His cubicle is like any other in the office – standardized, small. He makes it unique. Multi-coloured sticky notes litter the small shelf, the monitor, the pencil holder. Anything in sight, really. Varied snippets of life in ink - some end in smiley faces, others crossed out in impatient scrawl.

In pride of place on his desk is the phone. Worn, bright red, plastic. Obnoxious some might say. He knows it just makes it easier to find amidst the clutter. Scattered messages for the man upstairs surround it; he’ll need to sort those print-outs into the proper piles.

Born again Christian?
How many times?
Yes ma’am, that is
A legitimate question
We do have to
Ask this of all who want
To be reinstated a share
In this company

If you could hold please
And I’ll patch you through
To the proper department

He finds a pockmark in the jarrah of his desk and wonders at the imperfection, fingers poised. The amount of times he’s drummed his fingers over the surface (unimpressive calls), dusted, spilt coffee – not once did he find this chink.

A slide of fingers convinces him that is still there, and real.
He tapes over it with a pink sticky proclaiming AD REFERENDUM.

You’re having a problem
With our manual?
Sir you must understand
That the manual is but a guide
Reading meanings into it
Is entirely up to you
Not something we put in

I’m sorry I have a call
On another line
If you could hold please

The phone, however, will never be a stranger. He knows its curves well; has the meanings of its rubber buttons (numbers worn partially away) etched into his fingers. The receiver is constantly warm against his ear, making it itch. They say vocal communication is important, and there’s always someone out there who want their questions answered.

A half full packet of cinnamon flavoured chewing gum catches his eye.
He identifies with the pieces – trapped in consumer packaging.

Sir!
There’s no need to shout
I’m sorry you feel inclined
To withdraw support for
This company
But our head is a very busy person
And can’t be at your
Every beck and call
If you could please hold –

(Paul! Another
Self-conceited prick for you
On line four!)

During breaks there are conversations around the water cooler. They discuss their latest callers – the foolish, the profound, the self righteous (give me, I deserve). Ahkmal relates a call with a suicide bomber he couldn’t dissuade. There are murmurs, sympathetic; others tell of similar cases.

Someone lightens the mood with a well worn phone joke.
His porcelain cup boasts the words CALL ME in bold.

(Martha
If you’re getting a coffee
Can you get me one too?
Black, two sugars
Thanks
Paul, how’d you go
With Mr Beck-And-Call?
You hung up on him?
Haha
Very nice

Let’s see
If he
Rings back again)

There are times when he leans back in his chair to stare at the overhead fan in its rotations. Someone (from as long ago as he can remember) had taped short, coloured streamers from each of the blades. White, yellow, black and pink. On good days they flutter amicably side by side with every slow rotation.

Today, the fan is on high.
He watches the streamers tangle and threaten to tear each other apart.

No for the last time
We do not fund
Fundamentalists
Please don’t call again
Also please
Stop claiming we
Verify your radical activities
You’re giving this company
A very bad rep

We will not hesitate
To sue for slander
Thankyou

Perhaps, one day, he’ll take a vacation. Get away from the office, from this perfect wooden box he’s trashed with colour and clutter. Maybe visit the landscapes that always look so tempting in the motivational posters. Someone else can pick up that plastic receiver after its discordant rings; exchange breath with often angry, disembodied voices.

He wonders what it’s like to be on the other end of the line.
A yellow sticky on his phone reminds him: FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT.

You’re worried about
The state of the world?
Don’t we all…
What are we doing about it?
Everything we can ma’am
But people just
Recreate the problems
Then call us to complain

I’m sorry ma’am
I’m going to have to
Put you on hold

There’s a muffled clatter as the pencil holder tips over, spilling vibrant pens across crumpled paper and reserve stacks of sticky notes. He quickly removes the offending elbow, hand coming away from chin in some semblance of tidying up the recent mess. The already half-hearted effort is abandoned when he realizes: it doesn’t really make a difference.

See? This is what comes of daydreams.    
The phone rings and he plasters on a smile, even though no one else will see it.

Hello
This is God’s Hotline
I’m sorry but
God can’t take your call right now
How may I help you?