Last Call

The phone rang again. James refused to answer it. Again. But his resolve was wearing thin.

He had tried different strategies. He had sent the first hundred or so calls straight to voicemail, but no voicemails were left. He labeled the number from which they originated as "SPAM," to no avail. Then he read the fine print.

THIS CALL IS FROM A MAILING LIST. UNSUBSCRIBE?

"Yes," he shouted clicked the UNSUBSCRIBE button.

He was tired. All of the telephone screen navigation wasn't challenging physical work, but the psychological toll was immense. He couldn't sleep. If he tried, the phone would ring yet again. Then, he was up and unable to fall asleep the rest of the night.

He couldn't use the phone, because the calls kept coming in on call-waiting. He tried ignoring the calls, but that was impossible. He took the SPAM label up a notch and now blocked the number altogether.

That's when they changed to UNKNOWN CALLER.

The caller wasn't unknown to him. One could both be expecting a call but avoiding such a call at the same time. That's the way it was here.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He was faltering. He was weakening. He was no longer the bulwark against this expected buy unwanted call.

The UNKNOWN CALLER kept calling. He let it ring. His heart began skipping beats, so he wondered if this toll on him was worth answering the phone. Perhaps he could tell the caller off. Curse him out. Or put him on hold and then fly to Bora Bora.

No. This was his problem and he had to be the one to handle it.

The phone rang. It was no surprise that it was UNKNOWN CALLER yet again. Now it was giving him chest pain. He'd better mitigate the effects on him from UNKNOWN CALLER, or he'd regret it.

He held the phone in his hand. He slid the answer switch across the bottom of the screen. It was done. It was official. He was now answering the phone.

Should he talk first? he wondered. Or let the caller do all the talking first.

He put the phone to his ear and just listened. He didn't speak. I'm not coming to you, he fumed in his mind; you're going to have to come to me.

Silence.

No fair, he thought. I've answered. So say something.

He heard a click as if a recording were about to begin.

"This is a COLLECT CALL. Do you accept?" it asked.

"From who?" he said tentatively. But James knew. He'd known for quite some time.

"This is a COLLECT CALL from Death. Do you accept?"

"What if I don't?" James asked. But it was a recording.

"This is a COLLECT CALL from Death. Do you accept?"

He waited.

"Press 1 for YES or press 2 for NO."

He pressed 3, just to mess with it.

"That is not a valid choice. Press 1 for YES or press 2 for NO."

James pressed 2.

"Please hold," the recording directed.

He waited a moment and finally someone came on the phone. but it wasn't Death. "Howdy," it said. "This is Morty on a recorded line. Is this James?"

"Yes," James replied.

"The James Spiro at 225 Myrtle."

"You know it is!" he shouted.

"We see you've pressed the number response for NO. Is it our understanding that you do not accept this COLLECT CALL from Death?"

"Yes."

"Could you state that fully, for the recording please?"

"I, James Spiro, of 225 Myrtle, have chosen not to accept the COLLECT CALL from Death."

Silence ensued.

Finally, "Please hold." A moment later another voice came on the line.

"James? James Spiro?" it asked.

"Yes?"

"This is Death and--"

"I didn't accept the call!" James screamed.

"Oh, we know. I just want to tell you that I don't often get on the line unless someone presses 1, so please be patient."

"I'm listening."

"This is your last call, James Spiro of 225 Myrtle St."

"What does that mean?" he asked Death.

"Simply, that I won't be calling again. Even if want me to. Even if you beg me. There are a lot of reasons people press 1. You have no special protection."

Silence.

"Do you understand?"

"I do. I understand."

"And your answer remains the same?"

"Yep," James answered. He found himself less anxious, since the terror seemed to have been defused a great deal by this polite conversation.

“OK,” Death said. “I want to thank you for your time. If you would now stay on the line for a brief survey and, finally, something for you to think about—there are many things worse then—”

CLICK!

James had had it. He was done. And he had escaped death. Yet, he wondered about his chest pain and skipped beats.

“Well,” he sighed, “that was certainly easy.”

James went about his life without issues, until another persistent caller began calling. It wasn’t Death.

“Oh!” he said, “How I wish it was Death.”

After several days, he began to falter. He began to weaken. He was no longer the bulwark against who- or whatever it was calling him.