Rewind, Rant, Repeat

You could say I’ve got a front-row seat to the drama of modern life. The faint hum of the fridge keeps me company, joined by the occasional buzz of a fruit fly orbiting an overripe banana in the fruit bowl. Perched here on the kitchen counter, nestled between a stained kettle and a pile of takeaway menus, I see and hear it all—every hurried breakfast, every muttered complaint about the weather, every clatter of misplaced keys. It’s a modest existence, but not without its perks. I get to witness the rhythm of this household, the comings and goings, the lives lived in passing. I’m not flashy or new—none of this “touch-tone technology” nonsense they keep advertising on TV. My role? Quiet observer. Reliable gatekeeper. The unsung hero of missed calls. 

She—my owner—isn’t particularly sentimental about me. She doesn’t dust me off or admire my sleek black casing, but she relies on me. That’s enough. When she dashes out the door in her oversized blazer and scuffed heels, leaving behind the faint scent of hairspray, I take over, standing sentinel for the messages she’s too busy to take herself. 

Most people leave polite, efficient messages. “Let’s meet at the pub after work,” or “Don’t forget Mum’s birthday.” Easy. Manageable. But then there’s her. 

She’s not like the others. Her messages aren’t messages—they’re sagas, sprawling epics of suspicion and self-doubt that spill out in real-time. Each one is a dramatic monologue, packed with twists and turns that would put a soap opera to shame, punctuated by awkward pauses, heavy sighs, and the occasional nervous laugh. She doesn’t so much leave messages as perform them, her voice oscillating between frantic whispers and theatrical crescendos. If there were an award for voicemail verbosity, she’d win it every year. Listening to her is like being trapped in a never-ending late-night talk show, the kind where the host rambles without a script, and my poor tape—long-suffering and helpless—is her captive audience. Some days, I half expect her to thank me for my patience or to promise a commercial break. But no, she just keeps talking, her words looping endlessly into my spools. 

This morning, she’s early. The phone rings at 9:05 a.m., and I spring into action. My red light blinks, my tape clicks into place, and her voice—breathless and urgent—floods my circuits. 

“Hi, it’s me again.” 

Of course, it is. 

“You’re not going to believe what happened on the bus today,” she begins, words tumbling out faster than a cassette rewinds. “There was this man—total stranger—who looked at me. Not just a glance, no. It was one of those looks. Like he knows something. About Tony. You remember Tony, don’t you?” 

Ah, Tony. The ex-boyfriend who lives rent-free in her imagination. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard his name so many times, I could compose a rock ballad about their relationship. 

“And then,” she continues, her pitch rising with every word, “when I got off the bus, the neighbour was out watering her plants. Again! In January! I mean, who does that? She gave me this look. You know the one. Like she’s hiding something. Do you think she’s hiding something?” 

What do I think? I think the neighbour just likes her begonias. But alas, my job is to listen, not to judge. If I could speak, I might gently suggest a hobby. Knitting, perhaps? Or journaling? Something quieter. 

Her voice softens, the edge of paranoia giving way to wistfulness. “Anyway, I was thinking, maybe we could grab a coffee later? That café on the corner—you know the one with the posters of that band. What are they called? The one everyone’s obsessed with? Oasis! That’s it. Anyway, they do the best muffins. The guy behind the counter always remembers my order. Do you think that’s sweet? Or… suspicious?” 

Suspicious. Naturally. In her world, everyone has an agenda, even the bloke steaming milk. 

She winds down, finally. “Right, I’d better go. Call me when you get this, yeah?” 

Click. 

The tape rewinds automatically, a soft mechanical whir that feels almost like a sigh. It’s not even lunchtime, and already I feel the strain of another day in her endless loop. 

Around midday, she—the owner—checks her messages from a payphone. I hear the clatter of coins, the faint hum of a busy street, and a distant jingle of someone’s Walkman leaking tinny pop music into the background. She listens to about thirty seconds before muttering, “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” and hanging up. 

But of course, the caller isn’t done. By late afternoon, the phone rings again. My light blinks, the tape spins, and here she is, back with another instalment of her ongoing drama. 

“Hi, me again!” 

Yes, hello. 

“I just realised—you didn’t call me back! Did you get my last message? Maybe you’re busy. Or maybe you’re at the café already. I was thinking of heading there now. Honestly, I could use a muffin. And maybe a chat. Do you think they’ve noticed how often I go there? People notice these things, don’t they?” 

People notice. But not for the reasons you think. 

She pauses briefly—just long enough to give me hope that she’s done—but then launches into another tangent. “Anyway, I’ll head over there, just in case. You never know, you might show up! If not, I’ll call later. Or tomorrow. Or whenever.” 

Click. 

And that’s it—for today, at least. But we both know she’ll call again tomorrow, with fresh tales of suspicious bus passengers, cryptic waiters, and the neighbour’s inexplicably well-watered plants. 

Sometimes, I fantasise about breaking down. A jammed tape, maybe, or a refusal to rewind. Anything to force a reprieve from her relentless monologues. But no. I’m built for resilience, not rebellion. 

When she—the owner—comes home that evening, she listens to the day’s recordings while unwrapping a microwave lasagne. She doesn’t sigh this time. Instead, she laughs—a short, incredulous sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. 

“This woman,” she mutters, shaking her head. “She’s going to drive me mad.” 

Mad? No, I think. That’s my department. 

After dinner, she rifles through the junk drawer, muttering something about new options. Options? That doesn’t sound good. Is she thinking of replacing me? Upgrading to some sleek digital machine with a screen and no cassette tapes? One of those sterile contraptions without character or charm? 

But for now, I’m safe. My reels are full of her friend’s ramblings: the muffins, the conspiracy theories, the Tony-shaped void in her life. Tomorrow, she’ll call again. The day after that, too. And I’ll be here, spinning my reels, capturing it all. 

Because that’s what I do. I’m loyal like that. Stuck in her endless loop of paranoia and pastry cravings. 

And maybe—just maybe—I wouldn’t have it any other way.