On the fourth floor of 2200 Yonge Street eleven people are crammed into a room no more than fifteen feet square. Everyone else in the building has gone home for the night to see their families and watch TV. But each person in this room is on a battered, beige telephone surrounded by stacks of paper, working. Over the hum of fluorescent lights, and the din of voices, a woman's Scottish burr can be heard.

"Good evening, this is Nahn Smith calling from T-V-Ontar-r-rio..."

She has been "telefundraising" for the province's public broadcaster since November of 1995. Nan's persistence on the phones has meant over $120,000 in new funds for TVO, and "telephone elbow" for her. Like everyone in the room, she will call over a hundred people each night between 5:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m., from Sunday to Thursday. The majority of those people won't be home, of those that are, few will buy a membership. Some will hang up, and others will launch into tirades against the French programming, the perceived socialist propaganda on TVO, or the "outrageous" salary of Studio 2 host, Steve Paikin.

Such criticism, while valid, is hard for the telemarketers to swallow. "The people we call talk about their cottages, and their trips to Florida," said Cindy, whose been telemarketing for 6 months, "and yet they can't even fork over ten bucks a month for TVO." With a base wage of $136 a week, Cindy, like the others, can barely afford groceries, let alone go out. With most telemarketers in this room bring in less than $700 a week for TVO, and it takes them nearly three weeks to earn a bonus of five dollars, before taxes. Most don't last that long.

Those that do are usually at the end of their rope. People like Robert the failed artist, Paula the former journalist, Brian the ex-tennis pro with cancer, Diane the divorcée, Cindy the perpetual student and Nan the former nurse.

"When I got laid off," Nan says, "I didn't leave the house for months. Five months later I saw an ad in the Globe: 'Polka Roo needs your help.' That snapped me out of my misery. After all, Colin [her son] was a TVO kid. I knew I had to help." But that initial glow has faded. The sales script, which everyone must work off of, is filled with grammatical errors and awkward sales jargon. Paraphrasing is not allowed, so human telemarketers become automatons. The end result can produce clunky conversations, that prevent sales from being successfully closed:

"Fantastic Mrs. Waterman," said Diane, reading from the script, "we'll sign you up for a monthly donation of $10 a month. Now, just to wrap this up, all we need is a Visa, MasterCard, or American Express number."

"Oh, I don't give my credit card over the phone."

Diane begins the stock reply: "Well Mrs. Waterman. I understand your concern, but TVOntario takes great pride in protecting it's members reputation. Now which would you prefer: Visa, MasterCard, or American Express?"

"None, and how do I know you're calling from TVO?"

"I understand your concern. Let me give you my manager's-"

"If a cheque's not good enough for you, you don't deserve anything."

"No, that would be terrific, Mrs. Waterman." It's a lie. No credit card, no sales credit. To the manager, a cheque is a lost sale, and means the telemarketer didn't try hard enough.

"Diane," the manager said within earshot of the others, "if you can't maintain your performance level, we're going to have to reconsider your employment here."

It's one more strike against the telemarketer. And most people here don't need anymore strikes. Diane telemarkets for nine-hours a day, and can barely pay rent. Nan was married, with a house in Rosedale; now she's alone and on the phone. Paula couldn't even afford a phone until last November. Brian lives on friends' couches, and can't afford his chemotherapy. These regulars develop defenses against the monotony and frustration of interrupting peoples lives. Some, like Diane, become desensitized to the insults hurled at her for interrupting someone's dinner. Brian and Robert deal with the frustration by directing bitterly sarcastic comments at their co-workers. Other just snap, and try desperately to connect with the people they are calling. Like Paula, searching for friendship in voice:

"My 'Unabomber' friend is out."

"What are you talking about, Paula?" Robert asks.

"The single guy, living in the bush, who only watches TVO. I think he said yesterday he was going grocery shopping-is it hot in here?" Paula asks, wiping non-existent sweat from her brow.

Cindy laughs, then returns to dialing.

"Candy—I mean, Cindy—I'm not like you young kids. I can't go out and party all the time. This is my life. Someone's got to live it for me."

Paula, Nan and the other telemarketers are overworked, under-employed and under-respected proletariats. Their sole purpose is to transform databases of names and address into hard cash, for organizations like TVOntario. If they don't perform, someone else will replace them. And no matter how hard they work, they are still tethered to the phone night after night, making minimum wage. Taking any solace they can find in the sound of a dial tone.