The Quietest Man

A short story about a man who struggles to control his emotions when calling customer service centers

The Quietest Man

By Lauren Holt

I

1-8-0-0-P-R-I-N-T-E-R.  

Donald’s fingers shook as he dialed, each like a puppy, restrained by a leash, advancing more slowly than it wants to. His measured breaths were threatening to quicken and the unruffled demeanor he had so hopefully manufactured was shaking like a house on weak stilts. A voice in his head, assured but unconvincing, insisted that this would be the day he overcame it, the day he suppressed his compulsive combativeness when-

“Good afternoon and thank you for calling Jetsong.  How may I help you today?”

“Hello, I- um… Well… could you tell me your name?”

“Of course, Sir. My name is Darlene.” 

Donald’s eyes clenched when she started to speak. He needed to remember his foremost objective: To express his discontent without growing disagreeable, without making this poor woman cry. He had never intended to make any of them cry. All he had wanted was to be heard and recognized, to receive an unscripted apology.

“I’m calling to inform you…Or your company, rather…Of a problem I’ve been having…with my printer.” 

“I’d be happy to help you with that today, Sir.  Could you tell me the problem in detail?”

“Gladly,” Donald said -without cringing or frowning! He opened his eyes and smiled proudly. He was already performing far better than expected. He steadied his breath and continued.  

“My printer eats ink. That’s it… in a nutshell.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s see what I can do.” Darlene started noisily typing. She spoke with the easy reassurance of a grandmother, as though she had seen every problem there was. They were always like this, little stars with their embers snuffed out and replaced by a bulb. 

Still, they have feelings. Don’t forget they have feelings.

Donald shuddered to remember his hypocrisy. He hated corporations for their lack of humanity and yet, he would treat poor Darlene and Louisa with the same disrespect he despised.

“Would you mind, Darlene, if I explain a bit more?  Perhaps this might help you…to help…” 

“Sure.”

“Well the printer is just three months old, and I asked for a model that would be economical. The fellow ensured me that this one would print over 1500 pages per cartridge. But I’ve had to replace the damn thing now 3 times, and I haven’t even gone through 3 reams! That’s fifty percent -or maybe less- of the productivity that Jetsong ensured me I’d have.” 

“I’m sorry you’ve been having these difficulties, Sir, and I hope I am able to resolve them.”  

Donald disappointedly frowned. Dammit! He hated that exasperating disconnect; the sound of her eyes, following the script, the feeling that no one was listening.  And so it crept in: his irritability, the voice that said he was superior.  

This is a waste of your time, it insisted.  You could be doing great things. 

And just what “great” things have I done, might I ask? 

Exactly. You’ve been too distracted. This country is full of subservient sheep and you’re like mule, entrapped in the corral, too intelligent NOT to be peeved!

The voice faded out, but it had infected him. In some faraway state, Darlene typed.  

“This’ll just be a minute. Your patience is appreciated.”  

Donald nodded as if she were there. He wondered if talking of life, not of printers, might help her to slip from the script.

“A…r-replacement would do,” he stammered instead. “I’m certain that mine’s just defective.”

“I’d first like to see if I can aid you in troubleshooting,” she replied, unnaturally cheerful. “Could you tell me the model and age of the device?”

“Oh, it is just three months old.  A..P..75. But the thing of it is, I know how to troubleshoot, and I’ve already done it, and I’d very much like a replacement. You’d feel the same… I mean, it’s guzzling ink…”  

“I understand your frustration. We are so very sorry. Allow me to guide you through troubleshooting. Please turn on the printer-”

“I don’t think you understand.” 

And with that, Donald knew it had begun. The vein on the center of his forehead protruded and his fingers curled into his palms.  

“You see, Darlene,” he slowly persisted, pacing to control his agitation. “The printer I purchased is either defective, or it’s dishonestly marketed. Now, I don’t at all mean to get angry with you, but I’ve spent nearly two hundred dollars on cartridges, and I’m sure you would think this ridiculous.” 

Donald made his way to the couch. He sat in the middle, lifted his legs, and reclined, head and feet on the cushions. As if she were watching, Darlene calmly waited until he had stopped repositioning.

“Unfortunately, Sir, we don’t offer replacements, but we can give you technical support.”

Donald exhaled and regarded the painting, the pacifying scene he had purposefully faced: a pastoral picture, the world of his dreams, the place that would make him unflappable. He imagined for a moment he was standing within it, warmly correcting his favorite young daughter, a girl by the name of Darlene. 

“Darlene…” Donald said, inclining his head and feeling he was crouching beside her. “If you don’t really mean it, please don’t apologize. I’m sure you’d be happy if I’d just hang up, if I hadn’t ever called in the first place. Let’s -at the least- just be honest.”

Darlene said nothing. He imagined her crying… Or maybe she was sneering, or rolling her eyes. Or maybe she was worried that her bosses would choose this exchange for her annual review. He had been quite unfair. He had strayed from the script. Her permitted responses would not likely fit. And yet, though he wanted to end her anxiety, he could not partake in such phoniness.  

  “Whatever you do,” he gently continued, “please do not tell me to go to the store because they told me that I should call you.” 

The “you” echoed over and over. Darlene is not Jetsong.  Darlene is not Jetsong.  Remember; Darlene is NOT Jetsong! The memory of all of the women he’d yelled at -their voices and names and the sound of their sobbing- struck Donald then like a shower of meteors, and-

Do NOT add Darlene to that list.

“It’s possible, Sir, that your Jetsong device is experiencing an internal paper jam.”

What other version of paper jam IS there?!

“If you open the drawer where you insert the paper…”

Her voice faded off, too unimportant to hear. Donald imagined a mechanical statue, beaten with bats by a pack of young ruffians, its arm hanging loose from a crackling wire but its body still jerking through movements.  

Just doing what she does…for no fucking reason, he thought, her voice now faraway. He considered the purposelessness of her words, and he wondered if his calls had been equally purposeless, if he was anything more than an annoyance. Then he wondered if all those employees remembered him, if his name was reviled from Bombay to Tennessee. Was he cited in meetings on difficult callers, his tirades replayed for team training?

“With callers like Donald, keep reading the script. Don’t answer his questions; don’t let him upset you. He’ll scream himself sick, then hang up.” 

And later that year, at the company party…  

“Oh! Donald Reynolds?! You talked to him too?! If I had HALF as much time as that fool clearly does, I’d be out doing something enjoyable! I’d be riding my bike! I’d be getting a drink! I’d be finding myself at least ONE fucking friend!”

And he wondered when last he had gone to a bar, talked to a stranger, flirted with a woman, made any attempt at a friendship… 

Donald’s heart smarted. His temperature rose. His breathing grew shallow and he felt he was drowning. All of the hours he had spent on the phone… They would have been YEARS if combined.  He thought of the friends he could have made in that time, the trips he could have taken, the projects he could have worked on, the man he would have been and the women he would have spared… The world in the painting and how he could have found it. Oh, to go back and pursue his own happiness, not the elimination of anger.   

Do you think, Darlene, that I make all these calls just because I am lonesome and aimless? Does talking to you make me feel less invisible? Does it satisfy my need for companionship? Is that why I won’t let you get off the phone? Are my principles just an excuse? I’m just a sheep like the rest of ‘em… he thought, and her voice faded back to full volume.

“If this step doesn’t work, please turn off the device, then just wait several minutes-”      

“Darlene…” 

  Darlene stopped abruptly, as though in embarrassment. “Have I said too much?” He imagined her asking, as his girlfriend in college would do when she rambled, but Darlene was submissively silent.  

“I don’t want to troubleshoot the printer, Darlene.  I don’t because I know it won’t work. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure that I care about the printer anymore…” 

He stopped -feeling foolish- and realized that he couldn’t convey all the things he’d just thought about. Darlene was neither his friend nor his therapist. Besides, he still wished that his printer would work, that he could move on with his life. 

“If you could connect me with someone who could help me… Well, I’d be deeply appreciative. I don’t mean to belittle you…Truly, Darlene, I just know that you can’t fix this problem.” 

Closing his eyes, Donald forced himself to smile. Whatever her response, he would work through it kindly… 

“Sir, I understand your frustration. I’d still like to try-”

“Oh Darlene, just stop talking…” 

He opened his eyes to the painting. That undiagnosed knot just beneath his left breastbone began to contort, then to pulsate.    

Don’t shorten your life over petty irritations. That was what Gabriel said. Gabriel was Donald’s best friend, his one friend -a lighthearted, knowledgeable, and philosophical garbageman, who was enviably able to accept and enjoy what the rest of the world found exasperating.  

Direct your breaths to the source of your vexation, Gabriel invariably advised.  Donald attempted this strategy now. He closed his eyes softly and breathed into the knot and imagined that it was unraveling. Then he spoke to Darlene with the utmost sincerity, as we do when our barriers fall.       

“I want you to know that I’ve been in your position. I’ve never answered phones, but I’ve been at the bottom. And that is the reason I know you can’t help me, no matter how much you may want to. I’m not trying to make you feel useless, Darlene. I’m sure that you’re doing the best that you can. You’ve been patient with me and you’ve offered me advice… and for this, I am truly very grateful. But I don’t like the printer, and I’m not a rich man, and I’m tired of buying junk and being forced to take the loss by enormous companies that profit exorbitantly because they rip me off and underpay you! You and I…Well, we are in the same boat, and that’s why I know you will transfer me…That way, we both can get on with our day. You shouldn’t have to deal with me further.” 

“Oh, but…S-Sir…I’m unable to transfer you-”

“Unable, or told not to do so? I’m sorry Darlene…” His face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…I know you can’t answer that. Can I just…ask you a question? How do you do it? I mean…how do you manage to get up in the morning, knowing that nothing you say will be truthful at all? That most of the people you talk to will probably resent your inability to help them?…  You don’t have to answer that…I know this is recorded. And if you want to hang up…well… you can’t do that either!  This is horrible, isn’t it?  That we go through this shit? That we’re forced to be so damn impersonal! Can I tell you, Darlene, that when I called you today, my goal was to NOT make you cry?” He chuckled ashamedly, shaking his head. “I have been such a beast to so many like you. But I’m only a coward. I’ll yell on the phone, so long as my victim is faceless. But in person? 

Well, I… Well I couldn’t explode. Why, I’ve never stood up for myself. You still there, Darlene?”

“Yes, Sir, I am here…” 

She said it with tenderness and warmth.  She was listening, truly; they had made a connection, and he felt his eyes moisten, and his heart swell with love, and he wished she were there in his living room -or, better yet, in that painting before him. He pictured them sitting in the grass on a blanket, like two childhood friends reunited, conversing as openly as he did with Gabriel but with that intimacy a woman brings out. Donald continued, in awe of the moment. Though he spoke without knowing what precisely he’d say, he felt that it all had great meaning. 

“You know, Darlene, I worked for corporations all through my twenties and thirties. And then, in my forties, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I moved to a dental clinic, but they paid me no better and I hated the job from the get-go. But I stayed there because I am stubborn and principled and ‘I wasn’t gonna work for a conglomerate!’ And never, in the nearly two decades I spent, answering phone calls at a desk that was worth nearly half of what I earned in a year, never did I petition my boss for a raise because I would’ve had to face her to do so. And beyond my fear of her penetrating glare was the fact that I needed the money. It wasn’t very much, but my God, it was something, and I really…Well, I couldn’t risk losing it.”

All of the women he had been so unpleasant with -(Susanna, who had sent the wrong model of computer; and Jessica, who had failed to process his insurance payments; and Lois, who had said she’d take his name off the mailing list; and Gretchen, who had charged him two times for that plane ticket, and all of the others who had not shown incompetence, but had simply been unable to grant his requests)- all of those women were just trying to survive and doing so with admirable graciousness.  

“You know what Darlene: I want to thank you… truly… for letting me speak with such candor. Maybe I called you for this… not the printer; I often don’t know what I need. Do you ever feel that way? Do you, Darlene?  Do you ever realize you’ve been fighting for something that really means nothing to you? I tell ya, Darlene, that all of this openness… Well, this is monumental for me. I have been trapped in a pattern of complaint… just as you’re trapped in your script. It’s frightening, isn’t it? How long it can take us to see that we’ve lost who we are?” 

A beatific smile spread out through his lips, up to his jaw and the tips of his ears. Painful or not, enlightenment was enlightenment; it had been a long time since he’d felt it. He was about to continue, to explore his thoughts further, when Darlene rather audibly sniffled.   

“Darlene?” Donald whispered with panicked concern.  Another noise came, this one out of her chest, and Donald remembered how his sister had cried when their father had pushed her too far on her skis, or taken her too deep in the ocean. He worriedly returned to the topic of the printer, as though putting her back on her tricycle. 

“Perhaps…a technician could help me… You think? Swing by and just take a quick look?”

“Sir, I’m so sorry, but Jetsong does not send te-technicians to customers’ residences. H-however, you could send your p-printer to us, in which case we’d be h-happy to look at it.” 

“I have to mail it?! Across the whole country?! The thing must weigh nine or ten pounds!”

“Unfortunately, S-s-Sir…” Darlene stammered again, this time failing to finish her sentence. She burst into sobs -overwhelmed, gasping sobs, the sort all the office would hear. Donald’s brows knit in dismay.

“You’re worth more than this,” he desperately blurted. “You’re better than Jetsong. Y-you’re a sweet, thoughtful woman and… Th-they do not care about anyone!” 

Darlene only wept even louder.  And though Donald well knew that picking the wound would not heal it but deepen the scar, he couldn’t sit back as Darlene choked and blubbered. He felt that he had to say something. 

“Oh Darlene… I’m so sorry you’re crying. I was only just trying to fix this damn printer and... Look: it’s okay to break down now and then. Perhaps you are crying because you’re reaching an epiphany that’s just… a bit painful to swallow.” 

Donald envisioned a father with his daughter, clumsily trying to console her.  Except he wasn’t a father, nor was he a husband, nor was he a son anymore, and never before had this struck him so sharply -his inexperience with human relationships. 

“You’ve done all you could,” he gently persisted, desperate to stop her from crying. “And I really am grateful for all of your help… And I’m sorry I…brought you to t-tears, D-Darlene, truly… That was the last thing I wanted.”

In place of the stutter he’d thought he would hear, Darlene unrestrainedly wailed.  Donald -now sitting on the edge of his couch- listened to his heart, pounding like a hammer. He imagined Darlene at her afternoon break, quelling her tears with a box of stale crackers. He envisioned her pausing by the wall of her cubicle, in the middle of the hallway, on the sidewalk and the subway, every time struck by the anguish he’d caused her, and how she couldn’t turn back from what he’d brought her to realize, about her life…about herself…about her choices…

You cannot take back what you’ve said, Donald. Really. You cannot close doors you’ve just opened. You sent this poor woman down a frightening path and she’s there now, and you should hang up.  

         “Thank you for trying, Darlene,” Donald said. He hung up before she could answer.   

Donald set the phone on the cushion beside him and stared at the floor in a daze. He felt he’d just learned of the death of a loved one he’d fought with on waking that morning. Never again would he talk to Darlene. She was one amongst thousands, just another representative, irretrievably lost in an unnavigable web of switchboards and telephone lines.

II

Throughout that afternoon and well into the evening, Donald only thought of Darlene.

“She cried,” he murmured, standing at the door, attempting to put on his shoes to meet Gabriel. “She’s probably crying right now…” 

Bent at the waist, looking down at his feet, Donald stood like an unmanaged puppet. One shoe was on, the other was not, and the one that was on was untied. He furrowed his brows at the thought of his “date.” His best friend’s persistence was irritating.  

I told him I wasn’t in the mood to go out! Why won’t he just leave me BE?!

Because he’s your friend, and he knows you’re distraught, and you need to go out now and then!   

Donald ashamedly winced.  

You should be grateful for Gabriel’s friendship. 

I AM! 

But he usually wasn’t. He wondered if he ought to confess this to Gabriel, how he could put it most simply. 

  You deserve better than me, he would say. I don’t deserve… anyone. 

Such thoughts were a sign of depression, he knew. A newspaper story had told him. 

But what if a person really wants to be alone? What if they’re happier without any friends, without the obligations that come with relationships? What if that just suits them best? 

Donald considered the recluse who had lived down the street from the house he’d grown up in.  He thought of how he and his friends used to fear him, then later, as teenagers, tease him.  He thought of how the recluse had rarely emerged and how, when he had, he’d been silent.  And he realized that something must have broken the man, that people don’t live in this way because they like it but because they do not like themselves. 

I am becoming that recluse, he thought. Indeed, he did not like himself.  And though he’d known this for years, it stung to acknowledge it, to hear his heart weeping those words.  He remembered how social and confident he had been -(he would have never predicted this outcome)- and he wondered what it was that had broken him down…   

YOU, a voice spoke from within. So many years of outspoken complaint, of putting your principles before your humanity so you could crusade against nothing.

Donald longed to crawl back into bed.  He wanted to bury himself in his sheets, to unplug the phone, and draw shut all the curtains, and dream himself back to the past.  He wanted to wake up without his regrets, to be twenty again, to start his life over, to tackle injustice with love, not with anger, to just be alone and okay with it. He didn’t want to see Gabriel, he resented their meeting, and this made him feel terribly guilty.

Donald then realized that he was still bent, hanging over his feet like a corpse.  He softened his knees, his muscles in trembles, and dropped to an unsteady squat. He picked up the laces but could not seem to tie them; his fingers were shaking and sweaty, and when he tried to stand up, his muscles gave out and he found himself back in his squat.  He wanted to scream with the sorrow of a cripple, but instead, he sank down to the floor.  There, Donald sat with his head on his knees, consumed by the thought of his sadness. 

He imagined Gabriel, sitting at the bar, waiting for him to show up. 

Do not bring TWO people down in one day.  Put on your shoes and get going.

And so, Donald did, with weary resolution, though he knew that a beer would not heal him.

The bar was uncomfortably quiet, scarcely a customer, the music a murmur. Gabriel was posted on a stool in the corner, like an elephant perched on a signpost. He was smiling at Donald with bemusement and curiosity. Soon, he would drag Darlene out of him. Donald considered running back to his house, but he staggered to the stool beside Gabriel.  

“Evenin’, Donald,” the bartender greeted.  “Pint of Port Steam and a water?” 

“Yes. Thank you, John. Much obliged to your memory.”

Gabriel burst into chuckles.   

“Well ain’t you just looking a mess! Have some nuts.  I’ll be plugged up for months if I eat ‘em!” He slid a large bowl across the bar towards his friend, but Donald waved a hand to deny it. Gabriel pulled the bowl back and kept eating. He regarded his friend with perplexity. “So…old buddy…What happened to you? You discover another of the world’s great iniquities? Come on, you can tell me. I love all your conquests. They help cheer me up at the end of the week.”

“It’s Tuesday, Gabriel,” the bartender smirked.    

“I’m a garbageman, John. They’re all Wednesdays.”      

Donald’s lips twitched, a smile pressing at them, though more from emotion than humor. He had just realized that Gabriel cherished him, that he might really make his friend feel better. His heart swelled with purpose. He felt his smile growing. He-

“Buddy? You there?”

“I was… thinking…”

“Thinking is good.  Just don’t do it too much…  Oh hey! I just heard some great news!”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah! Today on a radio program!”

“And what was the news?”

“That we’re fine! That everything’s gonna be fine, peachy keen! I was skeptical, frankly, but I looked out the window and the sun was still shining and I thought to myself ‘Hey, it’s shining! It’s gonna be fine.’ Then I let Janet drag me along to her yoga class, and I tell ya, I was starting to doubt what I’d heard.  But even in class, as I was sweating out buckets, and all the pretty yogis were looking at their teacher, and looking at me, and looking at their teacher like ‘Why did you have to bring Frankenstein?,’ I remembered that everything is gonna be fine, and guess what? It’s been fine since that moment!”

Donald imagined Darlene walking in, seeing him shooting back whisky and laughing. Gabriel seemed to pick up on the guilt. He waved off the bartender’s pouring.  

“So what’s gotten into you? Somebody got it… The residue of justice is strong on you, Donny!”

“Oh please… Don’t remind me…”

“Come on…you can tell me…”

“I know… I just don’t really want to…”

  But sharing the tale of his call with Darlene was like a surgery desperately needed, so Donald recounted the call in full detail, unwilling to put off the torment.  

“And so…Well, I just left her crying, that’s it. I hung up the phone as though leaving the room and the last thing I heard was her crying. I was trying to talk to her, Gabriel. Really. To get beyond the script and the bullshit.”

“Well it sounds like whatever you said opened doors… Maybe you helped her. You did a good thing. She needed to hear what you said.”

“How ‘bout those shots?” Donald said to the bartender, who nodded and reached for the bottle. 

Gabriel laughed. “Well, that girl really got you. Bottoms up, Donald! No coughing!”

She isn’t ‘that girl.’ She’s Darlene, Donald thought as he nodded in thanks to the bartender. 

They stumbled outside two or three hours later and found the streets slick with fresh rain. Gabriel offered to drive Donald home, but Donald, on hearing the plink of a raindrop, hitting the top of a rusted old trashcan, imagined the tears falling off Darlene’s nose and plinking like that on her desk.  

“I think I’ll just walk,” he dazedly stammered, already staggering away.  

“Remember, old friend; you did Darlene a favor!” Gabriel shouted, full volume.

A few blocks from his house, Donald passed a small church, the midnight congregation spilling out its front doors, enlivened by their preacher’s charisma.  “Eve’nin,” an elderly black man remarked, bowing his head with respect.

“Eve’nin,” Donald replied rather shyly, amazed by the smile of this stranger. He decided, right then, that he was done with his principles, that he would be, from that moment and till the end of his days, as friendly as this gentle old man.

III: The Following Morning

At the start of his walk, Donald’s mind was untroubled and for this, he was very relieved. But in wondering how he’d surmounted his torments, he thought of the source of those torments -(Darlene)- and her sobs once again filled his ears. He imagined that she had not shown up to work, that she had had to call in -(or more tragically, quit)- and he nearly went back to his house. It was only the thought of the girl who would serve him his coffee that kept him from turning.

Donald was at the cafe for an hour, holding a paper throughout, but he read nothing more than the fire report and a headline about local politics. The paper was merely a way to steal glances at the girl he had come there to see: the young blond barista, pretty and cheerful, his one all-consuming distraction. No matter how tersely he answered her questions -(“Small, no room, one chocolate-dipped shortbread”)- and no matter how muttered his thank you’s, she served him as if he were terribly friendly, the man he so wanted to be. It was almost as if she understood how it felt to seem so much more awful than one truly was, and as Donald re-read and re-read the same headline, he wondered how someone as perfect as she could know anything at all about judgment. 

Donald departed the cafe with reluctance and walked home, depressed to be leaving her. To think that he’d never have a woman like that, that there wasn’t a chance in the world of his kissing her, led him to thoughts of inevitabilities. Then a rickety station wagon passed him by sputtering, and through the back window, he saw the girl’s hand. It was lifted and waving. He blinked to be certain… But why was she waving at him?

Donald’s heart bloomed like a flower in a landfill. The road and the trees and the people and their dogs, the hedges and the garbage cans and the mailboxes dissolved, and all that remained was that rusted old car, growing smaller, and smaller, and smaller… He recalled, while waving, the elderly black man who had smiled and greeted him the evening before, and he wondered if all of this kindness was a message, a cosmic invitation to be so. Soon, he was ambling down the middle of the street as though tracing the path of her tires. How can she be so damn nice, he reflected, when her job is so menial and she’s so… intelligent? Gabriel, too. He’s a genuine genius, and he throws bags of trash in a truck! Perhaps it is all just about giving up… Maybe that is the key to true happiness… 

A delicate hand then emerged from the window of the cafe girl’s rickety wagon. Donald’s heart fluttered. She knew who he was! She liked him enough that she’d waved out her window! If it weren’t for Darlene, he’d have skipped with delight, but the thought of her darkened his joy. For somewhere, there lived Darlene’s version of him, the guy whose heart fluttered at the sight of her car, and how would he feel if he heard Donald’s ranting? What would the cafe girl think? 

Instead of going home, Donald stopped at McWittie’s, a cheap Irish diner several blocks from his house.  He ordered a bowl of the “World Famous” gumbo, a beer, and a giant soft pretzel. Donald had only just peppered his soup when he looked down to see a dead fly. He scooped up the fly with the tip of his spoon and set the spoon down on his napkin. Then he took a clean spoon from the table beside him and ate as though nothing had happened.  

The soup was quite thick and it left upon the walls of the bowl a wide band of red residue. Donald was reminded of a lake in the summer and thereby, of a childhood experience. Around nine or ten, he had discovered a bottom-feeder, distended and floating in his grandfather’s pond. He remembered the stench, the bloated white belly, the sadness that he couldn’t resuscitate it. Now, as he glanced at the spoon he’d set down and the sodden fly prostrate upon it, he realized that he was not angry or sad, that he didn’t have a feeling at all.

The waitress pressed her hand to her mouth in despair.   

“Oh my!” She gasped.  “Was that fly in your soup? I won’t charge you, of course.  I mean, your meal will be free.  And if there’s anything else I can give you…I will.  Anything you need. Oh, how horrible!”

“Please… don’t worry.” Donald awkwardly smiled.  “I found the fly…Well, it was here, on my shirtsleeve.”

“Your sh-shirtsleeve?” She stammered. 

“You know…They get cold… Its wings must’ve stuck to the fibers or something.  Anyway, I promise, it was not in the soup. So please…don’t you worry at all…”

Uneasy but sincere, the poor waitress smiled. Donald joined her, eyes filling with tears. 

IV

Gabriel would not relent.    

“You accepted a verbal apology, Donny?! Flies get folks sick, don’t you know?!”

“I shouldn’t have told you…”

“But really though, Donald! You found a fly in your soup and you didn’t complain?! Hah! Hahaha! This is crazy! Unbelievable!  I feel like I’ve lost my best friend!”  

“Oh, that’s ridiculous.”  

“You’re probably right. So tell me then: how did you do it?” 

“The waitress was friendly and it wasn’t her fault. And besides, she tried to make it all better.”

“What did she do?”

“She said she’d bring something else.” 

“So what did you get?”

“I was full.” 

“Nothing?! My God! You are sure somethin’ else! Now tell me, Don: what was her name?”

“She didn’t tell me her name.” 

“No name-tag or anything?”

“Not at McWittie’s. It isn’t a chain.  And why does her name make a difference exactly?”

“It doesn’t, I guess. I’m just curious… Well then, my friend… I guess I oughta be proud. Though I gotta admit, I am nervous. The next time some company gives me the screw, who’s gonna call for my refund?”

“I don’t know, Gabriel… I’m just tired of anger and standing up for what’s right makes me angry.”

Gabriel lifted his hands in surrender. 

“Hey, my friend. Self-reform is quite admirable.  I applaud you and begrudge you at the very same time, cause now I’M the pain in the ass!”

Shaking his head, Donald laughed at his friend, who sipped at his coffee, brows furrowed. 

“This coffee today…” He began with a smirk. “I find it unusually bitter…  It seems like they did something wrong, don’t you think?” 

“Just keep tryin’…” 

“Awww, shit, man! You got me!” 

     .    .    .    .    .    .    . 

Several weeks passed and Donald truly improved, more than he had personally expected. He treated 1-800 numbers like a drug he had quit and learned to breathe deeply through surges of aggravation. Now and again, his merciless mind resurrected Darlene and the other representatives, and his chin would flatten, and his brows would peak, and his eyes would burn with frustration and remorse. But generally speaking, he felt free of the past and the vehemence that had caused him such suffering, and he accepted the fact that the man he had thought he should be had not suited him well. Being outspoken and principled is noble, but not if it sours your heart in the process. Donald decided that one’s purpose in life is to do what will make one most pleasant. He was a better human being when silent; thus, he quite nearly quit speaking. 

Torn from his routine by his commitment to change, Donald starting going to a different cafe, and it was there that he saw her, his coffee shop girl, the one who had waved from her car. She was standing at the counter, talking to the manager, her shoulders much tenser than ever he’d seen. Perking his ears, Donald quickly understood that she was asking the manager for a fresh cup of brew, or maybe, if possible, a refund instead, as her first cup was littered with grinds. She expressed her grievance both softly and timidly. She even apologized for bringing it up. She said that she never complained about coffee, and felt really bad, but the grinds made her sick.

“I don’t see grinds in the pot,” said the manager. Donald’s indignation flared up. Where was the owner to fire this asshole? And why weren’t more people appalled at the scene? How could they be on their cell phones and laptops? Where was humanity’s decency?!   

The girl stiffly walked to the cafe’s front door. Her cheeks betrayed mortification.  A feeling of duty rose up within Donald, then a voice he knew well loudly cried, Help her, Goddammit! Don’t sit here and fume!

But once I get started, I know I won’t stop, and I know this will only embarrass her…

Then don’t make a scene! Speak firmly but coolly. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing…      

Donald looked up at the jingle of the door. Stepping outside, the girl paused on the sidewalk, as though trying to remember which way she should walk. Then she staggered ahead, dropped her cup in the garbage, and lifted one hand to her face. Though he couldn’t be certain from where he was sitting, Donald surmised that she was drying her tears. As she shuffled away, her humiliation was clear in the weight of her once sprightly gait.  

Donald arose and walked up to the counter.  

“Excuse me, Miss.” He spoke with composure and gently set his cup by the register. The manager halted her retreat to the back. She returned to the counter in an overweight waddle. As she approached, Donald’s mind started spinning with all of the things he could say.    

I’ve found grinds in my coffee.

You were rude to that girl.  

You know, I’m a friend of the owner’s…

“Refill?” She asked, now standing before him, the wrinkles on her face clearly visible. In a gesture of denial, Donald lifted his hand. He thanked her and returned to his seat.