The Robocalls Will Never End
My father’s name flashed on the kitchen phone’s caller ID, which was strange because the man died 17 years ago. That was a new one. I knew it was probably an automated telemarketer calling using a familiar zombie number to trick someone into answering. But the real reason I didn’t pick up was the unlikely event that I was wrong.
She asked who it was and I said it was just another robocall. Then we finished playing a card game that she would win. Later, she’d get a call from a mysterious number she ignored with a wave of her hand as if it were a horsefly. She only picks up if she knows the number.
I am a good son, or so I’m told. This is a recent development. It turns out I didn’t have to do much to earn the compliment. All I had to do was visit, from time to time. There were years when I didn’t visit because I was too busy drinking. I didn’t show up for over a decade, so now, I show up. It’s a short flight from New York City to Texas.
I see my mom during the holidays. I burn vacation time so we can treasure hunt at thrift stores. I saw her a few months ago because I found myself unemployed, again, and on a whim decided a plate or two of her homemade huevos rancheros would be therapeutic.
She lives in a small house where I did not grow up. It was where my dad and mom moved after his diagnosis. He insisted on living somewhere more affordable. My old man made me promise I’d call home more when he got sick, and I did the best I could.
When I’m there, I sleep in the guest room. In the closet are boxes of papers of mine: photos, awards, teenage love letters. The house is modest but comfortable, and she lives there alone, with two dogs and my sister’s ashes.
I’m sober but we don’t talk about it. Mostly, we spend our time hiding our pain from one another. We watch old black-and-white movies like Sunset Boulevard, which is about how the world forgets people. We talk about politics, which is never a good idea. We agree on too much, but she’s a radical and I’m tired. Occasionally, we share the memories that don’t hurt, like how he loved to eat deep-fried chicken gizzards or when she’d sing Pat Benatar in the car.
Once we exhaust those topics she asks me how I’m doing and I tell her I’m okay. Then I ask her how she is doing and she says she’s okay. This brief back-and-forth is immediately followed by long slow inhales, and long slow exhales.
There were 48 billion robocalls last year in America. I think half of them were made to my mom, who I’m convinced is the only woman in Texas who still has a landline. I reminded her that she had a fancy smartphone and didn’t need a phone wired to the wall. Her response was practical: She needed both in case the other failed.
I couldn’t argue with that logic. I mean, there’s a reason her cupboard is stocked with canned soups and beans and processed meats. She likes to feel prepared. I suspect another truth is that her cell phone is complicated and her landline phone is simple.
And it’s not as if my own smartphone is immune. I get calls from Connecticut and Nevada and Idaho and I don’t know anyone who lives in those states. I get calls in the morning and afternoon and evening offering help with loans or lower interest rates. Sometimes, I’m expecting a call and it turns out to be a robotic voice with a deal I cannot pass up. (I can pass it up.)
When I make the mistake of answering one of these calls I usually unleash a torrent of juvenile obscenities, like a lunatic sea captain cursing a storm from the deck of his ship. The voice on the other end doesn’t care if I scream or end the call. Sometimes the voice is a recording. Sometimes it’s a real person with the charisma of a funeral director trying to upsell you on an urn. Then there are the voices that don’t even sound human. These callers leave messages that sound like robots doing an imitation of a person, like a duck call for humans.
I don’t think the robots will take over. The movies have it wrong. The robots will think they’re human and, one day, a robot will knock on my door and try to sell me junk I don’t want. The robots will knock on my door, day and night, until I buy the junk. And then I will be expected to shake its claw.
The government has been prosecuting robocall operations and the scam artists who run them. The wireless carriers themselves are also trying to stop the flood of spam calls, offering up apps and tools that can block these numbers. But I don’t think these combined forces will be able to stop the robots. I’ve learned to live with an email inbox overflowing with spam email and I’m learning to live with a buzzing phone that I never pick up.
Thankfully, my mom texts.
When my dead dad called a second time, I answered. Just in case. What if the afterlife is a call center? I gently hung up the phone before the machine could make its pitch.
She asked if it was another robocall and I said yes. I eventually figured out how to block that number. But I was disappointed it wasn’t him. I’d like to hear his voice again. I’d keep it short.
I’d tell him I think he’d be proud of me. I clean up my messes. I work hard when I have work. I don’t have children but I have a girlfriend who loves me and thinks I’m funny. I haven’t always been a good son or a good man, but at least I can admit it. I’d tell him I turned out to be a drunk, but that’s over, I hope. That I don’t go to church but I’m grateful for what I have, even if it’s not what I expected. I’d ask him if he could tell my sister I miss her. Mom is getting older, and I’m getting older, and we’ll see you both soon enough.
The Robocalls Will Never End
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