Quassim says he can always find a job selling something over the phone because he could sell just about anything, including the sweater he’s wearing. But these days, Quassim spends most of his time selling newspaper subscriptions. His voice is all-American-boy, a combination of awshucks and sincerity. He sounds devoted to the product he’s selling. But this is just another in a long line of telemarketing jobs he’s had. He doesn’t have to believe in the quality of the newspaper (or read it, for that matter); he just has to sell it. Selling newspapers, he admits, is pretty tame, but he likes the perks. He gets his own desk with a fully loaded computer and a window seat.

Quassim writes his own pitch, which he says is more like a conversation. He doesn’t use the script provided for him because he says it’s not “real.” His approach is subtle and easygoing. He’s not abrasive or pushy when he asks customers if they would be interested in buying the paper. If someone is not interested, Quassim says thanks and hangs up. Within a minute, the auto dialer on his phone finds another number and someone, somewhere picks up a receiver.

He’ll say, “How are you tonight?”

If someone answers, “Fine, how are you?”

He’ll say, “Wow, I’m fine, thanks for asking. I don’t hear that very often.” He’s friendly, ingratiating, grateful.

Or it could go another way. “How are you tonight?” he’ll say.

“Okay, buddy, what’re you selling?” a caller might reply, testily.

Quassim steps up to the challenge. He might laugh, share this little joke with the caller. Then he will adopt a self-deprecating I-know-I’m-a-telemarketer-and-I-hate-to-bother-you approach.

“How are you tonight?” he’ll begin another call.

“Busy,” the caller replies, ready to cut off all conversation.

“I know what you mean,” Quassim might say, sighing, sympathizing. “That’s why I’m going to take only a second of your time.”

He knows how to play to each person, and he gives each customer what he thinks they want. To the elderly, he speaks slowly and turns on his grandson-like charm. He yes-ma’ams and no-sirs, and he is patient. To the young, Quassim is hip and talks slang. He gives them a “What’s up man? I’ve just got one question for you.” If he happens to call someone with time on his or her hands, he is relaxed and conversational and talks about his mother.

Quassim says he “couldn’t care less” that people think telemarketers are at best, nuisances and at worst, slime. He’s having a good time. It’s not that he’s proud of what he does. It’s that he’s proud of how he does it. Telemarketing is on its way out, anyway, he says. The Internet will replace the cold call soon, and that’s fine with him. He’ll move on to something else.

Tonight, in the game Quassim plays with me, he tries to figure out what it is I want to hear, then tweaks his pitch to include it. After all, I am just an opportunity to make a sale. Quassim is sly and rehearsed and leaves me not knowing what to believe. But when he thinks I’m sold on the idea that he is a good guy who is good at his job, he rolls himself a cigarette and finishes his beer and tells me it’s time for him to go back to work.

JENNIFER SAVAGE, a 2001 graduate of the University of Oregon’s literary nonfiction program, is a researcher and writer at the Earth Family Fund, a nonprofit in Missoula, Montana.