Disclaimer [1]
This dialogue has been sitting on my hard drive for nearly six months. I started compiling bits and pieces of a story it would be part of shortly after becoming a member here, but I let the whole thing slacken. I’ve got a broad outline of where this was heading (it was going to involve unanticipated and unpredictable accidents), but I just held a mirror to its nose and there was no sign of breath there. It’s officially going nowhere, then, although I do think this section looks decent. Oh: and please bear in mind that the conversation takes place in a non-English-speaking country. And I suppose I should mention it contains a number of four-letter-words, in case anyone’s allergic to those; but at least the ones here are used functionally!

I was pleased to notice that the company’s phone number was as easy to track down as I’d expected. Just enter the full name in Google — spelt correctly, of course — et voilà: the first link that pops up is the correct one. I notice there’s two phone numbers on their web site: one general number (that’ll lead to the receptionist — possibly a pretty lady); the other one is for complaints.

Well, what I’ve got to say isn’t so much a complaint, more a remark. Of course, they could just as easily regard it as a complaint, but then I’ll just have to not phrase it as a complaint, just a friendly remark, like. Ah, well, who gives a fuck anyway? They’ll just have to reconnect me to the right service then.

Well, then. I dial the number; At the other end of the line the phone rings four times and a half, and then a voice: “Recycled Papers, how may I help you?” Drat. I’d expected her to be young, but she doesn’t sound young. Ah well.

“Good morning —”

“Good morning,” she interrupts me. Well, at least she’s friendly towards customers.

“Um, I have a remark about the pads your firm sells. I’ve noticed a little mistake on them.”

“Would you like me to connect you to the person who handles the complaints?”

Superficial and unnoticeable but very real sigh. If I had a complaint, I’d have called that number, right? I mean, it’s right there, on their website. I knew this was going to happen.

“No, it’s not a complaint, more a remark, really.” It sounds lame now. But a telephone is no channel for subtlety of thought. Ah well.

“Yes…?”

“I don’t know whether you’ve got one of them on your desk, but on the back of the cover it says: “More information, see backside.” Um. There’s a mistake there. You see, the word ‘Backside’ in English means, well, your behind, your bottom.”

“Uh huh. I see.”

“Well, I mean, your firm has been printing that mistake on their pads for quite a few years now. So I thought I’d point it out.”

“Sir, I think it’s best if I connect you to our complaints service.”

“No, no, it’s not a complaint, just a remark.”

This conversation is going downhill. It needs some spontaneity.

“I mean, look, I thought it was funny. I just thought I’d point it out.” I try a little spontaneous-sounding chuckle.

“I see. It’s an interesting remark. Uh, I didn’t know that. What is your profession?”

Ah. Now that sounds more like a real conversation.

“I’m a teacher. English. Heh.”

“Uh huh. Ok, sir, I’ve made a note of, um, your remark, and I’ll pass it on to the people who decide on these things, but I don’t know whether they’ll change it. I’m just the receptionist, you see. So, um, thank —”

“Is it because it costs too much to replace the blueprints?” Gah, I’ve interrupted her. “That’s what I think.” Shit. Now I’ll come across as rude, and a nerdy freak to boot, or she’ll think I’m dying for attention (I’m not), but ah well. What’s done is done. Who gives a fuck anyway? Besides, it is a relevant question for someone who knows something about books and printing.

“Well, I don’t know that, sir. But I thank you for your - remark” — still caught your hesitation, bitch — “and I wish you a very pleasant day.”

“Sure, thanks. You too,” I add, as is my wont. One very pleasantly surprised receptionist once thanked me for it, but no such luck today. I wait till she’s hung up (or pressed a button on some control panel — I don’t know which), like I always like to do. Sometimes it may take a while for the other one to hang up; that’s how I know I’ve been having a conversation with a kindred spirit. This lady breaks the connection very professionally: firmly but without being rude or impatient.

Shit, shit, shit. Shit. Why did I have to stretch and wind that telephone cable around my fingers so much? She’s bound to have heard that. And why bother calling anyway. Is there anyone who gives a fuck? Who’d mention such a silly insignificant little detail like that. Why can’t I ever act like a normal person?

But what’s done is done, I tell myself. I’m most likely not the only freak to call them; who knows what kind of calls she gets. Pranksters and the like. Besides: I don’t even know her, so the good part is that I’ve made an arse of myself when it’s inconsequential. Chalk it up as experience, my man.

Ah well. It’s done, and I can’t change a damn thing about it. Who gives a fuck anyway?