Skinned Cats

She opened the conversation by announcing herself.

“This is Dixie Lee Shapiro.” And, for a moment I was lost in a swirl of images.

A bleached blonde beehive swirled above heavy, dark eyebrows and a prominent nose. As she spoke, the image changed. Dixie still sported the haystack upon her head, but the exclamatory eyebrows and prominent proboscis belonged to the gentleman at her side. Either stereotype was implausible.

A rise in the tone of Mrs. Shapiro’s voice regained my attention. Her words shook in a manner that bespoke age and infirmity, as she explained her dilemma while begging my response. Her problem was not unique. I ferried several of these calls every day, and the pile of paper on my desk seemed much more pressing. I answered her questions in a clipped, business-like manner, steering the conversation towards conclusion. But, Mrs. Shapiro was having none of it. She wanted answers. She pulled out the big guns.

In a quavering voice, she explained that the check she’d written should have allowed her to receive telephone calls from her son who was incarcerated. It had been cashed, but they claimed not to have it. She hadn’t heard from her son in an awfully long time. Was there nothing I could do to help her? Mrs. Shapiro’s hair shrunk considerably as she spoke, and the image of her buxom figure alongside Mr. Shapiro was replaced by the creaking sound made by her rocking chair as it rode wooden floors that had, long ago, lost their sheen. Her worry, anxiety, and loneliness were palpable.

Empathy kicked in, and I went the extra mile, tracing her funds and forgiving the fee usually charged for such service. Her payment had been received. She had a legitimate complaint, and as I shared the information, I embellished with some advice in hopes that the lines of communication between she and her wayward son would soon be open.

“That’s what I thought, and I didn’t especially like it.” Her response was spoken in a voice I hardly recognized. The quiver was missing, and the tenor now carried smoke, and whiskey, and something more, something hard. She spoke for several seconds of her son’s girlfriend, who managed to speak to him “some kinda way”, before thanking me for my assistance and agreeing with my conclusions.

“Let’s start there and see what happens, ok, kid?”

I hung up with a smile.

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