"Talk2Me"

My name is Ronald McDonald Weaver and I work in a call centre. As far as shit-jobs go, it's alright. I work inside, there's no heavy lifting or meat frying and a lot of my female co-workers are hot and easy. Sure, I was hearing the incoming call tone in my sleep and answering my home phone with an opening script but the work's straightforward enough. And like any job it would be great if it wasn't for the fucking customers.

Beep...beep

“Thank you for calling your Customer Friend Center, my name is Ronald. What would you like to Talk2Me about today?”

“Is this Talk2Me Cellular?” a man’s angry voice asks.

“Yes it is Sir,” I'm wondering whom else this guy expected to talk to after dialling the support line. “How may I help you today?”

“Do you have a thumb up your ass too?” the customer asks without changing tone.

The account information that had populates on my computer screen shows three active units registered to Bob’s Towing. I picture a rough sort of older man in grease stained coveralls on the other end of the connection - the kind of guy wife-beater shirts are made for. “No sir. All digits are present and accounted for.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ve talked to three of you dizzy assholes already and no one seems to understand what I want done here.”

“And how may I help you sir?” I've got the call log associated with his account and there's not reference one to any other calls made today. Which means Mr. Bob’s Towing is full of shit or the so-called dizzy assholes exited the account without noting it. A great first call of the day.

“My bill’s wrong. Fix it.”

I've got last month’s bill in front of me in a jiffy. New charges show $1546.39, a lot for three phones. “I’ll need to know the problem before I can fix anything sir. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“You’re speaking to Bob Spitts and the problem is I aint paying you no sixteen hundred for three goddamn phones. Fix it!”

Skimming through the list of charges I can see that each phone has exceeded its allotment of Talk2Me Time which determines how long a customer can use the phone before being butt-raped with overage charges. I communicate this fact to Mr. Spitts.

“Fix it!”

“They’re valid charges sir," I say in my best suck-ass voice. “Each of the users on your account talked for more time than you had contracted with Talk2Me for that month and that’s why your bill is so high.”

“I said fix it!”

“Mr. Spitts, there’s nothing to fix unless you would like to contract with Talk2Me for an increased amount of time per phone. Your bill is correct and I’ve already told you why.”

“And I already told you that I aint paying no sixteen hundred for three phones!”

“And, of course, that’s your choice Mr. Spitts but I am required to remind you that, per your agreement with Talk2Me Cellular, non payment will result in suspension of all services. Past that point we will forward any moneys owed to a collection agency and be shut of you for good.”

“Fuck you and your mother! This is robbery!”

“No sir,” I continue in my best suck-ass voice. “Robbery is using a service without paying for it just because you don’t agree with the charges.”

“Are you calling me a thief, you dizzy asshole?”

“No sir, I was simply clarifying the definition of robbery (you seem to be confused as to its meaning) and to demonstrate that Talk2Me Cellular is not robbing you.”

“Fuck you and all!” Click.

It takes less than a minute for me to leave a log note: All charges valid, see overage, caller hung up before hearing about new rate plan offers. True enough...next.

Beep...beep

“Thank you for calling your Customer Friend Center, my name is Ronald. What would you like to Talk2Me about today?” Nothing. Calls with no one on the other end happen daily in any call center. The deal is you try saying your lines again and hope they’re really not there so you can say your “I’m Dreadfully Sorry Script” and take a breather before the next call. “Thank you for calling your Customer Friend Center...”

“Did you say your name was Ronald?” a woman’s voice asks.

“Yes I did. Just like the burger slinging clown. How may I help you today?”

“I’m not sure that you can.”

“Try me. Nothing's so insurmountable that I can't help."

A moment of silence from her end and then she drops it, “I don’t think I want to live anymore.”

Whoa.

They talk about this kind of thing in training. The chick from HR with the huge cans even came in for an hour to talk about the company's official stance on suicide callers, i.e. pray it never happens. But there's a process involved here too and the first step is keep them talking. “May I ask why Miss?”

“Yes, I guess so. Why do you care?”

“Why did you call?” I ask, stalling for time.

“I wanted to tell somebody,” she says, “and anybody at all would do. Your number was the only one in my Friend File.”

“You’re one of our customers?” Melons McGoo from HR told us in training that some poeple see any kind of service number as a potential sounding-board for marginalized individuals - she menat nutbars. But we were also trained to recognize the company lingo when he heard it. I'm on feet feet signalling wildly for the nearest supervisor to come over.

“I got this phone hoping that I’d be able to have someone call me," she says. "I even left my number on a men’s room wall. You know, for a good time call Fern at 705-476-3161. But no one called. I would have given a dozen blowjobs to anyone who had even called.”

Typing frantically I enter the phone number onto his search field and bingo... Fern French. The supervisor arrives just as I finish writing “I’ve got a suicide call” on a piece of scratch paper. She nods and uses the same paper to capture Fern’s address and contact information before rushing back to her desk to call 911 - all per Talk2Me policy. “Sounds like you’re pretty lonely there Fern?”

“Yeah, alone and lonely. Just me and the whispers.”

“Who’s whispering to you Fern?”

“I don’t know, voices. Sad voices.”

“Sad voices telling you to do bad things Fern?”

“Yes,” she says and then starts crying, great blubbering sobs that fill my ears like poisoned honey that make me forget the company line and actually empathize with this woman. Something that Melons told us was a big no-no.

"Been there," I say.

“Really?”

“Yup. Life can get anybody down, especially if it seems like the universe is singling you out to be ignored and walk the Earth friendless and miserable. Sure I’ve thought about taking the final exit but I was always manage to find a reason not to.”

“Like what?” asks Fern. Her voice is slow and slurry as if she was drunk or stoned and a buzzing static rising and falling over the connection makes me wonder if she might be calling from a basement somewhere. Another point we'd have in common.

“Well first there’s always the great debate on how I’m going to do it.”

“I’ve got a gun,” Fern says and I'm thinking, oh shit, she has a plan. “I read you’re supposed to put it to the roof of your mouth and pull the trigger. At least I can give my gun a blowjob before I die.”

“ I don't know about that. I’ve thought about using a gun myself but then I have to think about the poor bastard who finds me and the mess I’ll leave behind. Personally, I don’t like people having to clean up after me; it’s bad manners, even with suicide.”

“So how do you find the strength not to just pick another way? There are dozens of ways to kill yourself. You can put a bag over your head.”

“Or fill your garage with exhaust and fall asleep in the car."

“There’s hanging,” Fern offers back.

“Or you could do it Roman style and cut your wrists open in a warm bath.”

“You could jump off a bridge.”

“Whoa, I’d have to object to that one. I’ve always considered myself a disciple of the Suicide Protocols and if you plan to jump off a bridge there are factors to consider. Now personally, I wouldn’t want an audience if I was going to jump. People are unpredictable and you never know who might try to stop you in a situation like that. All it would take is one responsible citizen and instead of the Sweet Hereafter you could find yourself under twenty-four hour guard in some drab suicide ward. Or even worse is you get a bunch of yokels urging you on and that can only take away the dignity of your last worldly action. But you don’t want to jump from a deserted bridge either because if suicide’s the last grand gesture it’s kind of pointless if nobody can find your body.”

“You sound like you’ve got it all figured out Ronald,” Fern says through what's left of her tears and with even the hint of a smile in her voice.

“But that’s just it Fern, I don’t. If I had already figured it all out then there’d be nothing left for me to do except off myself. One thing I’ve learned from life is that you never have it figured out, never. And that’s the beauty of it, the beauty of life is that there’s always something new waiting for you around the corner to give you a surprise.”

“Friends?” Fern asks.

“Sure, I’ve been surprised with new friends.” I don't mention that they're a bunch of thrown together misfits suitable only for bad fiction. “Who’s to say that tomorrow won’t have you meeting the certain someone who lives only to make you happy? Just because you’re lonely now doesn’t mean you’ll be lonely forever.”

“I understand what you’re saying but it’s not that easy for me to make friends Ronald. People say I’m repulsive. They call me gross and ugly when I go outside, every time. They make me cry,” and there's a hitch in Fern’s voice now as she tries not too. It doesn’t work. “Oh Ronald!” she wails and there's almost too much pain in those two words for me to bear. “Why does everything have to be so hard?”

I stand up to see what the fuck is taking so long and the supervisor's speaking rapidly to someone through her headset and offers a thumbs up when she sees me looking. Good, real help's on the way. “I know it’s hard now Fern, I do. But remember that life’s always changing, that’s the only thing you can count on really. Well death and taxes too but neither of those is especially appealing to me right at the moment. How about you Fern, do taxes get you down?”

“Sometimes,” she says with a sniffle.

“Same here. Do you cheat on yours too?”

“Sometimes,” she says with a giggle.

“Glad to hear it.” And I take the plunge that flies in the face of everything we learned in training “So does your gun still look as good as it did before you called?”

“I feel a bit better,” Fern says and I believe it. “But what about tomorrow and the next day? I don’t know how to make those better by myself.”

“You can have help for that Fern. Like I said, I’ve been there, you don’t even have to ask.” What the hell. “If you’d like, I could help you Fern. I’ll be friends with you. I don’t have many myself. I guess I could use a friend too.”

“Do you mean it Ronald? Really?”

“Yup. So how about putting the gun down Fern? Put the gun down, okay. This is your friend asking nicely. How about it?”

“It’s heavy,” she said. “I’ve had it in front of my face but its making my hand wobble. Ronald, it’s so big.”

“Well then put it down Fern. You don’t need it anymore.”

What comes next happens so fast that I don't have time to react until it's too late. All at once there's a thud like something heavy hitting a wall (or a door), a muffled shriek and a tremendous bang oer the headset that leaves me deafened.

“Fern!” I'm shouting to hear my own voice. “Fern, what happened?”

Nothing. And then, faintly at first as my ears clear, the sound of strange male voices.

“Shit, we’re too late.”

“Dispatch said there was someone talking her down. I don’t see anybody.”

“Who could see for all these flies in here? Damn, it stinks. Open a window Sanchez, let some air in.”

“Fuck that, check her vitals.”

“Bitch is done, see. Bullet took the side of her face off. Help me shift her.”

“Ugh she weighs a ton. Goddamn! How the hell could she sit in her own shit like this? Look there’s maggots crawling in it. Fuckin’ disgusting.”

Over top of it all I can just make out Fern's voice, "Raw...raw...raw..."

“This is it Sanchez, she’s going.”

“Raw...Raw...Ronald,” and then a rattling gurgle before she stopped forever.

“What’s she on about?”

“Who cares? Maybe she wants one last large order of fries. Look, there’s blood and shit everywhere, open the window. How could anyone live like this?”

“Get down to the rig and grab the saw. We’re gonna’ need to widen the door she’s so fat. And put on a double pair of gloves too. I don’t like the look of those sores on her ass.”

“Which acre? What an ugly bitch.”

Dimly, I'm aware of my surroundings i.e. bustling call centre and oblivious co-workers. But I'm too busy listening to pay any more attention than that.
“For fuck sake!” I scream into my headset. “She’s a human being! She’s my friend! Treat her with some respect you goddamn giddy shitheads! Hit the end button and do your fucking jobs!”

“Oh...what the hell...Here it is, under her thigh. There we...”

Click

Fuck it, I'm done.

The Cross-stitch Rant

You know whatcha’ gotta’ watch out for though, right?

It's cross-stitch. I’m serious. Cross-stitch is the root of all evil and has the potential to end all life as we know it. Think about it. You’ve probably got one at home, am I right? Hanging on the wall all pretty and framed saying something nice about puppies or Jesus. Or maybe on that throw pillow you’re always spilling stuff on.

Odds are it was a gift from an older relative. Maybe Grandma Millie whipped off a couple for you all alone in the Day Room at the Home with nothing but her arthritis for company. And let me tell you, start from center cross-stitch kits go like smokes in jail at the Home. They fill a need you see. Imagine you’re in the twilight of your life, haven’t had sex since the Trudeau administration, your kids stuck you in the Home and one day someone passes you a plastic packet full of one last chance to make something nice that’ll last after you’re dead. Tell me you wouldn’t tear that bastard open and go right for the needle.

Who wouldn’t? But like I said, it’s evil. Endless hours of doing your rows, no need to talk. Hell, the clock punching hacks they have watching you aren’t going to change your diaper any faster just because you’re doing something more productive than sitting in your own shit. You’re filling the need. But any time you have something that fills a need you’ve got the chance of hitting bad batch. Maybe some factory worker got sidetracked and folded so far off center that poor old Millie - who’s seen more cross stitch than cock - takes her gleaming, antique silver from the old world needle in hand to pick out a fluffy pastoral scene from nothing only to find that the tree tops are straying up too far past the clouds. And then what? Ho-lee sheep shit then what?

I’ll tell you. You get a sweet little old lady who wouldn’t say boo if you pissed in her tea screaming for the number of whatever third world slave labour camp sent her bad cross-stitch. And she’s shrieking fit to strip her throat raw and doesn’t care ‘cause it’s life’s last joke, as far as she’s concerned, waiting for the punch line so the curtain can finally fall on this stage of her life. So watch out, ‘cause maybe it’s your turn to visit the condemned that day and she spots your outsider’s eyes and there's nothing but nothing standing between you and fury with a needle in hand. What’ll you do then, huh?

Well there’s no way you can haul off and lay out a centigenarian without looking like the world’s biggest asshole so you try your best to keep your eyes whole in their sockets while holding her off for the men with the tranquilizers to show up and walk her off for some quiet time in a room with rubber walls. And all the time you’re proper pissed because an old lady has effectively kicked your ass and you‘re wearing scratch marks on your face to prove it. Maybe - gods forbid but it could happen - you’re the leader of the free world and not even your earpiece wearing, gun toting spooks lifted a finger to keep Millie off of you. So you get back to the office and pick up the phone to order an Armageddon special with a side of revenge, hold the hassle, all because of cross-stitch. It could happen.

The Thirteen Steps

There’s a list of rules next to Grover’s door that lays it down for customers sure as Moses laid it down for the children of Israel: "Thou shall not forget thy money, Thou shall not draw heat unto the door of my house, Thou shall not bring anyone unto thy Dealer who is a stranger to Him upon pain of death, Thou shall not refuse a toke should it be offered unto you. Thou shalt always wipe thy feet." The last one's for his mom's benefit and I can feel her eyes on me as I pretend to scan the list. You’re supposed to always read them before descending into the Sepulchre but most of us have the lot memorized. The first time I read them I thought they were a bigger joke than the original commandments and said as much. His mom told me that without rules there is disaster. I've since learned that she believes god acts through her. I just wanna' score but I do wipe my feet before descending into the Sepulchre.


The thirteen steps leading down look like a suicidal carpenter's afterthought and creak like a rusty hinge in the wind. There’s no railing at all, just bare wood leading down to bare cement. No Holy Steps these, just a narrow road down which one misstep leads to concussion or skull splitting death. The first time I took them I slipped on a cat and almost broke my leg. The cat didn't make it and Grover gave me a free gram for my trouble. It was his mom's cat and they never got along.

Grover knows every one of his customers by their foot wear, sees my surplus combat boots and calls out in his mushy voice, "One-Nut descends into the tomb of his Dealer. All praise One-Nut."


I half expect to hear an echoing chorus of worshipers but it's way to early for that yet and it's not nearly smokey enough. Instead I find Grover wedged into his spot in the corner and dressed for receiving in a not too stained bedsheet and a T-Shirt that doesn’t quite cover his nipples with “Welcome to Paradise” scrawled across the front in what looks like black lipstick. The floor's littered with empty beer cans, fast food take-out trays and enough fat roaches to pinch out half a pound of second hand green. "I like what you've done to the place? Very flop-house modern. Your mom must be shitting kittens."

“Fuck her,” he says. “She should have thought of that before she threw me down the stairs.”

About that: Grover's mom - all ninety-six pounds of her - pushed him down the basement stairs when he was fourteen. When I met Grover in Grade Eight he was just topping six feet and weighed over three hundred pounds. He was a bad lad back then and gave her no end of trouble with all of his petty theft and mob enforcement work. She locked the door and left him down there with a cracked skull to die. Not that she ever knew what state she'd put him in - she never bothered checking - she just locked the door and never let on to anyone where he'd gone.

Grover will always say that he pulled through out of shere hate and stubbornness but you have to give the man some credit in the brain department - even if it is the animalistic hind brain. He'll tell about slipping in and out of consciousness for hours (or days) before touching the crack in his head and realizing that his life was leaking through it. He'll tell about fumbling for his belt and looping it around his head to hold the break together. He'll even tell you about eating the vermin that came nosing around the rich meal of blood and matter left by his head wound. My favourite part is listening to him tell about climbing the stairs one agonizing step at a time over the course of interminable hours and finding the door locked. So he knocks on the basement door calling weakly "Ma...Ma.." sounding more like a lamb than a man to find it opened by Mrs. Kackas from next door. She's watching the house while Grover's mom takes advantage of his "unexplained absence" to make a pilgrimage to some shrine in Kilaloe. Mrs. Kackas feeds him lamb and rice enough so he can find his feet and he leaves the house to establish a dope connection and delivery windows. The rest is history.

Looking at him now it’s hard to say if he’s grown any taller since those days but his bulk offers one the impression that it’s pushing against the fabric of reality. He’s not so much sitting as he seems to have fallen and got a settee jammed up his ass. It looks like the basement was built around him. His mom hoped that the basement would be his tomb but he rose again so he calls it the Sepulchre to piss her off. Can't say as anyone would blame him. They've never mentioned the stair pushing incident again but she'll always have his mushy sounding voice and the crease down his skull (which is obvious when you know it's there) to remind her.

I hold up a brown paper bag in my hand. "Brought you tandoori chicken from Indra's."


"Awesome." He reaches a pale crablike hand for the bag and sets it down next to his seat. "You want the usual?"


"Yeah, Man." The only other seat's a broken down lazyboy that Grover grew out of two years after being pushed down the stairs. The seats sagging and broken but it's still a comfortable chair. I take it watching his bulk negotiate the process that is weighing out my bag.


"Remember Spacey Stacy Childers?" he asks while adding fat green nuggets onto his tiny digital scale.


"You mean that chick from the old homeroom, the one with the huge cans?"


"That's her. Georgie Porridge brought her by the other day and she knew me right off. Started talking all sorts of shit like where have I been and did I know that folks still get together on weekends to speculate about me." His hands move through their practised ritual of weighing while he talks without looking at me. "Says she always wondered where I wound up and never expected to see me stuck down my mom's basement."

"She still have a wicked case of chest mumps?" I ask remembering eighth grade erections in homeroom.

"Oh, Man, you'd better believe it. She even hinted at trading favours for smoke."

"Brave girl, " I tell him as he finishes the half-O. "Looking for your Johnson would be like searching for ancient buried treasure."

"Fuck you and gimme a hundred dollars, One-Nut." We trade money for smoke and he settles back into his seat while I stash it down my sock. "Had a kid question my weights and measures the other day."

This perks me up some. Micah "Grover" Groves is the most scrupulously honest dealer I have ever met. His scale is always a top of the line two points after the decimal job and he sells dry weight premium buds. No one questions his authority in the Sepulchre. "What happened?"

Grover shrugs and its like watching the Earth move from orbit. "He was going on about how the last couple bags he got seemed light and wanted to check the read-out on my scale. I told him he could take me at my word or get the fuck out. He took the bag and left."

"Sucks, Dude," I say trying to find an excuse to leave. "Maybe you should bow out for a while?"

"Fuck that," he says while opening his take out tray. "People just gotta' realize that you don't question Grover down here."

"I hear you, Brother. Enjoy the food and I'll see you next week." He mumbles something about bringing him a burger next time and I turn away. Watching Grover eat is like watching a starving crocodile tear an antelope to pieces. Sometimes he'll lose a piece of food in his folds and find it a week later - he calls them tit-bits.

His mom's waiting near the basement door. I know she always listens when it's just him and one other person alone down there. She lives in fear of being ratted out to the cops about what she did those years ago. Grover maintains that her current station in life - co-conspirator in a dope ring and living in fear of the truth - is more punishment that jail could ever be. Dressed in her house-coat and fuzzy slippers she looks like any other late middle aged mom but she pushed her kid down the stairs and left him for dead and it's hard not to see when you know what to look for.

There's guilt and fear crinkling around her eyes 'cause she knows that there are two pushers living under one roof.