Page 5 of Hotline
“Haven’t you ever seen a true crime documentary?” she says. “Any time a girl is described as ‘lighting up a room,’ it means she’s gone missing. And it means the boyfriend probably did it!”
“I highly doubt that,” I say with a little roll of my eyes.
“Watch the local news tonight,” she says with a serious nod. “You’ll see.”
I huff out a laugh and shake my head.
Her phone rings and she answers it. My phone rings and I answer it. And I do okay, mostly. Every time things seem like they’ll veer into sultry territory, I transfer the call to someone else. Every time I'm able to steer the conversation into some good, clean, PG-rated fun, I do that.
I just can't bring myself to get sexy with these guys. I try, but my vocal cords freeze up. My tongue gets numb every time a guyasks what I'm wearing. My throat goes dry, parched, crackles to death whenever a guy says that he only has time for a "quickie."
The one thing they all have in common is that they are lonely. I can hear it in the voice of every single one of the men I speak to.
I certainly understand loneliness. Ever since my mom passed away, I have no one.
I shake my head and sigh as I look at the ringing phone on the desk in front of me.
How did it come to this? How did I let my bad luck lead me to this?
I look down the row of girls sitting in cubicles. I wonder what their dream and aspirations are. I wonder why they’re here in LA in the first place. Are they aspiring hopefuls who’ve dreamt of being actresses or singers their whole lives?
It is a widely held belief that no one is actually from LA. They say that all of the people who live here moved from someplace else.
But that’s not the case for me. I was actually born here, to an idealistic mom and a father I never met.
I’ve never felt like I really belong here.
Everyone here is beautiful and thin, and if they’re not famous yet, they’re trying to be.
I’ve never wanted to be famous. I’ve never wanted to be an actress or a singer. I’ve never wanted to be in the limelight at all. I’d be perfectly content to work in a windowless room, putting away files for the rest of my natural life or serving coffee to tourists.
I’ve applied to every job imaginable, but I’ve come up empty — until now.
I found this job online. The description was very sparse. All it said was,love to talk? work for us!and then I showed up here, filled out an application, and was immediately shown to my desk.
I guess you could say I'm just as lonely as the guys who call in.
At the end of my shift, the boss's voice rings out through the vast room of cubicles.
"New girl," she says. "My office.Now."
I slump my way over there, feet shuffling. When I get to her office, she’s sitting behind her desk, neck-deep in paperwork.
I knock softly on the open door.
"You wanted to see me?" I say.
"Yes," she says, not raising her eyes to me, her voice totally void of emotion. "You're bad at this."
Everything inside me goes heavy.
"But…"
"But what?"
"I think I helped some of those guys out," I say. "I kept them on the phone. I brought in money. What's the issue?"
"Every single nonsense conversation you have with these men degrades our brand. We want repeat customers.”
