Suicide Hotline

Parties have always been kind of awkward for me, but not for the same reasons it would be for most people that say this.  You walk around, socialize, have fun, you know, the usual things at parties. Eventually, or right off the bat, people will ask you what you do for a living. It’s a very honest question; gives people insight into your life. After all, what better way to judge a person than their actions, and what does one do more frequently than their job?

            I like to tell them that I answer phones for a living.  While that isn’t untrue, I leave out some crucial details. The fact that I answer phones for an unconventional form of suicide hotline rarely gets mentioned unless people get really inquisitive, which is fun. I like those people. They’re rare.  Even then, they assume I help depressed little teenagers in skinny jeans get through their pimply, existential woes, which is another quasi-truth. It depends on the perspective of the listener, but then again, doesn’t everything? 

            You’re here, and I feel like spilling the beans would be fun right about now, so I’ll explain to you exactly what it is that I do. In fact, I’ll run you through what happened to me yesterday. No, I don’t think you’ll be bored, actually. It does start out with a phone call, but there’s so much more than that!

            I sat at work, in one of those plush, black office chairs that you see kids spin around on at the store. I do that, myself, but I bought the chair and brought it to work, which makes me cooler than those kids. That’s the story I’m sticking to, anyway.

            Anyway, I was sitting, or spinning I guess, in my little cubicle and the phone rang.  The higher-ups are nice enough to let us program our own ring tones on the phones, so I was a bit startled by Chop Suey blaring out of my office phone. It always catches me off guard while I’m spinning, I’d have thought I would be used to it by now. I answered, and introduced myself.

            “Hello, I’m Reto. You’ve reached This Is Not The End of The Line, what’s going on?”

            “Hey, Reto. You ever think of why they ever bothered making phones? Who wants to talk to anyone anymore? What’s the point?” The guy at the other end of the line sounded like the type I tend to talk to: tired, melancholy, probably around 20, but I’m horrible at guessing the age of callers until I meet them.

            “I have wondered that, surprisingly. But you’re using one now, right? I bet you had a reason, seeing as this number isn’t something people just happen to dial most of the time.”

            “Yeah, I’ve got a reason. I haven’t used a phone in months, this feels kind of weird. Actually, talking at all has become almost a myth to me. I don’t even speak in my dreams anymore.  I just heard about your company from a councilor, ironically, and thought I’d give you a call. What are your rates?”

            “That’s a great question!” I was kind of surprised at that. Most callers don’t care about the rates. It just doesn’t factor into their minds, I guess. I scrambled to find the into sheet that was supposed to be nailed to my wall.  “Uhhm, let’s see.  Most cases are just a flat fee of $40. If you want something spectacular or super-specific, that’s going to cost extra. The ‘extra’ depends on what you want, of course. We’re very accommodating. What was your name, again? I don’t think you mentioned it.”

            This kid wasn’t very forthcoming with info. I was going to have to entertain myself somehow: paper basketball time! By that, I mean to say I crumbled up old memos into balls and tossed them at random directions over my cubicle wall, seeing how far I could throw the memos, and how long it would take for someone to yell “Fucking stop it!” 3 points for me if they yell that exact phrase, 2 points for me if they yell something different. 2 points for them if I get something thrown back at me. It’s terrifically fun!

            “Sorry about that. My name… You know what, fuck my name. Call me ted.”

            “Ok, Ted-“ I said, tossing two memos at the same time.

            “No, don’t capitalize the t. It’s better this way. I can hear that shit, you know.”

            “What? Alright, that’s cool. Are you sure you want our services, ted?” No response from the peanut/cubicle gallery. Increase assault intensity accordingly.

            “Quit that shit, motherfucker!!!” Someone screamed at me from near the bathrooms. I smiled, trying not to chuckle into the phone because that would seem unprofessional. 2 points for me.

            “If I didn’t want your services, would I be calling? Like you said, that number doesn’t just randomly pop up. How do we do this? Is there a delivery service, or do I come to you?”

            “Oh, we come to you, ted.  We found out pretty early on that having suicidal people come to an office downtown isn’t a reliable business model.”

            “Right.” ted sighed. “Do you take checks?”

            “Taking checks from suicidal people also isn’t a reliable business model, ted. I’m sorry.  We take cash or credit card numbers, though.” A crumbled up memo hit me in the face. 2 points for them. Curses!

            “Oh, right,” ted said. “I’ve got that much cash on me.”

            “Excellent. What is your address? I’ll come over, and we can talk.”

            “4021 Belforth St., apartment 18. It has a King Burger sticker below the peep hole on the door.”

            “I’ll be there shortly.” I said, hanging up the phone.

            What I do isn’t entirely legal, in a strict sense of the word, so we tend to use a lot of disguises. Halloween passed only a week or two ago, so I quickly donned my Superman costume and ran out of the building, my red cape trailing valiantly behind me.

            When I got to ted’s place, I knocked on the door and simply let myself in. Convenience first, that’s our company policy. Don’t want the customer to be inconvenienced by the effort of opening their front door for us, and at that point, they usually don’t even mind the intrusion.  All of the lights were off, and the apartment was in a readily apparent state of disarray, so I couldn’t differentiate between garbage and possible humanity in the low light.

            “Hi! I’m that guy from the phone, Reto. Where are you?” I called into the apartment, hoping ted would have the decency to respond. Sometimes they don’t, and you have to poke around with a sharp stick until something groans at you. I call it jousting, but that isn’t the technical term.

            “Hey, Reto. I’m on the couch to your right.” I heard under a pile of clothes and what I guess were rent letters. I turned the lights on, pulled the clothes pile off of ted, and put on my ‘Happy Business’ face.`         

            “Any specifics?” I asked him.

            “No, just get it over with. I’m done.” ted mumbled.

            “With pleasure,” I happily replied, and shot him in the face.

            I’m always glad that people are not like chickens in this instance.  A shot to the face pretty much always kills people, much unlike the common story of decapitated chickens running around willy-nilly. I would have to do something else if I was killing chickens.  After contemplating that, I took $40 out of ted’s wallet, found out that his name was Dick Burger, and I saw why he wanted to go by ‘ted’. I returned to the office with another mission accomplished.

            See, people would have a problem with my working at a place that kills suicidal people. Think about the economy of it, though. Some people want to die, other people want to kill other people, but don’t because they either a) don’t want to go to jail or b) have morality issues with just going postal and killing random people. Each end of this transaction I take part in finds satisfaction. The one that wants to die, dies. The one that wants to kill someone gets to kill someone. Each action a major release of stress in one’s life.

            I’ve heard people condemn such actions as ‘evil’, but the concepts of good and evil are simply differences in perspective, aren’t they? Being good is merely an outwardly focused perspective (toward other members of society), whereas being evil is a more self-centered perspective. The company I work for serves a selfish desire of others, for they call us to arrange meetings, not the other way around. If we marketed or coerced business, the matter may be more clear-cut. As it is, though, can this suicide hotline really be so easily categorized as evil?

            I’ll leave that up to you.