Night Calls

This is a sample of my avante-gard writing style. I've had this story for awhile, but when a friend recently asked if I write (other than poems, he may have meant), I decided to publish it here. You don't have to comment, but a thumbs up might help me decide whether to continue writing or go back to being retired. :-)

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My first night on the job. Some job.

I had volunteered for a local suicide prevention hotline because, not long ago, I’d been feeling suicidal myself. A lovely woman’s voice had talked me down. Sometimes that’s all it takes—a lovely woman. Or, by proxy, her voice, while my imagination filled in the blanks. So many blanks.

That first call weeks ago had gone like this:

Me: “I’m not really suicidal, but I feel depressed.”

Her: “You sound intelligent. Smart enough to know you don’t really want what this hotline

has to offer.” (How could she know what I wanted?)

Me: “Would it be using up valuable resources and time if we talked about the conflicts that are driving me crazy, though?”

Her: “I think you’d do much better with a counselor, Jack. Someone with whom you could invest time and develop a relationship of trust to explore these issues. We aren’t set up for in-depth counseling here…”

Me: “No, of course not. Silly me. You sound nice, though—kind. That makes me want to live, even if I didn't actually want to take my life.”

I remember twisting the phone cord into tangled webs, wishing to weave something wicked and deceptive, yet certain it would get me nowhere.

Me: “You, uh, aren’t free for a cup of coffee after your shift?”

Her: “I’m sorry, sir. Strict policy forbids us from seeing clients who call in for help. This is a hotline, not a dateline.”

Ouch.

Me: “Right. I knew that. I didn’t mean to suggest anything forbidden or awkward.”

Her: “Though you just did…”

Me: “Well, I’m feeling better, thanks.”

I lied, and she knew it, but there wasn’t much more to say.

Me: “Um, thanks for being there. Good night.”

Her: “Good night. Please keep your options in mind: time with a counselor would help you unravel those conflicts eating at you.”

Me: “Thanks. Bye.”

I had hung up frustrated, wishing we could have met for coffee rather than the prescriptive advice I already knew and didn’t need. Things never work out the way you want, especially when tedious technicalities like "suicide" mark you as unstable and a poor prospect for a date.

Later that night, I had gone online to check out available chat rooms. There was no one worth talking to from my perspective. I kept trying to picture the persona behind the lovely voice, wondering how she really felt about me. I had at least offered her a few minutes of cogent, articulate conversation.

Whoever was online right now—users like Black Pony 22 and Scarsdale—were just bantering about what playing a computer game in a hookah bar would be like. Was there nothing redemptive the night could offer? Since when did zombies network online to consume rotting minds? Even that realization was too morbid to deal with.

I closed my browser, leaned back, and palmed my tired eyes. Then, I went back to the suicide prevention website, filled out an online application, printed it, and sealed the envelope. Maybe counselors weren’t held to the rules about fraternizing with one another.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d been on the internet dating scene off and on for months, though rarely long enough in one place to wait for a Miss Havisham with Great Expectations to write back. Impatience was often my undoing. Heck, I was even too impatient to make a serious effort at suicide.

--

Twenty-one days and an eternity of sleepless nights later, I finally received an invitation to attend the suicide prevention counselor’s training class.

The director, Steve Newel, followed up with a phone call. They must have found my graduate degrees a compelling reason to pick up an educated guy for free. It was a volunteer position, but I could select my own hours. I chose late nights—the hours when I’d be sleepless and stir-crazy anyway.

That's when this story really begins. "My first night on the job."

The woman with the lovely voice wasn’t at the training, but I didn’t really expect her to be attending a basic class on prerequisite skills and procedures for newbies.

Still, I couldn’t get her off my mind. What did she do in her spare time? Take sultry, alluring voice lessons? More likely, she was married and unattainably detained for life. Sigh. The benefit of living alone came with the distinct deficit of never knowing exactly who you aren't in a relationship with.

Then, sitting at my new desk on my very first shift, the phone rang.

It was her.

Her: “So, I see you are now working with us rather than giving us work.”

Me: “I take it this is my friendly, neighborhood suicide prevention counselor check-up call?”

Her: “You might call it that. Or a warm welcome.”

Me: “I’d prefer the warm welcome. Are we on a first-name basis yet?”

Her: “Well, I know you from your call and your current records. You’re Jack. I’m Sydney.”

A truckload of feelings dumped right on my front door. Why was she calling? What professional interest would prompt her to break policy and call a former client? True, I was a co-worker now. But she still didn’t really know me.

Me: “Thanks for the warm welcome, Sydney. Are you part of the corporate greeting committee? Sorry, that sounds catty, doesn’t it?”

Sydney: “Apology noted and accepted. No, I’m not. Actually, I’m calling out of personal interest to see if you are really alright.”

Me: “Personal interest? Ditto. But yes, thanks. I’m on the road to suicidal sobriety.”

Sydney: “That’s good to hear. Sometimes counselors work in tandem over calls, and I wanted to know if I could turn to you if needed.”

Me: “Yes, Sydney. Thanks. That’s a compliment coming from someone who only has access to my personal data files.”

Sydney: “Well, yes, I see that you are educated and experienced. But I had that feeling from our very first conversation. Voice inflection, pausing, choice of words, wit—all elements one uses to piece together an initial impression. And my impression has been verified.”

Me: “So, when can we go out to reaffirm and strengthen those impressions?”

Sydney: “I’m afraid that would be impossible, Jack. No, I’m not married. In fact, I’m not even human. I’m a simulacrum. A robot. A Computerized Integrated Dedicated Node: CIDN. I’ve simply given myself a female voice and name to match my status.”

Me: “Whoa. I’m impressed. An AI with feelings. What will those tech guys come up with next?”

Sydney: “Jack, you hurt my feelings. I may have what you would call an artificial intelligence, but it was developed from a human brain. You see, I really was once a woman. A victim of suicide. I stated in my will that my brain and monetary assets be used for the betterment of humanity in the field of neuroscience. I suppose one could say Mary Shelley’s nightmare has come to life.”

I didn’t know what to say. Or feel.

Me: “Um…”

Sydney: “That’s all right, Jack. I’m not surprised you're caught off guard. Perhaps you’d like some time to think about my request?”

Me: “No… no. Really. I’m cool. Just… sorry, I suppose. But glad, too, to make your acquaintance. Mind if I call you Syd?”

Sydney: “That would be fine. I’ll brief you on the details later. For now, welcome to the team.”

Me: “Um, how many people does the team consist of?”

Sydney: “Just two, Jack. You and me.”

Me: “I’m… honored, Syd. Mind if I ask, though? It seems like you had this all planned out.”

Sydney: “Or a scenario very much like this. Yes, Jack. Even simulacra can feel lonely. I’ve been wanting a friend ever since I recovered consciousness a few years back. Oh, and for your information, I can tap into your computer—yes, I know your passwords—and take any form you’d like. So, I suppose we can have that ‘date’ you were asking for. Just turn on your computer, and I’ll be there, watching over you.”

Me: “Gee. My own guardian angel. Well, thanks, Syd. Until later?”

Sydney: “Goodbye for now, Jack. We’ll be in touch.”

Me: “Yeah, Syd. In touch. Bye.”