On Hold
Dead Line: Episode 2
SYSTEM REBOOT. LOADING USER PROFILE... CORRUPTION DETECTED. IGNORING ERRORS. WELCOME, MAYA.
The air in the call centre was stale, tasting of recycled breath and plastic heated to the point of failure.
Maya sat at Desk 4, nursing a throbbing head. A sharp, rhythmic pain behind her left eye felt like a bruise, a memory of an injury she had not received. Rubbing her temple, she found the skin tender to the touch.
The wall clock read 02:37 AM.
Staring at the digital numbers, a sense of vertigo washed over her, the sensation of stepping off a curb higher than expected. She gripped the arms of her chair, the cheap polyester scratching her palms.
On her screen, Oracle v4.5 idled. The green pulse beat in the corner. System Active.
Profound exhaustion settled deep in her marrow. It felt like the fatigue of a shift lasting a thousand years rather than five hours.
Reaching for the Red Bull on her desk, she found the aluminium warm and sweating. A ring of condensation sat on the grey laminate.
Rrrrring.
Line 2 lit up.
INCOMING CALL REGION: LOCAL
A normal call offered relief. The aggressive silence of the room pressed against her ears, and the ringtone broke the pressure.
Maya tapped the screen, summoning her professional voice to become The Operator.
“Crisis Line. This is Maya. You are through. How can I help?”
“Is this the council?”
The male voice, middle-aged and thick with irritation, assaulted her ear.
Maya blinked as her headache spiked. “No sir. This is the Crisis Line. Do you have an emergency?”
“I have an emergency,” the man snapped. “There is a car alarm going off. It has been going for four hours at 42 Peterson Court. It is driving me mad.”
“Sir,” Maya said, keeping her voice level. “We deal with personal crises and mental health emergencies. You need the non-emergency police line or the council noise complaint team.”
“They put me through to you!” the man shouted. The audio peaked, crackling in the speaker. “Do not pass me off. I want this logged.”
“I cannot log a noise complaint. I have to terminate this call.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me. I pay my taxes. I want a reference number.”
Maya sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I am going to transfer you to the main switchboard. They can direct you. Please hold.”
Without waiting for an answer, she hit the TRANSFER button on her console.
The button stuck.
The key, gummed up with dust and sticky with spilled sugary drinks from previous operators, depressed with a crunch and refused to pop back up.
The light on Line 2 blinked rapidly.
CALL HOLD CALL HOLD CALL HOLD
Maya tapped the key, trying to pry it up with her fingernail, but it remained wedged tight.
“Great,” she muttered.
The screen froze. Oracle displayed a spinning hourglass. The system was thinking. The system was hanging.
Maya rattled the keyboard, hitting Escape and Control-Alt-Delete.
The computer ignored her. The light on Line 2 continued to blink, a rhythmic yellow pulse matching the throbbing in her head.
One minute passed.
Picking up a paperclip, Maya bent the wire to work it under the edge of the Transfer key. She dug at the grime.
The key popped up.
The screen flickered, unlocking the software.
CALL ACTIVE.
Maya adjusted her headset. “Hello? Sir? I apologize for the delay. The system froze.”
Silence greeted her.
Then a long, ragged exhalation sounded like air escaping a tire.
“Sir?”
“Since Tuesday,” the voice said.
The anger in the man’s voice had calcified into something cold and hard.
“Excuse me?”
“I have been listening to that music since Tuesday,” the man said. “Vivaldi. The Four Seasons. Specifically Spring. Over and over again.”
Maya frowned, checking the call timer on her screen.
DURATION: 00:01:42
“Sir,” she said, keeping her tone light. “You were on hold for less than a minute. I had a sticky button.”
“Do not lie to me,” the man hissed. “I watched the sun come up. I watched it go back down. I have been on this line for days.”
Maya looked at the date. It was Thursday.
“I think you are confused,” Maya said. “My timer says one minute. Maybe you dialed us before?”
“I know what I heard,” the man said. “I know what I did. I sat here listening to the violins. And I listened to you.”
“You could not hear me. You were on hold.”
“The line was open,” the man said. “The music was loud, but I heard the background. I heard you working. I heard you breathing. I heard everything you did.”
A prickle of unease crawled up Maya’s neck. “Sir. I have been sitting quietly fixing the button.”
“No,” the man said. “You were clumsy and unprofessional. You spilled your drink.”
Maya looked at the Red Bull can. Upright. Full.
“I did not spill my drink.”
“You did,” the man insisted. “You knocked it over with your elbow. You shouted ‘Shit’. You tried to clean it up with tissues, but it went onto the floor making a sticky patch on the carpet.”
Maya pushed the can to the far corner of the desk, placing it out of reach. Safe. The logic was broken.
“My drink is fine,” she said. “I moved it. It is safe.”
“It happened,” the man said. He sounded bored, certain. “Just wait.”
“I am terminating this call,” Maya said. “You are clearly abusive.”
“You cannot terminate the call,” the man said. “I am already here. I am already later.”
A moth fluttered against Maya’s cheek.
Grey and dusty, the creature beat its wings against her skin.
Maya flinched, a violent reflex jerking her head. She threw her left arm out to swat it away.
Her elbow struck the desk lamp. The lamp wobbled and hit the can.
The can tipped.
Liquid surged out, a golden wave splashing over the keyboard and dripping off the edge of the desk to soak into the carpet.
“Shit!” Maya shouted, jumping up. Grabbing a handful of tissues from the box, she started dabbing frantically at the keys.
She froze.
The liquid dripped onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.
“There it is,” the man said in her ear. “You said ‘Shit’. You are using the tissues.”
Maya stared at the mess, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at the phone.
“How did you do that?” she whispered.
“I did nothing,” the man said. “I am just listening to the recording. I am catching up to the live broadcast.”
“This is not a recording. This is live.”
“Is it?” The man laughed, a dry sound like dead leaves skittering on pavement. “You are just data, Maya. You are just a file buffering.”
Maya sat back down, avoiding the puddle of energy drink. Her hands shook.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am the customer,” the man said. “I am the one waiting. You are the service. And the service is terrible tonight. You are about to check the door.”
“No,” Maya said, gripping the arms of her chair. “I am not checking the door.”
“You have to,” the man said. “The scratching is irritating you. You think it is a rat. You want to see.”
“There is no scratching.”
Scritch.
The sound came from the darkness behind her, from the direction of the fire exit.
Scritch. Scratch.
The sound of claws on metal, persistent and rhythmic.
Maya closed her eyes. “I am not looking. I am staying in the chair.”
“You are curious,” the man narrated, his voice a flat commentary. “She turns in her chair. She looks at the darkness. She wonders if someone is out there.”
Maya turned her head. She did not want to. Her neck muscles moved on their own, obeying the narrative. She looked at the dark void of the office.
“Stop it,” she whimpered.
“She stands up,” the man said. “She walks to the door. She steps in the sticky patch on the carpet.”
Maya stood up.
Her brain screamed Sit Down, yet her legs ignored the command. Her body was a puppet with strings made of fibre-optic cables.
She took a step. Her shoe landed on the wet carpet, making a squelching sound.
“Stop doing this!” Maya yelled at the air. “Let me go!”
“I am not doing anything,” the man said. “I told you. I am on hold. I am just passing the time.”
Maya walked to the door. The scratching grew louder, frantic now. Something wanted to get in. Or something wanted to get out.
She reached for the handle.
“She opens the door,” the man said. “She sees what is on the other side. She starts screaming.”
Maya grabbed the handle. It was cold steel.
She ripped her hand away and stumbled back.
“No!” she screamed. “I won’t! I am not opening it!”
Scrambling back to the desk, she fell into the chair and curled into a ball. She pressed the headset against her ear.
“I did not open it,” she gasped. “I broke it. I broke the loop. You were wrong.”
Silence hung on the line.
Maya panted, waiting for the victory, waiting for the logic to reset.
“You skipped a track,” the man said, sounding disappointed. “The file is corrupted. You jumped ahead.”
“I changed it,” Maya said. “I have free will.”
“You have a glitch,” the man corrected. “It does not matter. The outcome is the same. The hold music starts again.”
“There is no music,” Maya said. “It’s quiet.”
“Listen closely,” the man said. “It is not on the phone. It is in the room.”
Maya held her breath.
She heard it.
Faint at first, a high and thin vibration emanated from the fluorescent tubes overhead. The hum of the computer tower joined in. The air conditioning vents harmonized.
Da-da-da-da-da-DA-da.
Strings. Violins. Vivaldi. Spring.
The room was singing.
The walls vibrated with the melody. The carpet hummed with the cello line. The frequency rose, becoming deafening. Not sound waves, but reality vibrating.
“Make it stop,” Maya begged, covering her ears. The music was inside her head. Her skull was the resonance chamber.
“I cannot stop it,” the man said. “I am on hold. I have to listen until you pick up.”
“I did pick up! I am talking to you!”
“No,” the man said. “You are the hold music, Maya. You are the recording I have to listen to while I wait for the real operator.”
Maya stared at the screen.
The call timer was gone.
The text on the screen had changed.
STATUS: ON HOLD TRACK: MAYA_SCREAMING.MP3 LOOP: INFINITE
“Please,” Maya whispered.
“Sing for me,” the man said. “Here it comes… the crescendo.”
Pressure built in Maya’s chest, rising like air forcing its way up her windpipe. Not her breath, but a programmed response.
She opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to say Help.
A sound tore out of her throat.
Not a word, but a note. A high, perfect violin note. The E-string screech of the concerto.
She tried to close her mouth, but her jaw locked. The sound continued. She was an instrument, producing the music that kept the man waiting.
The office blurred. The walls pulsed in time with the music pouring from her mouth.
Da-da-da-da-da-DA-da.
Her vision faded. The green pulse of the monitor was the only thing left.
STATUS: BUFFERING... NEXT TRACK QUEUED.
The line went dead. The music did not.
WAITING FOR NEXT CALL...
Great pacing and tension building. Excellent word economy. Nothing feels wasted.
Well done.
I have come to see in these two writings your beautiful skill to shape words and emotions in the cold stare. I like that coldness and these themes and situations only call for words in cold and dead stare.
Loved again the clinical precision writings and emotions. Looking forward.