The Telephonist

    I had my order. Not of the choirs

    of angels， but of the countries we called

    in the stone dead heart of the night. Japan

    was a young woman's voice， a cool river

    through a thirsty land， sliding over my bone

    tired body like an icy， blue-green

    wave. Australia was next——their perpetual

    joking could keep me awake. I even

    made history once： for eight years， a man

    had been calling his brother in the bush.

    He loved me， loved my voice， my flipping of

    the switches in Oakland， California，

    so that， at last， it worked. But usually

    I was just too tired to care. My first

    graveyard shift and I was much too tired

    to give a shit when the businessmen yelled

    about lines down in Manila again，

    as if I could stop those typhoons， as if

    I could make the old crones in Manila

    love us， which they didn't， or be somewhat

    helpful， which they weren't. Why don't you try

    again in two weeks？ I would say （the stock

    response， a polite voice， then flip the switch，

    cut him off， quick， before his swearing

    poisons my ear）。 Too tired to care

    about anything， not their business dealing，

    not the drunken nostalgia for a whore

    known during the war——he can't remember

    her name， or the place where she worked， the street

    it was on， but could I help him find her？

    He's never forgotten . . . I grew so tired

    of phones ringing for eight hours straight.

    I wanted to pull my hair out， one thin

    strand at a time. It was a newly

    invented circle of hell， and if you

    had been there， you just might understand

    why that infamous hippie girl rose up，

    out of her chair， yanked the earphones off， and climbed

    onto a counter running the length of the room

    beneath our long， black switchboard， then，

    crawling from station to station， pulled each cord

    from its black tunnel， breaking one connection

    after another， like a series of

    coitus interruptus all down the board，

    before they stopped her， and led her away.

    She must be on LSD， said a wife

    from the Alameda military base. And she wears

    no underwear， either， added another.

    That was 1970， back when Oakland

    Overseas was still manual， but the hatred

    of a ringing phone is with me yet.

    I will stand at the center of a room

    and watch the damn thing ring its little head off，

    and I will grin， quite stupidly， at its

    helplessness. I will walk out the door， fill

    my lungs with ice， head for the far-off peaks.

    I will lose myself， become one small， dark stroke

    in the white stillness of snow. I'm telling you

    now， it was a brand new circle of hell，

    but how could we know that， then？ We had jobs，

    the market was tight， and the union

    won us cab rides home when we worked at night.