During my college years I worked at answering services. The pay sucked; the wealth from this experience comes from the entertainment value of the calls I took, many of which stay with me today, thirteen-some odd years after leaving the industry.
I've already talked about my brushes with fame. Beyond them, there were amusing clients, such as the doctor in Baltimore, a huge Oriole's fan, who would leave depressed-sounding messages on his home answering machine whenever they lost. He'd call during my overnight shifts to check in and offer to talk dirty to add some excitement to my boring night. When I called his bluff, he would start breathing heavily into the phone -- more like panting really -- and using words like "mud."
There were interesting names, such as the mother calling her daughter's pediatrician. The kid's name was Microwavenia.
Then there were the calls themselves. An elderly, senile woman calling her social worker's number for phone sex (egads -- I can still hear her dentures clacking as she stuttered, "I'm sweeeeet Sadie! Suck me! Fuck me!"). A father calling his kid's doctor after unsuccessfully trying to remove with tweezers some tissue paper the kid had jammed up his nose. A woman desperately calling her physician, responding to the query, "What's your emergency?" by saying, "There's a boil on my butt and it's gonna bust!"
It's the latter example that is especially on my mind today, as tomorrow I shall join the ranks of these ridiculous-sounding callers.
It all started when I went back to Maryland a few weeks ago. Being allergic to the air in Maryland, my allergies went haywire from the shock. As the trees budded in Alaska mere days before Jem and I returned, the itchy eyes, sneezing, and faucet nose never calmed. Having tried a couple OTC drugs with no relief, I called my doctor for something stronger. I asked for a particular prescription, given that the drug had been wonderful for me in the past.
The drug is no longer wonderful for me. In fact, it is horrible for me. I'm starting to think that I'm having an allergic reaction to the drug. I have sneezed so much that I have a new visitor. I've named him Siegfried (Roy is too obvious, and he's not too active these days besides). He lives across the way from Trudy. It's bad enough to simply say that I miss Trudy; she was much more tolerable. She paid her visits regularly, sure, typically catching me as I finished in the bathroom, but she would only stick around long enough for a cup of tea. Siegfried, however, is -- for lack of a better phrase, and it's so fitting anyway -- a real fucking pain in my ass. He showed up uninvited and unannounced -- and you know how I feel about that business -- on Monday and has.not.gone.away. I can't sit, I can't walk, I can't cough or sneeze without him reminding me of his presence.
Yeah. So tomorrow I need to call the doctor and inform her that my allergy pill is not good and would you like to meet Siegfried? Have a seat and he will amaze you by not disappearing at all when I douse him with Preparation H.
