Can You Hear Me Now?

Ten hours on the phone with Verizon. And counting.

To My Younger Self (As of Last Monday at 4:30),

I am traveling back in time from next Sunday (your time) to let you know you are strong, and brave, and I love you, and I’m so, so proud of you. It breaks my heart when I think of what will happen to you over the next six days dealing with Verizon to port Alannah’s unused phone number.

You are about to spend five hours ping-ponging from chatbot to chatbot, human to possibly human, all the way to inhuman. You’ve been so good, but you crack and begin to cry out Assistant! Operator! Supervisor! as you’re dragged through a phone routing system like you’re leashed to a runaway horse.

You will banter with scores of helpful assistants who assure you that they can help you and be patient for one little sec. If there is one thing they are trained to say is “thank you for being so patient.” Other than the little slip when you type “this is fucking outrageous” to a chatbot, you’re a saint.

On Tuesday, bless your heart, you’ll spend another two hours on the phone.

Whoops. The line will cut.

A text will arrive: be patient. You’ll get a call back.

Hahahahahahhahaha.

On Wednesday, the nicest person on planet earth will say “Jesus, that’s terrible. I’ll get this fixed. No one should have to wait seven and a half hours.” While you both still believe he can fix it, you will learn to play the ninety-two second hold music solo note-for-note.

Jesus or no Jesus, he will give up on you.

At the eight hour mark you will not have reached a supervisor, but you’ll have a ticket number. You are Charlie, and it is a golden ticket, and they’ve promised you not just a call by Friday night, but a resolution.

You will see the future as clearly as I now see the past. Tears will brim.

Because you can already see where this is going.

You will never get that call.

You will, however, get a text on Saturday morning while doing the leg extension machine. Someone named John will call you “shortly, “ but be warned: he will “close this ticket if you do not pick up.”

110 pounds of lead weight will smash down loud enough to set an alarm off. You will charge out into daylight and a clear sightline to a Verizon tower so you don’t miss this call.

This call will never come.

A text will come.

They will close the ticket.

At hour ten and a half you will write a letter to yourself, this letter. And you will promise yourself that you are strong and brave and you can get through this, and you will cry out Operator! and Assistant! and FCC! and pray that even one of these calls is used for training purposes.