It's my birthday today. My eighteenth. In exactly three years, I’ll be able to vote. I should be celebrating, but instead I’m trapped within this office. I sit completely upright, posture perfect. I have an uncomfortable headset strapped to my head and I cannot move my eyes from straight ahead of me: a wall. Given, there are various numbers and wires on this particular wall, but it is still boring nonetheless.

Working within a telephone office is grueling work for the modern woman, but it’s required—I need to contribute to my family. After the Wall Street Crash a few months prior, everyone has been struggling…and it’s supposed to go downhill from here. 

And so, I sit. And wait. For hours upon hours. I’ve been given an afternoon shift on this particular day, so it’s going to feel even longer—especially once I begin to feel drowsy. 

Brrring!

Ah! A call. I answer it promptly, opening my telephone book, just as I have every shift.

“Hello. What is the number?”

This line, a line that has grazed my lips thousands of times, has become part of my daily vocabulary. It’s simple and precise, just as my officer explained to me on my first day. Say only what needs to be said…

Most callers have the number of whom they are connecting to. Still, for some that are younger or, for lack of a better term, lazy, I use my pencil eraser to skim through the countless pages of names, addresses, and phone numbers. It’s boring and hard work, so I constantly wait for my one thirty minute lunch break where I can chat with my friends. 

Thankfully, the building is higher quality than that of a sweatshop; although, this is a low bar. It’s well-ventilated and there’s good food, yet I can’t quite appreciate it with my aching back and dry lips. 

Brrring!

“Hello. What is the number?”

Brrring!

“Hello. What is the number?”

Brrring!

“Hello. What is the number?”

The calls continue all day. My hands become weary from connecting the wires into the correct slots, peering at the small labels to make sure it’s correct. My officer’s eyes peer at me from behind like a hawk. By the time it’s 8:30 P.M., I’m in a mindless trance from the repetitive tasks. Tired of waiting, I risk a glance to the side to look at my coworkers within the large office, but almost audibly gasp from what I see.

Surrounding me are empty chairs, all neatly tucked back into their rightful place. The room is darker than usual, as if I shouldn’t be here. I turn to the other side to look at my officer’s desk, only to see that it’s empty too. My shift may be over…had my friends really forgotten me? For some reason, my heart seems to be pounding… I ready myself to stand, to finally stretch my tired body, but then…

Brrring!

I stop myself, startled by the sudden noise. The office is silent other than the annoying ringing. It’s just a call. I can take it, and then leave. 

It’s simple. Then, why is my heart still pounding…?

I press the switch to answer the call.

“Hello. What is the number?” I say, as always.

The other line doesn’t respond. All I can hear is heavy breathing, close to the receiver.

Say only what needs to be said…

“Hello? This is the telephone office.”

The caller doesn’t say anything once more, still breathing into my ears. I feel disgusted. I feel scared. I’m all balled up. But, why?

We get these types of calls many times each day. Some man will call the center, asking for a place and time to “have a date.” Usually, we comply, but only to get out of the situation. The dolls of the operators have this happen to them too often. Nobody shows up to the arranged blind date, obviously, but it is still a frightening experience.

I feel tears spring to my eyes while I flick the switch to hang up the call. This didn’t feel right. Why must this happen while I’m here, all alone?
I quickly clean up my station, put on my coat, and exit the office, heading for the exit. At this point, I just wanted to get home no matter what. On a normal night, I would head a small walk down the sidewalk and sit on the bench to wait for my father to get out of work, where he picks me up on his way back to our suburban home. Despite the winter chill, I would do the same today.

As I exit the building, a whirl of howling wind whips me around while a light flurry adds to the snow already piled high on the ground. I step carefully down the sidewalk, avoiding the prospect of slipping on iced portions. The streetlamps are on.

I continue down the length of the road…but I can’t shake this feeling from before. That awful feeling from that call. Is someone watching me?
I quickly spin around, arms close to my side in the cold. At the end of the block, by the lit payphone, there was a lone figure. He had a large stance and was wearing dark clothing, obscuring his body. I had that feeling of heebie-jeebies once more… Then, he began to approach me.

Who else would be out this late, other than me?! Was it just some drugstore cowboy?
I quickly turn again, walking less carefully on the sidewalk towards the bench. Yet, when I reached the familiar corner, I turned left and continued around the block. Father wouldn’t be here for a few minutes still, so I can make sure that I’m safe.

I picked up my pace as I heard the crunching of snow behind me. My breath was visible in the cold air, my nose and ears stinging. 

I rounded the next corner. I passed the diner, the post office, and the library. The footsteps quickened. 

The next corner. I saw the payphone at the end of the walk once more. I could feel eyes staring at me from behind, and I had no way to defend myself. At this point, he’s definitely following me.

I returned to the original sidewalk, seeing the bench at the end. A car pulled up to the corner, so I began to run. My heart beat was pounding out of my chest. I felt hot breathing on the back of my neck. I passed the office. I got nearer. Nearer. I yelled out to wait, wait for me! I slipped on the ice, but quickly got up to my feet. And then, I jumped into the car, completely out of breath. 

Hot tears began to stream down my cheeks, warming my face. Father began to drive away, a ciggy in his mouth. I peered out the window, but there was no figure anymore. 

“Darling, please don’t cry. I’ve had a long day at work and I wouldn’t like to deal with you right now,” he scolded me.

I wiped my cheeks, my lips sealed. 

Today is my birthday. My eighteenth. In exactly three years, I’ll finally be able to vote. Yet, at this moment, all I could think about was if the man from the corner would follow me home.