Junk Calls -- We Must Be Merciless

You probably saw me at one of the local parks here in the Big City, standing on a boulder, holding forth in speeches and one-on-ones with others against junk phone calls and messages. I kept going till I lost my voice, and it wasn't easy. Because some of the junk call centers knew all about it, and dropped by to plot a little revenge on me and my allies with junk calls even as we rallied. They know their time is short, but only IF...

Yes, IF... Friends, I remember when I was little, an old man took me aside and told me IF is the biggest word in the English language. That baffled my ignorant little hayseed self, leaving me entirely confused and in a daze of stymied mentality, yet trying desperately to put it together in my minced-meat state of mind, still so common yet today when new truths batter my ramparts seeking entry. The old geezer said, "Son, IF is the biggest word in the English language, because it's so hard for people to believe they have the power to accomplish anything. IF only this, IF only that ... and the motion fails for lack of a second." He went away cackling, but I pondered it...

True, true, so true. Nothing gets done, but IF we came together. Let's say we actually joined forces and did something. Say we hogtied the political forces that are against progress. Say we then hornswoggled them beyond that. Then blindfolded them and sent them to a deserted island on the north pole of Mars. Finally, at long last, we'd be able to get something done. What would it be? you're wondering. Finding a cure for cancer? Medicare for all? Humanity's hope for worldwide peace? Yes, yes, yes, all those things in good order. It'd all get done...

But first, we'd take on the junk call industry. I don't have to recount for any of you the scourge the junk call industry is to human society. You know it in all its pathetic vastness on a daily basis, with daily intimacy. We finally secured the miracle of phones for everyone, a phone in every pocket, unlimited calls with a relatively low monthly fee, messages up the wazoo for everyone. You can message someone, "W'sup?" and they know just what you mean. You're in intimate contact with everyone you want, anytime you want, no holds barred. And what do we get? Junk calls!

Well, whatever they're selling, I'm not buying. But they keep calling. You're watching TV, you're out sightseeing, you're sitting in church, you're stripped down in a sauna, and there goes your phone yet again. Someone from out-of-state, someone spoofing the area code and local prefix where they think you live, etc., all trying to cheat you out of something, and definitely screw you out of your time and energy. It's depressing. But my hope is that Society will become mean enough, bad enough, and angry enough to finally put the screws to the junk call industry once and for all. Close 'em down, and if they try to come up for air, cut off their air, and let 'em die!

Are you with me? You are, unless you're one of 'em. Tell me you're not one of 'em. But if you are with me, here's the plan: We mobilize, we tell our representatives, senators, the president, the first lady, whoever, this has to be the priority. And it can be. Remember World War II? We mobilized and made the world safe enough to have unlimited babies, the Baby Boom. Remember the Interstate Highway project? One day we decided to do it, the next week there were super highways everywhere. A week later they were clogged and needed work. But they were great that first week.

We can bring that same determination and resolve to shutting down the junk call industry, to jail the bosses, to rehabilitate our fellow citizens desperate enough to take jobs pushing their buttons, and then to burn down the entire works. Saving only a few of their evil computers and other infernal equipment in museums, explaining how humanity was attacked and yet rallied against them.

The last thing I want to get is a junk call. It rings -- oh, it's a junk call, click the button, don't take the call. But why should any of us be doing that day after day, continually, without a break? We shouldn't. Those were the calls that were supposed to be illegal all along, because it wastes your minutes. Even with unlimited minutes, it's still wasting my minutes. Shut the industry down!

If they won't shut it down for those reasons, the next thing is to treat it like an invasion of rats or the spread of the plague. With merciless combat. The plague, I don't know how we'd combat that, but we wouldn't be happy. Some of us would be standing on picnic tables, our pants legs rolled up. The rest would be carrying super-powered blast cannons, or makeshift blowtorches, doing major damage against those ugly little rodent bodies. I'd love blasting them, but I have to admit, I'd need a break; I'm seriously prone to the vertigo that comes from the same patterns over and over and the weird shifting it'd have to be with rats dashing helter-skelter everywhere.

Merciless, though, that's the key word Society needs to know. Because there's nothing beneficial to society about junk calls. Beyond the salaries the various ones get as they do their dirty work. But those who don't go to prison could find gainful employment doing something else, maybe serving as lunch ladies in middle schools. Since they're already used to a bad reputation. 

Paranoia -- I Know Where You Go

The clock says 3 o'clock, but it's so dark out. I'm not sure what that means. It's been dark for days. I keep checking the windows. They seem to be sealed, nothing oozing in. And everything's OK with the walls. The feeling of being closed in is so comforting. Finally, after a couple days of hell, everything's settling down. My poor nerves could use the rest. But it doesn't last...

I hope you see this post, OK? They've been blocking my internet feed -- someone, it's on and off -- so very few people are aware what's going on. As for those few, I believe they're telling others to ignore me. It's a mess. I suspect the traffic I'm getting is just the lookout man for the others, checking in to monitor me. They want to shut me down, but someone still needs to check on me. I can be happy for that, because where's there's breath, there's life!

It makes sense that it'd be the lookout man who's calling me. Who better than the one watching? I've had his calls before over the years, which doesn't make it any more welcome. It puts me in a bind. Once I start thinking of it, it's hard to think of anything else. Who is he? Does he have an actual life? Leaving his wife for work, "Heading out, dear. Pulling a double shift in some guy's tree." She goes, "Don't complain, it's a job." He thinks of his heritage: "My dad was a tree-sitter, and his dad before him."

He started calling me about 12:00. The time he flourishes most. Maybe his shift starts at 12 and he wants to get it out of the way. He says his piece, very nefariously, "I know where you go ... and I know what you do there." I questioned him rapidly, who is this? etc. But he likes to leave dead air hanging, like that. Breathing hard, he repeats his piece, "I know where you go ... and I know what you do there." So accusatory!

I argued, "Where do I go? I don't go anywhere," which is more or less true. Still, I have to wonder what the hell he's talking about. I haven't been there, I don't think. And even if I went I didn't really do anything there. You know? What would I have done?" I hang up and I'm even more defensive, tying myself in knots over his words. How can it be someone's actual job, to torment me?"

I call the operator, who checks the exchange and says there's been no calls, either in or out. That's not such a surprise. Guys this tricky, it's easy for them to bypass the normal routes. I say, "Are you sure? Try to trace it." She says they can't trace calls anymore. That with the switchover to cell phones, all their eggs are in the new basket, leaving the old basket unguarded. OK, with the old basket unguarded, I decide to fight fire with fire. Meaning I'll test the system with a few prank calls of my own. I go for a variation on the old "Prince Albert in a can" call. I dial a grocery store and ask, "Do you have Mrs. Dash in the sack?" "Yes, we do!" "Well, get her up, she's got the runs!" Now watch, the police will be here in five minutes!

Getting back to the guy, "I know where you go..." Maybe they saw me that day I dropped off a casserole at the church for the funeral lunch, and that's what he means. But that was a good deed. No one's going to call me with funky sinister breathing for something so innocent. So I'm left with it being something else, something worse.

How would they know I was there? Unless they were there themselves! The last few places I've been, there were others hanging around. It could've been any one of them. But another way to look at it is, I'm being followed, or observed when I leave the house. I did see other cars on the road, like always. They had to have lieutenants along the way -- confederates radioing the others. One big radio network. "He's passing 4th Street now, that's Four-uh Street-uh, roger?" Even though at that point I could've be going anywhere.

Once I get out by the old bridge on the west side, though, that narrows the possibilities. Once they see me passing the old bridge ("He's now passing the old bridge. That is Old-uh Bridge-uh."), unless I'm headed out of town or the cemetery, unlikely, then they'll have it immediately narrowed down. A sick friend? That's at least a defense, until they ask my friend's name.

Just speaking theoretically, let's say I was there, OK? So what? It's a public place, right? A place of business. Others are there. I'm not wearing a mask. What are they doing, calling every guy who darkens their door? How would that help business? It'd just keep guys away. Or maybe these callers have a different game, blackmail. He didn't make any demands, just got me stewing about it.

What's the crime? What's the evidence? Shall I pay? My mind's a swirl. Have they got me on camera? They'd have to. You can't take a country drive these days without at least satellite surveillance. They can hit a tin can in Afghanistan, of course they've got the homeland micro-mapped.

I look out the window and see some rustling over by the pussy willow trees, some distance from the house. Could be the wind, or some other activity. Maybe the caller's watching to see if I'm looking out..

Hold on, the phone just rang. I'm back. It was the same damned thing. Could be a recording. Or is he calling in real time to say the same damned thing? I kept the phone off the hook for a bit, but then I'm not going to know if they're calling.

I wonder to myself, alone with my thoughts, "Don't give them anything to go on. Simply deny it. Don't answer the charges. It's no one's business anyway. Their evidence isn't worth a fig." If that's true, though, how'd they even know? No, they're on to something! The only thing I can hope for is that I'm one of millions. Safety in numbers. That would explain the lag between calls. They're busy with everyone else's phone. What that doesn't explain is the movement in the tree. That's definitely hard to explain, the micro-mapping that puts them in a guy's very own tree while calling.

They haven't asked for money, so I'll sit tight for now. And, like I do in other times of stress, daydream about the old legend of Desi the Donkey, and the beloved sister, St. Rita of Cascia. Her forehead wound flows so much from just one of 72 thorns, just one. A funny little twist: In my thoughts Desi brays, as if to say, "Don't worry, it'll be OK."

Right then, I hear a siren outside. The grocery store traced my call and called the police. And they're shooting flaming arrows over my thatch-roofed house. Trying to burn me out, eh? I settle in. The phone rings. The operator's telling me she'd talked it over with the supervisor and she had it wrong. It's only if you make a prank call with a cell phone to a landline that the call can't be traced. Landline to landline, those are still traceable.

Desi, St. Rita, and I join hands and sing, "Count your many blessings, name them one by one."