the telephone is good.

At work, I answer the phone. It isn’t in my job description, just an added menial task bulleted somewhere lower on my To Do list. I’m not complaining. People seem much softer when I am separated from them by a dozen odd yards of telephone wire. I’m less offended by an irate voice if I can’t perceive the body it resides in. The telephone is good. I like the weight of the black receiver against my cheek; I like to talk.

           

“Hi, this is Mary Samson.” A voice attached to a stranger speaks to me. I stand in my end of the world. I wear shapeless black shoes and a red polo. On my nametag I have drawn a smiley face in permanent marker. “I was just diagnosed with acute leukemia and I’m not able to get out like I used to. Is there a way I can give you my credit card and order ink over the phone?”

For a slow instance, we breathe, Mary Samson and I. It seems such a practical approach what we’re doing here on the telephone. I have no ink. I need ink. Help me stranger, please; help me get what I need.

“You can order inks online,” I say this because next to the smiley face on my nametag is a blue button with a star. It reads Associate of the Month. I say this because I want to be human for Mary Samson, but I’m also afraid. “Online, they can send them to your house for you. I can explain how to place the order. I can walk you through it.”

When we’ve finished, Mary Samson offers generic thanks and I say something about having a nice day. Good bye. Good bye. We replace our respective receivers and disappear from one another forever. In two to three business days, a package will arrive in a white poly mailer addressed: Samson, Mary. I imagine chemotherapy.