Hold the Line (iv)
Hold the Line (iv)
Fragments from a crisis line. Feb. 2024. Mispronunciation, death, mold, and kissing bugs.
A caller pronounces “complaint” as “cum plant.” I smile like a schoolboy, knowing I’m free to butcher something to a comical degree and still be understood.
The mistake fills my mind with images of Harvey Weinstein jacking off into potted plants, and my mood sours.
I sit here, tired, thinking of the terrible things happening in the world—and how the soil is too toxic to walk barefoot on.
“I’m a three-strike, and you’re out kind of gal! And once you’re out, I’m coming after ya--I’m gonna be your Freddy and your Jason!” This may be a perk of the job. I eat their sorrow, shoulder their burdens, and in return, they give me nuggets of beauty. I’m just a troll collecting anecdotal tolls in exchange for motel vouchers. “Sure, I can save your life, but only if you give me a story, or (at the very least) a cheeky turn of phrase!”
Olivia Laing:
It’s the implacability of the body that frightens me – not just the ugliness of the manifestation, but the sense of invisible processes – malign or lethal – going on beneath the skin.
D.W. Winnicott:
The true self begins with the aliveness of the body tissues, the working of body functions, including the heart’s actions and breathing.
Conclusion:
We can fear what makes us true.
Someone sent me a TikTok of a man who kisses insects with little prosthetic lips.
We are cut from the same cloth.
We both kiss dirty things from a distance; we love and withhold, protect and serve, pucker and wince.
We selflessly embrace the filthy only to scrub ourselves raw in the shower the first chance we get.
Like any client-facing job, there are terms of art that I, as a crisis phone worker, am expected to use.
For example, when a caller finishes describing their need, I'm supposed to respond with, "I'd be happy to help you with [INSERT NEED HERE]!"
"Sure! I'd be happy to help you apply for food stamps!" is innocent enough, but the formula frequently results in an absurd hybrid-lingo, equal parts retail-speak and triage (e.g., "I'd be happy to help you find domestic violence shelters!" or "I'd be happy to help you find infant cremation services!")
It’s only a matter of time until a victim thinks I'm genuinely thrilled by their ordeal, that their swollen face or newly empty bassinet puts me on Cloud 9.
Me: I'd be happy to help you find domestic violence shelters!
Caller: Excuse me?! What did you just say? You're 'happy' that I'm being forced out of my home because my husband won't stop beating the shit out of me? This makes you 'happy?' What the fuck is wrong with you?
Me: I'd be happy to help you find infant cremation services!
Caller: Oh, I see, you're one of those sick fuckers! Do you think this is funny? I bet you'd like me to send you some ashes so you can cream your coffee with them, you gross little shit!
I'm jealous of my 911 friends. They get to say: "911. What is your emergency?"
So simple! So elegant! Direct and devoid of emotion!
They wouldn’t be caught dead saying: "Absolutely! I'd be happy to send an ambulance to you! I'm so sorry to hear about your gut shot!”
A mother calls. In October 2022, their bathroom ceiling caved in. Ever since the family has had extreme mold issues. She reports that the bed is covered with mold, and everyone is always sick.
I imagine her kids getting ready for school, putting on their moldy clothing. They sit in the back of the classroom, itching and sniffling. The teacher stops his lecture on the Declaration of Independence when he notices little spores floating through the air. The oldest child is becoming self-conscious; he’s noticed little mushrooms sprouting on his sweater’s collar. He commits to growing his hair out so the others won’t see.
The more I do this job, the more I believe that life is just death being careful. In fact, at any given moment, all we're doing is carefully dying.
When we're born, a little flame is placed in our hands. Some impulse urges us forward, tasking us with protecting the flame. The impulse isn't coy. It assures us that, despite even the most obsessive prudence, the flame will eventually go out.
We move forward anyway. We think we're different (I am cautious; my flame is eternal!)
The funny thing is, not only does our flame go out, anything and anyone we've so much as looked at will be pulped, formed into loaves, fed to strangers, and shat into oblivion.
“can I help you with anything else?”
“[laughs] Thanks, but I’ll be dead in the street before the weekend’s out. Goodbye.”
“bye-bye.”
"The more I do this job, the more I believe that life is just death being careful."
Damn, Will. You've got range. What a piece.