Interview

Seems my life is a string of modified intentions.

            Many are the times I have vowed to give up this job. But it does pay well and someone has to do it. So instead, for a while, I give up meat. Or coffee. Or sugar.

            Oh yes, sugar. I don’t like to be all sugared up when I work. Calm is better. I pride myself on being a good listener. Good and calm. Besides, now and then their stories are quite interesting and I don’t want to miss anything. It’s hard to hear sometimes when your ears buzz from too much candy. So no sugar. At least for a while.

            They think their stories are all for the record, for their children, for their grand children, what have you, but it’s not. It’s to put them at ease. We always re-use the disks.

            The key is to listen well, or at least to appear to listen well. To make them feel heard, make them believe that their lives meant something, no matter how useless, really.

            The job comes with a quota. It’s three a week. Most of the time that’s not a problem, but sometimes the telling can take hours, days even, before they’re done, or fall asleep, whichever comes first, and then it can be hard to make quota.

            Sometimes they struggle and that takes a lot out of you. Both physically and mentally. You need your rest after a struggler. And then there are talkative strugglers. And if you’re really unlucky—no, seriously, it can happen, it’s happened to me, more than once—you get a couple of talkative strugglers in a row, and I can tell you that’s one week you’re not making it to three. I usually head back to sugar, meat, coffee, what have you, after one of those weeks. With a vengeance.

            “Take your time,” I say, “it’s your life.”

            It’s my favorite phrase. I usually have to repeat it though. They don’t hear so well at first. Not looking forward to what comes later I guess. But I say it again, as loud and as many times as needed, and with my good smile in place so show that I mean it. Then they seem to relax a bit, well, maybe not relax as much as stop shaking, and then they begin their stories.

            As a rule I decide to give up smoking about once every two months. Cold turkey. That’s right, not another cigarette. And that lasts an hour or two after which I normally modify that decision to: I will smoke less, a lot less. Which I normally manage for a matter of days, but it’s hard to keep track of how many you smoke when you listen, so after a talker or two that decision is in turn usually modified to: I can smoke as much as I damn well please.

            They usually don’t mind me lighting up, they have bigger worries. But then, a month or so later, some morning when I think I can actually hear the tar gurgle in my lungs as I move about, there’s that intention again: not another cigarette. Which lasts an hour or two, and round and round we go.

            So I tell them to take their time, and I smile, and I adjust the microphone and test it, one, two, three, and make quite a show of making sure I get their voice nice and clean on the disk. Say one, two, three, I tell them. Into the microphone, or toward at least it. And they do, and then I play it back for them, and smile again. See, loud and clear.

             Most of the time they start at the beginning. You know, I was born on such and such a day in such and such a place. Seventy years ago today, exactly, always. I grew up in so and so and went to school in so and so. I’ve come to know this period quite well.

            Some, though, start in the middle, at the best part of their lives, “I got married when I was twenty-three” and so on. “I graduated cum laude,” they’ll say. All those hopes.

            This guy is odd.

            “I had a son,” is the first thing he says to me.

            I smile, I nod. I hear him, I understand.

            But then he doesn’t go on. Just sits there. Doesn’t shake though. Still as can be, his eyes cloudy and fixed on his hands. Those hands, all bone and liver spots gathered in is lap. Long nails, but clean.

            It’s a small apartment and we’re sitting the living room. There’s a small kitchen to my left, and I can see a closed door which I’m sure leads to his bedroom. He’s in one of the two armchairs, I’m on the sofa. I can see the curtains move a little and I hear the traffic three stories down. It’s getting dark outside. I wait for a minute or two, to give him time. He’s got two charcoal drawings on one wall. One is of a barn. I can’t make out what the other is supposed to be. Then I don’t want to wait any longer.

            “That’s it?” I ask.

            He looks up at me, interrupted.

            “No,” he says. “No, there’s more.” But he doesn’t go on.

            An odd one all right. Still staring at his hands. I wait a little longer, give him some more time. Nice table, clean glass top. He probably cleaned it for the occasion. Some tasks don’t care at all, let everything go. Pigsties. Unpleasant people.

            “No,” he says again, looks up at me. Not smiling. “That’s not all. I had a son but I lost him. All at once I lost him.”

            “When?” I say, to keep him going.

            “Long ago.” Nothing more.

            “Start at the beginning,” I suggest.

            “There really isn’t any beginning,” he says.

            “There’s always a beginning.”

            “I didn’t have much of a life until he was born,” he says. “None worth telling anyway.”

            “Well, tell me about your son then.” I know how to get them talking.

            Not this time though. His eyes return to his hands, and he just sits there. Mute. But it won’t do to show impatience. Not at all. Patience, that’s part of the job. You stay with them until the story is done or they fall asleep, which ever comes first, that’s what the manual says. Be patient, courteous and attentive. Three very important words. The manual repeats them a lot. Patient, courteous and attentive. To make them feel valued.

            Why doesn’t he get on with it?

            “How did you lose your son?” I finally ask. Friendly like.

            He looks up at me again, a cloudy glance that doubts that I care. “I really care,” I say.

            His eyes return to his hands. “I seriously doubt that,” he says. Doesn’t even look up when he says this.

            Well, that’s another thing. You never argue with your task, says the manual. So I never do. But how can I possibly agree with this? I do care, really. Most of the time anyway. It’s a part of the job.

            “I do care, honestly”

            That makes him look up. “Why on earth should I believe you?”

            “Because it’s the truth.” Even if stretched a little.

            He doesn’t answer that. Back to his hands.

            “I’m here for you. Tell me about him, tell me about your son.” I don’t mean to but it comes out like a plea.

            Which finally gets him going.

            “He was a wonderful little life,” he says to his hands. “I remember when he was born. They had put him on a white towel, it had a sort of monogram on it, and there he was, looking surprised getting his bearings and then he looked up and right at me. Right at me.” At this he looked up and right at me.

            “His eyes were large. Well, they appeared large to me, perhaps because his head was so small. Pupils large and deep. I could see right in. To his soul. I felt I knew him.”

            The thing is that once they start, you have to keep looking at them. If possible maintain eye contact, but even if they don’t look at you, you must look at them. They can look up at any moment to check on you and you must be there. There for them, says the manual. And the best way to be there for them is to keep looking. His eyes returned to his hands, more comfortable there than on me.

            “Then a confused nurse—a young thing, probably new—brought me a pair of scissors and asked me to cut the umbilical, but of course it had already been cut for my wife was clear at the other end of the room, recovering. I wasn’t sure what to do with them, the scissors, it was a strange moment. But the little nurse stood there, expecting me to trim the string sticking out of his stomach a little more, I guess.” The he looked up again, caught my eyes. Good thing I was looking at him. “Symbolically I guess, but dumb. We took it as a joke, Lyle and I, and so I trimmed the silly thing half an inch or so, and handed the scissors back to the nurse, who seemed very pleased with herself.”

            “Lyle’s his name?” I ask, feeling on top of this.

            “While we lived together, yes. Lyle. I think she changed it later.”

            “Who?”

            “His mother. I think she changed it after the divorce, wanted no trace of me. Lyle was my idea, you see, so she wanted no Lyle around.”

            “She changed it to what?”

            “I don’t know. He was Lyle last I saw him. It was Lyle I lost.”

            His eyes wander a bit, not back to his hands this time. Then back at me. But I’m right there, to meet him eye to eye. By the manual. He looks at me for quite a while, I feel inspected. He doesn’t say anything though. Then returns to his hands and clams up. I wonder how long this is going to take. If we can finish by this nine, I can be home by eleven. That’ll be my three for the week and then three days off. All to myself. I’m about to look at my watch when he looks up again. Catches me drifting. Does he notice? He doesn’t say. Anything.

            Coffee is another on and off thing. In a way I feel binary, you know, I’m either on or off. One or zero. One hundred percent, or not a single one. I’m that way with coffee. When I on, it’s like twelve, fifteen cups a day. Strong ones. Temple poundingly strong ones. To the point where I need sleeping pills when I go to bed. And this goes on until my stomach begins to hurt from all that extra acid and then, not another cup. Firmly decided. And for the next day or two or three I have screaming headaches from the caffeine withdrawal. But I sleep better, feel calmer, and my stomach stops hurting. And then for a while I feel fine, but a little sluggish, and then a little more sluggish, and then a little more and I think, just a cup you know, to perk me up a little, and then it’s one hundred percent again, just like that. Back and forth. At this time I’m off again, I’m over the headaches and I’m feeling pretty good. If a little sluggish.

            “How will you do it?” He says.

            I’ve drifted again, but with my eyes on his, so I’m pretty much there. I don’t think he noticed. “It’s in the pamphlet,” I answer. We send out pamphlets to each task, at least a month in advance, which they are supposed to read. They have to sign for it, so I know he’s got it. “Didn’t you get it?”

            “I didn’t read it,” he says.

            “You should have. That’s why they send them out.”

            “I didn’t read it,” he says again.

            “Strangulation.”

            He thinks about that. “Why strangulation?” he says.

            “It’s clean,” I say from the manual before I’ve had a chance to think. We’re not supposed to tell them that.

            “No mess,” he says.

            Precisely. “Precisely.”

            Then there’s just the light wind through the window and the traffic below. An elevator starts up in another part of the building, I can even hear the swoosh of the cables.

            “You done?” I ask. I try not to sound hopeful.

            “When do you do it?” He wants to know.

            That, too, is in the pamphlet he hasn’t read. “When you’ve told me your story,” I tell him. Or when you fall asleep, whichever comes first, which I don’t tell him, for that is not in the pamphlet, only in the manual.

            There’s this story at the office about this task who had popped a bunch of amphetamines just before we came. A lot of them, apparently. He talked for three days and three nights straight and well into the fourth morning. No quota that week. Jesus.

            “You done?” I ask again.

            He says nothing. Doesn’t move. I guess that means no. I want to look at my watch again, but I think he might notice, and it would be a little obvious. Instead I look around for a clock, easing my eyes around the room, alert to him as well. No clocks. He still doesn’t say anything.

            “So what happened? How’d you lose him?” I ask.

            He doesn’t answer, but stands up and that startles me. Walks over to the window and pulls the curtain aside, looks down.

            “How can you do it?” he asks from there, without turning. The question almost drifts over to me, part words part wind part traffic.

            Now, that’s one thing we’re not supposed to get into. The manual is quite clear on this point. They talk, you listen, they finish, you strangle them. That’s what they drill into you. It’s not for you to talk, or answer questions, especially questions like that. You listen, you are there to listen. Then strangle. Quickly, neatly. Then you call the clean-up crew. Then you go home.

            But what I say, which is not in the manual, is, “What do you mean?” More a reflex than anything.
            “How can you? How can you do a job like this? You are human, too.”

            “I can’t really talk about that,” I say. Which I’m not supposed to say. What I am supposed to do is change the subject unobtrusively, is how the manual puts it. Easier said than done.

            He turns around and faces me. No longer strikes me as a seventy year old. Too fluid.

            “Why?”

            “I just can’t.”

            “You don’t know?”

            “Of course I know. But I can’t talk about it.”

            “You mean, you’re not allowed to.” It’s a statement.

            “That’s right.”

            “I could never understand that.”

            “What?”

            “How you people can do it. That there are people who see it as a job. Who get paid to do this for a living.”

            “Well it is a job.”

            “To strangle people is a job?”

            “Yes.”

            He doesn’t answer.

            “Well, listen,” I say. “Let’s get back to your son. I am here to hear your story.” Then I add, which I shouldn’t have, “You know the drill.”

            “No, I’m afraid I don’t”

            “You should have read the pamphlet.”

            “I guess.”

            He walks back to his armchair and sits down. I can tell that he is not as calm as he looks. His hands tremble a little as he reaches for the armrest to ease himself into the chair. They sort of shudder just before they seize the wooden slats. Hard. I can see them tighten, knuckles whitening they grip so hard. Then they let go an come together in his lap again, quickly. Trying not to betray him. Trying to seem calm. But I know. I’ve seen too many hands, too many tasks. And dignity is important to them. Mustn’t seem afraid. Mustn’t shake, mustn’t cry.

            He begins to say something but it doesn’t come out. He clears his throat. Starts again.

            I have noticed with some people they can speak without moving their lips. Well, hardly anyway. His lips are thin, red not blue. But thin. As the words come out they come clearly but he gives them barely enough room to escape. How does he do it? A little like a ventriloquist.

            “The first year was hell. He wouldn’t sleep. It wore her out.”

            “It wore who out?”

            “Ellen.”

            Must be his wife.

            “My wife,” he adds. “After a month she ran dry and we had to mix a formula for him. He didn’t like it and would not stop crying. Ellen tried everything to pacify him but she would wear out before he did. She would fall asleep with him beside her, crying, screaming.”

            He looked up again and I was right there. By the manual.

            “Then, this was the sixth month, Ellen had her breakdown. She tried to smother him with a pillow. I caught her at it for our bedroom went so quiet so fast and I knew something bad was happening. I grasped her by the shoulders and threw her off of him and against the wall. She took a bad tumble and hurt her head. That’s when she began to hate me.

            “She needed a rest and I arranged for her to go to her mother’s while I stayed with Lyle. Had to take leave from my job. It was hard.

            “I didn’t tell anyone about Ellen, not even the Justice during our divorce. If I had I’m sure Lyle could have stayed with me.”

            “Why?” I want to know.

            “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself often. To protect her perhaps.”

            His hands slide apart for a moment and again I notice the tremble. He really is afraid. But you can’t tell by the voice. I usually can. But not this one. Just the hands. And he doesn’t want me to know. Keeps them as still as he can.

            “She left for her mother’s and I didn’t sleep for six months. At least it felt that way. Then when he was about a year old he could take solids and then calmed down. Become a wonderful little boy.

            “Ellen came back to stay. She no longer loved me. She hated me for what I knew. I pitied her, I guess, but I would not leave her alone with Lyle if I could help it.

            “She knew that. Knew that I did not trust her. Knew Lyle meant a lot more to me than she did.

            “It worked for a while. I guess you can call it. Then when Lyle was almost four Ellen left and took Lyle with her. I came home from work early that day, just as she was leaving. I met a small moving van just before I turned into our drive, but thought nothing of it at the time. Ellen was closing the front door behind her as I parked. Then she set out down the drive without as much as a glance in my direction. I got out of the car. I asked her where she was going, but she didn’t answer. Didn’t even look back at me.

            “I asked her again. Then she stopped. ‘To mother’s,’ she said.

            “Maybe I should have stopped her. Maybe I should have taken Lyle, run after them and picked him up and never let go of him. But I didn’t. I figured she’d come back after a while.”

            “But she didn’t,” I say.

            “No. She didn’t.”

            I nod and look as sympathetic as I can.

            “She filed for divorce and requested custody. I contested this, but I never did tell the Justice about her, about what she had done. And Ellen was well now and for all the world looked like a loving mother and she fooled everyone and won.”

            Suddenly he stands up again. “Do you want some water?” he asks me.

            “No thanks, I’m fine,” I answer. Why I don’t know, since I am thirsty.

            He pours himself a glass from the tap in the kitchen and comes back into the room  Sits down quickly, conceals the shiver. Drinking is going to be a real problem for him, I think. It will show.

            He realizes that too as he lifts the glass and the surface begins to ripple. I pretend not to notice. But he’s not fooled. He knows I see and he quits pretending. The glass begins to quake to the point of spilling and I see his cloudy eyes water. He is very afraid, is what he is. Then he finds a toe hold it seems and stills the glass and drinks the water. I look away. Not good to notice too much. The manual. Listen. Strangle. Call clean-up. Go home.

            “Do you mind if I get some water. I’d like some after all,” I say.

            “No. No. Help yourself,” he says.

            It’s a small kitchen. Clean. Just like his living room. The pipe sings when I open the tap.

            His hands are back in his lap when I return. Empty glass on the table beside him. Ready to go on?

            “So Ellen got Lyle,” I say. To show I’m listening. By the manual.

            “Yes,” he says. “She got Lyle and they moved away.”

            “Where?”

            “New York. The Bronx. She had family there. A brother.”

            “A long way from Los Angeles,” I say.

            He looks up at me. “No, we didn’t live here then. We lived in Philadelphia.”

            “Ah.”

            “Did you get to visit?”

            “Supposed to. But she always found some way to prevent it. I went there five times and each time Lyle was away with relatives. Once I drove up there unannounced although I was not supposed to and I thought I heard him crying in the back of the house when I rang the bell. Ellen said he was not there. Her brother came to the door and told me I had some nerve coming like this. I said I had heard him crying. She said I was mistaken. Her brother said he was calling the police. I had to leave.

            “Next time I came neither Ellen nor Lyle were there. Gone, said the brother. Where? Don’t know, he said. He would not tell me.

            “It took me four years to track her down. She was in jail. Convicted of child abuse. Lyle had been taken from her and given up for adoption. I can’t imagine what her family had told them about me for no one sought me out. They should have, they should have given me custody at that point. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t even tell me where he was. He has a new life now, they said.

            “It did not matter what I did or whom I saw, they would not tell me where he was.”

            They have manuals too, I thought.

            His hands abandoned each other and now trembled openly. He seemed done with his story. Tears were forming now, cloudy watery eyes. Not ready for what’s to come, but they never are.

            “I can still see him,” he says. And now I can tell by his voice too. Reality setting in. “It’s right after the divorce, I’ve hugged him for the last time. He’s got his red jump suit on. It’s too small, but its nice. His hair is long and blond and the sun shines on him making him a cherub. I put him down and Ellen stoops down to seize his hand and begins walking. He almost stumbles, but she keeps walking. Little legs almost running to keep up, his little head turning back to see me almost stumbling again. Ellen does not want to stop.”

            It’s almost impossible to keep up with her, and my hand hurts in her grip, I try to turn to see him, but I stumble. I would fall but she won’t let me. She won’t stop and I start to cry. She won’t stop and my hand hurts. Ellen, he shouts. Ellen, you’re hurting him. She stops and I can stop too. Can turn and see him. Distant now.

            “Then he starts to cry, she must be hurting him the way she’s rushing away. Ellen, I shout, you’re hurting him. She stops and turns. Lyle turns too and stops crying. Ellen says for me to mind my own business he is no longer my son. I’m about to say how can she possibly believe that but I can’t get another word out.”

            She shouts something at him. Then she picks me up and carries me away. I look back over her shoulder and I see him, a little more distant with each step. Then we turn the corner and he’s gone.

            “Then they turn a corner. That’s the last I saw of him.”

            And I don’t know what to do. He is calmer now. He hands do not tremble. It’s like the manual says, once they get it all out, once they’ve said what they need to say, they’ll calm down. He is crying though. Quick sobs and long sighs, and I don’t know what to do.

            More and more distant before we turned the corner. That’s the image that stayed with me, the image I held on to. How I remembered him, extra strong when she beat me when I thought that if I remembered him strongly enough he would stop her, but he never did.

            I asked about him once and mommy went crazy with the strap. Then they took her away and gave me to Bob and Ruth. Now and then I asked them about him. They didn’t beat me, of course, they were nice people, but they told me he was gone and would never come back. That was worse than the strap.

            He is quiet now. He is done. Ready. I am not.

            He looks up at me. Waiting now. I can feel the weight of the garrote in my pocket. Government issue, rubber-covered steel cord, wooden handles. It’s been with me for eight years. I clean it and oil it after every task. It is strong, flexible, and infallible. I’ve never not used it for the manual is very clear on this point: if you fail to use it on your task, it will find you next.

            The moment has come. It will be over in five minutes, unless he puts up a struggle, which I doubt that he will. So I stand up and bring it out of my pocket.

            I waver. Then not.

::

Copyright © 2005 by Wolfstuff

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf 

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