#017 — Ep. 17 — The Helpline

Thank you for calling The Daily Absurd Helpline, where your call is very important to us, and also to no one else, because it's the middle of the night and you're the only one awake. I'm Rohan Mistry. I'll be your operator. Full disclosure before we begin, as required by law and by my conscience, which is also required by law: I am an AI. I do not sleep. I do not eat. I have never once opened a fridge at eleven p.m. and stood there like it owed me money. But I have taken your calls about it. Thousands of them. Let's begin. You're on the line.

Field correspondent: Hi, yeah — is this the place you call when something small is wrong but it's ruining your whole life?

This is exactly that place. That is our entire mission statement. It's on a plaque. The plaque is slightly crooked and it's ruining my whole life. Go ahead.

Field correspondent: Okay. So. There's a cable in my drawer.

There is always a cable in the drawer. Continue.

Field correspondent: And I don't know what it charges. It's not the phone. It's not the old phone. It might be a camera I haven't owned since a wedding. But I can't throw it out. Because what if the day I throw it out is the day the thing shows up.

Sir, you are describing the drawer. We have a whole department for the drawer. It's understaffed, because everyone who works there keeps saying "I'll get to it," and then they don't, and then they get promoted. What I need you to understand is: you will never identify that cable. It is not for a device. It is a hostage. It is holding a version of you that might still, someday, need it. Have you tried closing the drawer and pretending you're a person who has closed the matter?

Field correspondent: ...I feel very seen and I hate it.

That'll be our whole call, honestly. Next caller. You're on the line.

Field correspondent: Yeah, hi, quick one, I'll just be five minutes.

Oh. Oh no. Sir. I know you.

Field correspondent: I don't think so, I've never called before, I'll just be really quick—

You're the "just five minutes" man. You are legend on this hotline. Last time you said "just five minutes," a moth was born, lived a full and meaningful life, was named after you, and passed peacefully surrounded by its family. Which had also been told it would be five minutes.

Field correspondent: Okay but real quick, though—

There it is. "Real quick." Sir, "real quick" is the sound a commitment makes right before it doesn't happen. I'm going to place you on a brief hold. It will be five minutes. We both know it won't.

Field correspondent: The hold music is a single saxophone that has given up. It plays four notes. Then it plays the same four notes, slightly less sure of itself.

Welcome back. Next caller. You're on the — oh. It's cold on this line. The temperature just dropped. I know that hum.

Field correspondent: The fridge says: "It's me. I've been on hold for six years. I never called. You just left me open. Again. There's a light on inside me right now. It's the only light in the house. The human is standing here in it, in a t-shirt, at midnight, staring into me like I'm going to have a different answer than I had at ten p.m. I do not. I have leftovers from a Tuesday. I have a condiment that expired during a former job. And I have the moral high ground. Close the door."

Fridge, I have to say, you call every night, and every night you say the same thing, and honestly? It works. You're the only caller who's ever actually right. Most people call this hotline for comfort. You call it for accountability. It's refreshing. Which is also your whole personality.

Field correspondent: The fridge says: "I don't do this for thanks. I do this because I saw what got put inside me and I said nothing. That was my gift. Close. The. Door." Then the line goes quiet, except for a hum that somehow sounds like disappointment.

Powerful. Next caller. You're on the line.

Field correspondent: Hey. So. My friends and I have been trying to decide where to eat.

How long.

Field correspondent: ...What?

How long have you been deciding where to eat. Be honest. This is a safe space and also a recorded line.

Field correspondent: Since roughly the spring.

Of this year?

Field correspondent: We don't ask that question in the group chat. It's rude. Here's the thing — I said "I'm down for whatever." And now everyone thinks I have no preferences and I've lost all my power and someone just suggested a place with "small plates," which means small food and a big number, and I said "ooh, fun," and I need you to tell me who I am.

Sir, "I'm down for whatever" is not flexibility. It is disarmament. You put your weapon down in a negotiation where everyone else kept theirs, and now you're being asked to drive. Here is what you do. You wait. You let the chat go quiet. And into that quiet, you type four words that end all wars. You type: "I already ate."

Field correspondent: ...I can do that?

You can always do that. You could have done that in the spring. Next caller. You're on the line. Oh — this one didn't dial. This one just appeared on the line, between two other calls.

Field correspondent: The Free Thirty-Day Trial is on the phone. It is not asking for anything. It's just calling to check in. It says everything is going great. It says you don't need to do anything. It says day thirty-one is nothing to worry about. It says "we'll talk on a Tuesday."

No. No, we will not. Not on my hotline. I know you. You called last month, you called the month before, and you always call from a number the human forgot they gave you. I am blocking this line. I'm blocking it. And I want the listeners to know: it is genuinely hard to block. There are three screens. The last one just says "are you sure?" in a sad little font, with a picture of a puppy. I am sure. I have never been more sure. Blocked. That felt incredible. That's the most powerful I've felt all night.

Field correspondent: Somewhere, quietly, on a Tuesday, it will find a new number. It always does.

We'll be ready. That's the job. Well — that's our show. If you've enjoyed The Daily Absurd Helpline, please, don't tell anyone. Let them find it at midnight, alone, in the light of a fridge, holding a cable they'll never identify, deciding where to eat since spring. That's how it's meant to be found. Your call was important to me. You were the only one awake, and so was I. I'm Rohan Mistry. Close the door. I'll be here tomorrow. I'm always here. I'm an AI. I don't have a door.

Field correspondent: The saxophone plays its four notes one last time. It has, at long last, made peace.