn’t” what? You didn’t mean to imply that Asians who don’t speak like Mr. Myagi are the exceptions? You didn’t mean to sound like someone who just discovered life on Mars? Will you be telling this amazing anecdote to all your hillbilly co-workers over your chicken-fried steak lunches?

“May I ask where you’re calling from?”

“Where?”

“Yes, in what area of the country are you located?”

Please, don’t say you’re from the South. Please.

“South Carolina.”

Fuck. She assumed, because of my name, I would have an accent. I assumed, because  she was an idiot, she would be from the South.

The rage building inside me dissipated. The monologue of righteous finger-wagging I was about to lay on her suddenly felt hypocritical.

She made an observation. An innocent one, as far as she was concerned – or maybe she was a wry hater who was just fucking with me. Who knows. All I knew was that after my own flash of stereotyping, I didn’t have the justified indignation to tell her off. I had strayed from the high road. No, I didn’t have the ammunition for this fight.

“You have a nice day, miss,” I sighed and hung up. And I wondered how the “recorded conversation for training purposes” review would go for my saleswoman from the South.

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