Listen, Linda

Dear Linda,

Listen, I’ve been nominated as the voice of reason in our little pair, and I need you to hear me out. Just listen for a minute. (Yes, I’ve stooped to commiserating with your now off-white cordless phone because we used to go hand-in-hand. (Well, more so The Phone, not so much me as I’ve never been a handheld device.)) This is not how I wanted to approach this message, but here we are. 

The Phone and I—we feel like you just don’t care about us anymore. You still technically have a landline, thanks to your internet package, but you never pick up the poor Phone when she rings for you. Okay, sure… It’s probably a telemarketer or political surveyor or weird recording from some fanatic group. But that’s not really the point, is it? The Phone is dying to be held. (Not literally, of course. Her battery has been fully charged since 2012.) She told me the other day she’s really missed sitting in that special crook of your neck where you used to hold her against your shoulder while you were trying to do something else. (I don’t think I’ve heard such a sob story since your sister Aubrey left that message about losing one of her favorite earrings on the train. You’d have thought someone died or something. Honestly, get it together, Aubrey. (Don’t tell her I said that.))

And listen—I know our conversations are pretty much one-sided—I do all the talking—but that’s kind of the point, no? Except for when you recorded new greetings to people calling—you got to talk then! Remember the time you did the “beep” sound before my actual beep, and then told the person calling you were joking? That was fun! Or what about the time you and that sloppy roommate you had for a while recorded a greeting together? I know we didn’t like the roommate so much, but at least the outgoing message had some pizzazz. 

I used to get really excited when a potential date would call and leave a message, sounding all nervous. I was living out our Friends fantasies. 

And listen, I have nothing against the digital answering service you get through the cable company along with your “landline” (the one you refuse to acknowledge to the absolute chagrin of The Phone). (Also, saying “landline” puts a real snag in my tape.) I mean, I don’t think using the digital thing is the same as getting your messages from me. Here, you just push a button, and I start rattling off a record of the calls you missed. And yes, I may just be parroting back something I heard from your mother needing to go to the doctor to finally get that mole checked or Marissa about that awful date she had and she’s never taking your advice on men again… Or your dad calling to check on you because you haven’t said anything for a few months and he wants to make sure you’re not rotting in front of your closet (His words, not mine, remember!), or your grandma—your grandma! 

You actually saved a few sweet messages from Grandma Aurlette! I STILL HAVE THEM! Why not give them a play once in a while. She won’t be here forever, you know, and we really need to savor the time we have with her. (And when she’s dead and gone, rotting in front of her own closet (Again, your dad’s words, not mine… Parrot, remember?), we can reminisce about her cute short-message anecdotes together. 

And listen: The answering service requires an entire extra step of calling in and entering a numeric passcode. (I’m sure The Phone would love it if you actually used this service, but it’s kind of a moot point considering you don’t even use The Phone. And I’m here as an equal opportunity messenger. Suggesting you use the answering service might be in the best interest of The Phone, but it’s certainly not in mine.)

But on that note, you know you can call me and enter a numeric passcode from anywhere, right? Like you used to do? It’s not just the answering service from the cable people that gives you that handy little feature… But you don’t really get many calls anyway. And how do I know that, you ask? Good question. It’s because I was made to listen, and I can hear your smartphone not ringing. It buzzes with those written messages. I’ve heard you refer to them as “texts.” And look at me now, to my own horror, stooping to the same kind of communication method just to get your attention for two minutes because YOU DON’T LISTEN TO ME ANYMORE. (I’m sorry. Did I yell? IT WAS INTENTIONAL.)

And I have to say, I appreciate that, unlike The Phone, my coloring has stayed pretty much the same over the years despite my disuse. I heard that comedian, Ali Wong, in that special you watched a few years ago. She said, “You know how they say ‘black don’t crack’? Well, Asian don’t die!” And look at me—I have a mix of both! You bought me in “Midnight Eclipse” instead of the “Ivory Eclipse” (i.e. BLACK), and I was made in China! I’m black, AND I’m Asian! Translation: I AM GOING TO LIVE FOREVER AND BE THE SAME COLOR, regardless of sun exposure. (I’ve been dying to tell you this absolutely realistic joke. Do you know how long I’ve been saving that? An essentially unplayed message for you?)

So, listen, Linda. I know I’ve gotten a little long-winded here. But all of this to say, The Phone and I? We miss you. Please ditch the digital answering service (and maybe your cell phone, too), and come back to us. We still work! And we will work for you! (This is starting to sound more and more like a student council campaign. Gag me now.)

Final thoughts: Don’t shoot the messenger. Literally. (I still work!)

With love,

The Answering Machine and The Phone