You wished you were her when she belted out that winning song, but you'll be glad you're not when the original American Idol takes on America's Most-Hated Jobs.
Hated Job #1: The Telemarketer
All 30 headset-wearing employees at Los Angeles-based Concorde Communications are diligently dialing, ready to harass another day's worth of unsuspecting phone answerers, when they do a massive double take. The New Girl is here, but she's no ordinary New Girl. She's Kelly Clarkson, and she's humming to herself and flipping her choppy, well-highlighted hair as she sashays into one of the many drab cubicles. The American Idol has entered the building, ready to harangue the good citizens of America into buying high-speed Internet access.
Christina, a plump, brunette Concorde veteran in a floral dress, schools Kelly in the ways of the computer and shares her tried-and-true tactics to "turn those nos into yeses."
"Exciting!" Kelly exclaims in her charming southern twang. She actually means it: The American Idol harbors a little secret. She actually worked as a telemarketer in her pre-reality-TV-queen days. "Let me tell you," she says. "I am a seller. People are gonna want to talk to me. The secret is to come off as a buddy, not a salesperson."
Armed with a headset and script, Kelly is ready to reach out and touch someone -- but the first four numbers she dials are out of service. She gets antsy. "I want to talk, already," she whines. Finally, somebody answers. Shedding the giggly schoolgirl persona, Kelly zips into professional phone-speak, that persistent baritone people love to hang up on.
"Law office, Leon speaking," a man says.
"Hello, Leon. This is Kelly from Concorde Communications. Are you involved with your company's data and telecommunications services?"
"I'm actually not," Leon says kindly.
"Well," Kelly continues, "Perhaps an MIS or IT director is available?" (According to Kelly's cheat sheet, it's important to "capture contact info.")
Leon tells Kelly that the person in charge isn't in the office and asks her to call back. Click.
A discouraging start. Unless you happen to be the girl who survived countless elimination rounds in the public eye -- not to mention those biting insults from Simon Cowell. So, naturally, Kelly sees the bright side of this exchange: "Oooh, he didn't hang up on me," she says. "He asked me to call back! I told you, I'm a natural."
The next six calls "cannot be completed as dialed." Calls 13 through 17 are either wrong numbers or ring incessantly -- no answer, no voice mail. Welcome to the mundane hell of telemarketing. Kelly remains hopeful, though. "I feel it. Someone is going to want a good Internet hookup," she says.
A dozen voice mails later, however, and our Idol's luster is beginning to fade. To revive her wilting pep, Kelly starts calling people she knows and disguising her voice. First is her manager's receptionist, who brushes her off gently. Then, she gets rudely rebuffed by the PR firm that reps her: "No. G'bye." Click!
"God," she says, disappointed. "I can't believe how many people are hating me right now." As a prank, I suggest she call Michael, the Marie Claire editor who has assigned me to write this story. No sooner can she spit out a sentence than he informs her he doesn't handle the magazine's telecommunications decisions. She asks whom she should contact, and he (politely) balks, "I really have no idea. Good-bye." Click! He had no clue it was Kelly -- even though he helped plan this whole gig.
At least we know that Kelly's convincing -- so much so that Sylviane Herzog, the president of Concorde, offers her a job. "She has such a great telemarketing voice. She's hired!" Sylviane shouts, then adds, "You know, if the whole Idol thing doesn't work out."
Hated Job #2: The Used-Car Salesperson
The scene at Toyota of Hollywood is typical of a used-car lot: rows and rows of vehicles; more balloons than you'd find at a two-year-old's birthday party; gigantic, blinding "Sale" signs; and, of course, lurking salesmen ready to feast on their prey. Christopher, the general sales manager, and Charlie, a sales rep, give Kelly tips on how to close a deal. "Ask questions to see what the car will be used for -- it's all about the customer's needs. Do they want four-wheel drive, a large backseat?" "Oh, and don't talk about money. Always tell them, 'We'll be fair and reasonable.'"
Kelly nods. After a morning of overt rejection, she's ready to slip into the role of pedal pusher. "I don't really want to accost people, but I'll do what I have to," she declares, rubbing her hands with wicked delight. "Time to move some motors!"
Of course, dressed in a sheer, striped, belly-baring top, hip-hugging, tattered bell-bottoms, and four-inch platform boots, Kelly looks like anything but a used-car salesman. But maybe she's on to something. Her first customer, Alan, is a 39-year-old actor sporting a shaggy 'do and a Chia Pet on his chin. He wants to trade in his Ford Explorer.
She shows him a 4Runner. Her selling point: "My mom has one and loves it." The spiel gets better: Kelly tells him about extended warranties (she has no idea what she's talking about), the "computer thing" inside the car, and the "great glove compartment that will fit anything you need." However, Alan seems more into her than the car. (Now this is a tactic that might work!)
Sitting in the leather front seats, Kelly points out the "lovely" radio and Alan gets chummy. He touches her arm and asks personal questions -- "Did the belly piercing hurt?" "Where did you get your top?" To dodge his advances, Kelly brings up memories of her own first car -- a Honda Accord -- which she totaled.
Fifteen minutes later, Alan walks away without a new set of wheels. But he is impressed. "She's not pushy, like most car salespeople. It's not every day you meet one you want to ask out on a date." Kelly shakes her head. Men!
Next, she sidles up to Christine and Shane, a grungy-looking couple barely out of high school who are eyeing a forest-green Tacoma for "eventual family use."
"Oh, this is a great car," Kelly gushes. "My friend Matthew drives one of these and loves it. I know jack about it, to be honest, but I know it's dependable, because otherwise, Matthew wouldn't have bought it." The two stare at her blankly. "And I have actually been in it," she continues. "It drives smoothly."
Christine asks about the mileage. "Oh, this eats up gas," Kelly says. "If you really want good mileage, you should get a Honda." (Mind you, this is a Toyota dealership.) Shane asks if it has a "big block engine." But Kelly has no idea what that is, so she changes the topic, telling him that the tires, which she kicks, are . . . "great." Then, she emphasizes one of the car's biggest assets: "It's a 2002, and the previous owner took very good care of it, changing the oil all the time. He was an older man." (Of course, none of this is true -- and none of it was authorized by Toyota -- but it does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it?)
Shockingly, Christine and Shane aren't sold. As the couple and their Dr. Martens move on, Kelly furrows her brow and confesses, "I feel so dirty right now, lying like this. I'm definitely gonna need a chai latte when this is done."
Her next victim is Monica, a groovy 25-year-old who works in "production." Like almost everyone else in Hollywood, she's considering the Prius, the economical, hybrid gas-electric number that Leonardo DiCaprio and Cameron Diaz drive to promote environmentalism. (Leo actually bought his Prius here.)
"It's so cool, isn't it?! And get this: It gets 52 miles to the gallon, and the battery recharges itself constantly!" Kelly boasts, looking over to Charlie, who's standing nearby, for validation. He shoots her a thumbs-up.
"What else do I need to know about it?" Monica asks.
"Well . . ." Kelly gropes. "It's black! It will make you look thinner!"
Kelly pops open the hood and leans over with Monica to inspect the engine. "Come on, how pretty is this engine?" she continues.
Monica nods. But in the end, she walks away from the sale, saying she's looking for "something bigger."
And on that somewhat sour note, Kelly's career in used-car sales -- a car wreck in itself -- comes crashing to an end.
Kelly's dubious car skills don't make any sales, but she scores with one customer, who wants a date.
Hated Job #3: Perfume Spritzer
Kelly's final job is the most annoying: a perfume spritzer, that menacing department-store employee armed with the latest "soft, sensual, feminine" scent. "Normally, I do not like these people," Kelly concedes. "So it'll be fun to spray other people to death." Ah, but we have one little problem: Malls are teeming with people who watch reality television. As Kelly begins her shift at the Macy's in L.A.'s Beverly Center, the first three women she pounces on shriek, "You're the girl from American Idol! Of course you can spray me!" The two act incredibly interested in the perfume, but they really want little more than a photo op with Kelly.
And while two teenage girls who don't recognize her are happy to get hit with a cloud of Tommy Girl ("the spicy, fresh fragrance from Tommy Hilfiger," Kelly croons), two senior citizens scurry past without even acknowledging her. A sleek, Chanel-clad woman motions for Kelly to "talk to the hand," while another dodges her three times until Kelly cuts her off at the pass. "Would you like to try Estee Lauder's Pleasures?" she asks. The woman shakes her head -- and refuses eye contact. How rude!
"I cannot believe she was trying to run away from me! God, these people hate me!" Kelly says, almost in shock. I remind her that she, too, hates perfume spritzers. She defends herself: "Maybe. But I am not a monster!"
Not everyone agrees.
As Kelly saunters up to someone at the Estee Lauder counter, the woman snaps at her, "Hold it. You're Kelly from American Idol. What are you doing here?"
Kelly's stumped. "Umm," she stammers. "I'm actually the employee of the month!" "Well, I don't think you should have won that contest, anyway," the woman, a petite blonde in Juicy Couture sweats, sniffs in a British accent. "You stole Justin's crown. And no, I do not want any perfume."
Ouch!
Kelly's chin drops to the floor, and she turns to her manager for consolation. "Can you believe that?" she says, her eyes tearing up. "I never!"
Indeed, being hated for doing jobs that aren't yours is one thing; being viciously blindsided for being you is quite another. Kelly needs a minute to pull herself back together before she can brandish the Tommy Girl again. But within minutes, the blonde walks back -- uh-oh -- and? starts laughing. Apparently, her outburst was a joke, set up by Kelly's own manager and publicist -- payback for the telemarketing calls Kelly placed to their offices earlier.
"Thank gosh!" Kelly says. "I was really upset!" (Thank gosh? Has America's Most Hated learned nothing today?)
Back into the spritzing swing, Kelly resumes being dismissed and debased by the mall-walkers of America. One woman barks that she has enough perfume. Two guys also give her the talk-to-the-hand. (Desperate, she's begun trying to spray men.)
Then, finally, just as Kelly starts to feel like she couldn't sell water in the desert, she actually gets some love.
A 39-year-old masseuse stops by for a spray of Angel. ("It's so sensual, isn't it?" Kelly coos breathlessly.) Two male-model types and their gal pal allow Kelly to share her bottle, and they nod enthusiastically. An older woman in a denim suit takes three samples home, promising to "think about it."
"See? I am lovable! I really am!" Kelly squeals. Overcome by her success -- or perhaps light-headed from all the perfume she's been inhaling -- Kelly breaks into some dance moves and belts out part of Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful."
Immediately, a cast of shoppers stops to watch, and when Kelly finally finishes, two giggly girls approach her for an autograph. The American Idol graciously agrees. And, for good measure, she also hands them a few samples of Tommy Girl. Thus proving once and for all that no matter what stage she's on -- or what thankless role she's playing -- Kelly Clarkson knows how to win over a crowd.
Kelly Clarkson's new album, Thankful, is in stores now. Her film, From Justin to Kelly, hit theaters on June 13. Hair & makeup: Helen Robertson for Chanel/celestineagency.com. Produced by Canaan Rubin, canaan@aol.com
