WAITING FOR TELSTRA

This is a monologue for a woman, preferably somewhere from late forties on.  It was first performed as part of Brown Fairthorne Theatre Project’s ‘Small Bites”, and would probably be best described as ‘bittersweet comedy’.

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A middle aged WOMAN, JOY, stands on stage, tea towel over her shoulder, wearing an apron saying “Keep Calm and Carry On” and holding a mobile phone.  She addresses the audience.

JOY:

The other day I was waiting to speak to a Telstra technician, who I hoped would finally be able to find out why, lately, I’ve had so much trouble connecting to the internet.  It was day five.  I was keeping record.

Redmond was seeing Sue off.  They’d been giggling on the balcony again, talking about the scourge of the Indian Myna.  They both love native birds.  And anyone who loves natives hates Indian Mynas apparently.   She’s a little younger than me, and I’m more of a people person than a bird person so we’ve never really got on.  Redmond, of course, loves birdlife, so… She’s a funny thing.  Attractive in an insecure ‘please notice me’ way.  Everything is so low cut.  

..Where was I? 

Anyway I was waiting for Telstra when Redmond walks in from saying goodbye to Sue, and says “Joy,” he says.

“Yes?” I say.

 And he says, “I think we should talk.”  

 I’m in shock.  We never talk.  Then suddenly a young man’s voice on the telephone says,

“How long has it been since you called your Mum?” to which I answer, completely taken aback - “My mother’s dead!” - before realising that it’s a recorded advertisement, “YOU might not know”, it goes on, “but I bet your Mum does!  Why not give her a call?”   

Not very tactful really, to advertise this sort of thing to people already depressed by the long wait.  I mean, I’m long past having a mother.  She died years ago.   And even then, I hardly had her for long.  Early altzheimer’s.

Where was I?  

So I’ve yelled into the telephone, “My mother’s dead!” and Redmond gets all flustered and says “Who?” And I say “What?” and he says, white as a sheet, “Who’s DEAD?”
And I say, “My mother.”
And he tilts his head, as if I’m this pathetic brainless creature who he quietly tolerates while pondering what nursing home he’ll put me in – and says, “But that was years ago, pet. Remember?”  He loves acting as if I’m losing my mind.
So I say, tilting my head just so he knows how it feels, I say, “Never mind dear.  What did you want to talk about?”
And then, furtively, I looked down at my watch.
“Am I on a time limit?” he asks.
“Ofcourse not!” I say, “I’m just wondering how long they’ll keep me waiting.  I’m timing them so I can take it further, if I have to.  In a letter of complaint.”

On Saturday you see, similar to Friday, I’d spent exactly one hour and thirty four minutes before giving up.  The next day, being Sunday, Redmond and I had taken turns to hold the phone while I prepared the lunch.  He’d put it on speaker phone, so he could hear that automated voice talking to him as he ironed his shirts for the week.  I know:  Sue was always saying, “A husband who enjoys ironing!  How lucky can you be, Joy?”   I just laughed and nodded.  (does little nod and fake laugh)  Joy is such a hard name to live up to.  I mean, one feels obliged to be so bloody full of it all the time.

Anyway… Back to Sunday - I hear the voice on the end of the line ask what sort of problem we’re having, and Redmond says “IN-TER-NET” so I say, well versed in it all by now, “Don’t say internet – they’ll put us through to the wrong department!  It’s modem.  MODEM you fool!”

And suddenly he throws his beautifully ironed shirt on the floor and slams the telephone receiver onto the bench.

“YOU take it then!” he says, getting into one of his huffs.  

This waiting can get very stressful.  For both of us.  And Redmond is very volatile by nature.  He’s an extremely successful businessman with a lot of responsibility so…. Just the same at work I’m told.  Hence about to take a much needed week off.   Apparently.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  Monday morning.  I’ve been waiting for Telstra for exactly fifty two minutes and Redmond’s waiting to talk to me on this first of his seven days off. 

“Can’t you call them another time?” he says.

To which I respond, “I am going to get through this time if it bee well kills me.” 

And suddenly – CLICK -  I’m disconnected.  

“Buggar it”, I say.

“You swore!” says Redmond,  “That’s why they cut you off!” 

Redmond insists that technical support centre secretly listen in while you’re waiting to be served.

“I only swore AFTER they cut me off!” I yell back.

“You said ‘bee well’ – that’s aggression!  Any sign of aggression,” he says, “and that’s IT.’

“How ridiculous,” I say.  But I do wonder if he’s right.  One never knows these days.  What with drones now doing police work.  Nothing would surprise me..

Where was I?

Oh yes.  So.  Monday morning.  “Hold on darling,” I say calmly, “I’m fourth in the queue.”   

Redmond waits.  And huffs.  Til finally I give up.

“Okay,” I say, “Fire away.”

 So there I am, being asked once again by a machine if I’ve called my mother, when Redmond suddenly puffs out his chest, and says, “I am having an affair.”

I just stare at him, blankly.

So he says it again slowly, as if I’m now deaf as well as simple.  “An affair, Joy.  Aff-air.” 

I just nod and say “MO- DEM”, very slowly.  I had just been put through to technical support.

“Hang up the phone Joy.” Orders Redmond.

“I won’t.” I say, gripping the phone.

It wouldn’t have mattered if Redmond had had a heart attack in front of me - which at this point I wouldn’t have minded -  I was not going to hang up.

There is a click and a real live human being says:

“Hold the line.  I’ll put you through.  Is there anything I can help you with today?” 

And Redmond says, “Don’t you want to know who with?”

Honestly.  

“No thank you.”  I say.

As if I don’t know.

“Thank you for calling Telstra,” they say, “have a nice day.” And I’m waiting again, listening this time to some theme music about being at one with the universe.   

And then Redmond says “We’re going to move in together.”
And the theme music about living in harmony continues, and I’m now staring at the ironing board, with it’s seventies floral crazy daisies cover, still holding the phone.  And he tilts his head at me again like this, and says, “Haven’t you got anything to say?”
And I tilt mine back and say “For God’s sake Redmond I’m waiting for Telstra!”
“I’m going to pack,” he says.  And he stomps out, holding an armful of crisply ironed shirts.  (pause)  Some of them probably stained, I think.  From that dribble he does when his teeth aren’t in.  

“I hope she’s got a lifetime supply of Wondersoap!” I call.  Redmond grunts, and slams the bedroom door.

And suddenly I’m alone.  Just me and Telstra.  And a quiet voice says, “Good afternoon M’am.  How can I help?”  It’s one of those gentle Indian voices, the voice of a young man somewhere exotic.  And I’ve been standing on the phone, off and on for about five days now, and it’s suddenly so lovely, hearing this soft sweet boyish voice, offering to help.

And before I know it I’m sort of sobbing - yes sobbing - to the technician.

And he says in his soft sweet voice, “I’m so very sorry Madam.  But I can’t help you if I don’t know what you are crying about.”

So I apologise and ask him his name.  He says he’s not allowed to give it.  Company policy he says.  He can however give me his number.  981.

So I ask 981 where he lives.  

Delhi.

“What’s the view like, from the window?” I ask him.

“There is one window, from which I can see the airport,” he says.  And I start to think about airports, and planes, and Indian saris, and temples, and people meditating and levitating, and suddenly I say,

“My husband is having an affair, 981,” Just like that. Out of the blue. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that madam,” he says.  And he sounds sincere, so I tell him some more.

“I didn’t know,” I say, “I never thought he had it in him. Does that make me a fool 981?”

“Not at all, people can be most secretive.  If you had known what would have been the difference?  I think it is a good thing, this not knowing.”

To which I said, “Yes.  I would so much rather not know.” 

“He should never have told you, in my opinion,” he says.

“Thank you 981,” I say, “Telstra are lucky to have you 981.”

And then something extraordinary happens - he tells me he works for another company entirely, called Teletek.  So I’m not even talking to TELSTRA anymore!  I’ve just been passed on, unwittingly and without my consent, to another company entirely.  A company paid to handle Telstra’s most difficult customers.   It was almost too much – yet another deception announced to me in a matter of minutes!

“We will be putting you through to another department Madam. Please hold the line.” And he’s about to cut me off again when I scream, “WAIT!  981!  DO NOT BE PUTTING ME THROUGH TO ANOTHER DEPARTMENT - PLEASE!”

And suddenly I see Redmond in the other room, bent over his mobile phone, talking in hushed tones.  And I wonder whether he’s talking to her, or to a hospital to come and collect his wife, who is now on the verge of a nervous breakdown. 

“I’m sorry 981,” I say, “but I have been passed from one person to another trying to get this problem sorted for the past FIVE days. ” 

981 tells me he will see what he can do, and more easy listening music begins to play when, suddenly, I hear a knock on the front door.  It’s Sue.  I crane around to see her hairstyle bobbing behind the indoor pot plant in the hallway like a nervous cockatoo. She’s wearing a different outfit to her usual saucy barmaid look.  This is a sort of yellow and white velour travelling suit.  Perhaps they’re going to India I think.  She sees me craning and does a stupid little wave.  I don’t wave back.  Who would? “Well,” I say, “What a surprise,” I say, doing my best to sound completely indifferent.

Redmond by this time has sidled out of the bedroom again.  He is beetroot red, shaking like a wattle bird whose nest is being invaded by an Indian Mynah.  He passes her his ironed shirts and a small suitcase and the two head off towards the bedroom, I assume to get more of his clothes.  I notice as they leave he lets her go first.  Not because he’s a gentleman, more likely because he thinks I’m going to attack them both with the telephone receiver.  Or better still the iron.

“What a small case Redmond,” I call down the hallway, in my most charming social voice, “Don’t you want the big one in the laundry cupboard?  It’d be so much easier.  It’s got wheels.  For your bad back.  And don’t forget your other set of teeth.  Or your magnifying glass for when you lose your reading glasses.  Or your heat pad for your dicky knee. “  And then, I say, really loudly, in a sing songy voice, “Viagra’s in the bedside table!”

I know.  Below the belt.  I’m already regretting that one when I could swear I hear the cockatoo yell back down the hall, “We won’t be needing that!” But I decide I didn’t: it’s all too much to even contemplate …(SHE drifts off for a second).. 

Then suddenly there’s an awkward cough on the other end of the telephone:  it’s the company manager!  Funny how sometimes everything happens at once.  I mean, one minute you’re married to someone, just another day, arguing a bit here and there, preparing meals, waiting for Telstra - and then poof!  You’re being put through to an actual department with a real life human being listening on the other end while you tell your husband’s new lover where she’ll find the viagra.  

By now Redmond’s stormed back in the kitchen, huffing and sweaty, looking as if he’d like me to murder me.  God only knows WHY.  That’s my domain at this point, surely?  

Then I spot the cockatoo, hovering.  She’s progressed to the laundry to get the bigger case.  Little glimpses of yellow velour flashing nervously in the corner of my eye.  

“You found it,” I say casually, “Well done.” 

They rush back to the bedroom, where I can hear them opening and closing drawers.  I am still holding the phone ofcourse. 

And then I see a glimpse of a thick red bracelet on her perfectly white hand with her perfectly red lacquered fingernails … and I’m reminded of those metal bands they put on the legs of homing pigeons…as her claws clasp the suitcase and whisk it out of sight. 

But where was I?  

Oh yes, so Redmond’s staring at me.

“What now?” I say to him, covering the receiver.

“Haven’t you got anything you want to say?”

And I look at him, in his good cardigan, without any stains on it, well none I can see, because I’d washed the really bad ones out with Sard Wondersoap only the day before, and I shake my head and I say, “I have the company manager of Teletek on the telephone Redmond.”

So Redmond walks down the hall towards our front door with the homing pigeon/noisy mynah/canary/cockatoo hybrid, who claws open our door.  And Redmond walks out, holding onto two suitcases, one backpack, and two plastic bags worth of bird watching books.  

“Hello?  How do I contact Telstra directly to complain about their terrible service?” I ask.

That’s when I hear the front door click closed.  

And the company manager – a lovely young Indian lady -  tells me should I want to complain (and by now I most definitely DO), I can only complain to Teletek, who promises me they’ll forward my complaints to Telstra.  But this will take, surprisingly, sixteen working hours to do.  

“And THIS is a business specialising in communication!” I say pompously.

“I am so very sorry,” she says in her exotic accent.  Perhaps they’re married.  981 and her.  Or perhaps she’s stolen the Teletek boss’s wife.  

And then it dawns on me:  what good would that do Teletek, to pass on my complaints? After all, being unwittingly passed on to a company called Teletek is only another complaint under the giant heading ‘COMPLAINTS TO TELSTRA’.  My complaint might send Teletek out of business.

 With this in mind, I decide I might as well go into a building myself, physically make myself known, and meet the head of Telstra’s Complaints Department - whoever that might be - face to face and eye to eye for a really good heart to heart.  

So I ask for the address.

“I’m sorry Madam,” she says, “But there is no actual address for the complaints department.  There is no building one can physically enter.”

And for a moment, I nearly say “And no bloody wonder.  If there were  A COMPLAINTS BUILDING ONE COULD PHYSICALLY ENTER WHO KNOWS WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO IT!” But I think better of it, knowing how very seriously any flippant comment would be taken were I to suggest how much I would LOVE to flatten the Telstra Complaints Department.  How much I would LOVE TO BLOW THE WHOLE BLOODY LOT OF THEM UP.  Watching telephones explode, as they hit the ceilings, piercing the torn bloodied severed limbs of smart bureaucratic businessmen, yelling heads torn from necks, modem cords strangling their cries as they fly into the air, bits of splattered torso in business suits, ties, trousers, and shiny shoes with blood soaked black socked stumps of feet still inside, spearheading themselves out of broken windows, broken glass flying everywhere like giant air borne daggers.…DANGEROUS SO VERY DANGEROUS. . . .(TAKES A BREATH, CALMS DOWN)  ..But, I am sure by now I am starting to look like a ‘one to watch’ anyway so I don’t say a word.

Instead I say, very calmly, “Right.  To which address do I direct such correspondence?”

I look around quickly while I wait for the address.  Not a bit of Redmond left.  He’s packed everything dear to him.  In a matter of minutes.   I turn to the window.  Downstairs I can see them silently loading the boot of her red sports car with cases.  And bird books.  

The Teletek lady gives me a “Locked Bag’ address.  I imagine it as a small white sack, over flowing with letters from customers overflowing with venom, hanging over a paddock fence, on the outskirts of a remote town on the edge of the Little Desert.  An ever spreading mountain of envelopes on the ground, inevitably get blown over the fence and down the road, causing all manner of nuisance to the townsfolk who devotedly enter the annual state ”Tidy Town” competition.  Good towns people.  Probably very good at birdwatching, specialising in wonderful taxidermed arrangements of still birds in flight especially for small country weddings. 

I thank the head of the Teletek department and hang up.

“Redmond?” I call.  God knows why.  I’d just watched him pack the car.  I think I was hoping he’d suddenly change his mind.  Sneak back in, to give me a hug, tell me he still adores me and then spend the next year begging my forgiveness while I treat him like a servant by way of punishment. 

 “Redmond?”

No answer.  Nothing.  Gone.  In a matter of seconds.  After twenty seven years.  

I am finally done for another day of failed telecommunication reports, so I wander out of the apartment, into the lift, and find myself pressing the ground floor button.  I can still smell the sweet slightly sickly perfume Sue always leaves in the lift.  I feel nauseous.   I exit the building and start walking, a telephonists’ hunch in my back, glaze in my brain and buzz in my ear.  Above me a small non descript no-name-in-particular bird lets out an unpoetic squawk.  And I hope it doesn’t do anything from a great height.  Even if it does mean good luck.  

Then a plane flies overhead, and I wonder where the canary’s going with Redmond.  

And then I think to myself, computers, modems, laptops, phones: who needs them? 

And suddenly I’m smiling as I recall Redmond throwing his huge desk top computer out the window after a similar technical support saga ten years earlier.  Dropped twelve storeys.  Made a hole two foot deep apparently.  

Gardener said it would’ve killed him if… Redmond duly apologised.  Said it was an accident.  Swore he’d never get another one.   But then eventually of course he did.  

A much better model apparently.  To see him through his dotage.

Heh.   (pause)  So!  (pause)  Where was I?