i might be making that up...

Telephone Talk

My name is Lenny. I am in love with a girl even though I don't know her name. I see this girl every day from my work desk. She sits there patiently, doing her job diligently, in the next cubicle. Yet as far as I know, she has never seen me. She sits with her back to me. She has such a lovely back.

I've tried to talk to this girl before. But I can only ever get out a few syllables before I am interrupted by a coworker. It is always something important, of course. And that is my job – I am supposed to be interrupted every time I utter a sound. It's the only way that people in my office can communicate with people in other offices. They have to go through me.

You might say I am an office messenger. If someone has something important to tell someone else, whether it is the boss down the hall or the office building up the street, I am the one they turn to. I am reliable, dependable, never late, and efficient. Without me, my coworkers wouldn't know how to survive. Sometimes people will talk to me for hours, about nothing really, and give me one tiny fragment of a message that I am to deliver. I don't like it when they do this. Don't they realize that it wastes my time? There are other people always trying to talk to me and give me a message to relay, but for some reason they think I am there to listen to their personal problems. I am not a therapist!

I guess you could say I'm unhappy. I don't feel like I am in control of my life, like I have no say in how I do my job. There is nothing more frustrating than constantly feeling used by those around you, and being treated as merely a tool, a means to an end. That's all anyone ever really sees me for, for how much I can do for them.

Except the girl in the next cubicle. I think she understands me. She must know how I feel, because she is often treated the same way. Every day I watch as people abuse her, yell at her, trying to get their point across. They don't understand that mistreating her will not help her do her job any better, but will only add more stress to her life. I feel sorry for her.

Two weeks ago, we were finally able to have some sort of conversation for the first time ever. I was so excited. We were both alone in our offices, with no one around, when suddenly, I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Hello? Hello?" I called across the aisle. I think I caught her off guard, because she jumped and didn't answer right away.

"Yes? What do you want?" she asked, startled.

"I was just wondering – I mean, we never get time to talk, and –" I didn't know what to say. I finally had a chance to talk to the girl of my dreams, with no interruptions from anyone, something that I knew wouldn't last for long. Any moment, I expected someone to come running to my office to give me a message to relay to another person. I had little time. I didn't want to waste it. Yet – I didn't know what to say. Where did I start?

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were over there," the girl answered. "Are you new here?"

Ouch. Apparently she really didn't notice me. "N-no," I stammered. "I've been here for about three years." I paused for a moment for her reaction.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said quickly. "I guess that's what I get for always sitting with my back to the aisle. I never notice what happens in the rest of the world."

"That's all right." What was I doing? I shouldn't be wasting this precious time on whether or not she'd ever noticed me. "I'm sorry, but what is your name?" I asked tentatively.

"My name?" She sounded surprised. "Oh, it's –"

Just then, before she could answer, the inevitable happened. In walked two coworkers, one into my office, one into hers. And at the same moment, as if they had planned it, they interrupted us. Both of them had urgent information that they needed passed along right away. I sighed and reluctantly obliged. I turned back to my work, not knowing when, if ever, I would get the chance to speak with this girl again.

I never had another chance. A few days later, she lost her voice. I was there when it happened. She had been sitting pretty quietly all day. The few times she did talk, she sounded soft-spoken, as if she were whispering. Then one time, when the boss – of all people – gave her a message to deliver, she tried to speak, but nothing came out. She tried again and again, but it was no use. She could no longer utter a sound. For someone in our line of work, communication is everything; if we can't relay information, we are useless. And that requires us to have a voice. Needless to say, the girl in the next cubicle was fired when they found out she was sick and would not recover her voice for a long time. I watched her walk by my office, wave sadly at me, and walk out the front door, never to return. It is a cruel world we live in.

I will probably never know her name, but I will also never stop loving this girl. She is special. For a moment, we connected. That is something I will never forget.

My name is Lenny. I am in love with a girl even though I don't know her name.

Oh. And I am a telephone.