Picture it: My husband, Bill, sitting at the kitchen table which doubles as his home office (yes, that’s material for another post), laptop open in front of him, flip phone pressed to his good ear, eyes squinted as if listening intently.
Bill: “Excuse
me. I didn’t catch your name.”
(Pause)
Bill: “Yes...uh...Wamika, this is William Chumley. I’m
having a little trouble downloading some tax soft—”
(Pause)
Bill: “WEEL-YUM CHUM—”
(Pause)
Bill: “DUBYA...EYEEE...EL...EL—”
(His volume level has now risen a few decibels. He informs me later this is not
due to frustration but rather to a bad satellite connection between Edmond,
Oklahoma, and New Delhi.)
(Pause)
Bill: “No,
that’s DUBYA—”
(Pause)
Bill: “No...DOUBLE
YOO as in...ah...uhm...Wamika!” (Eureka!
His face lights up, he nods his head enthusiastically.) “Yeah, yeah! That’s right! Okay. DOUBLE YOO...EYEEE...EL...EL—”
(Pause)
Bill (holding up
two fingers): “No, that’s TWO ELs.” (He stops. From experience, I know his next
words will be is there someone else I can
talk to.) “Is there someone else I can talk to?”
(Pause)
Bill (rubbing
his free hand over his face): “Look, this just isn’t working.” (Apparently the
connection became weaker at this point because his voice grew even louder.) “Is
there someone there who speaks Eng—”
(Pause)
Bill: Yes, but I
can’t understand you, you can’t understand—”
(Pause)
Bill: “DOUBLE
YOO...EYEE...EL...EL—Oh, for crying—”
(Sound of flip
phone snapping shut)
I look across
the table at a defeated man, eyes glazed over, flip phone tossed onto the table.
He rises and pours himself a cup of coffee, buying time to gather himself
before attempting another call. The odds aren’t good, but maybe next time he’ll
have more success.
“Why didn’t you
hang up at WEEL-YUM?” I ask.
“Because I’d
already waited twenty-five minutes to talk to Wamika. I hated to lose her.”
Valid point.
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| Bill wouldn't pose for a picture, so I had to improvise. Work with me here.
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