I’m up to an average of five calls to 911 per night, hanging on the other end
of the line like a ghost waiting for someone to haunt.
This kind of business is brutal, the emergency operators tell me. They get
desperate calls for help from suicidal girls, fires, domestic abuse cases,
possible murder-suicides with the gun going off in the background
like a hail of thunder.
But they’ve never encountered a situation like me, someone who wants
to talk to a stranger just to hear the sound of their voice.
At age sixteen my father ran over a total of twelve deer in his Volkswagen,
and didn’t swerve for a single one.
He followed the yellow lines of the road just like his driving instructor
had taught him, never once wavered
with his hands clenching the wheel until they turned white.
When, years later, I asked him how come he had run over so many,
he told me it wasn’t him; it was the deer.
They just kept coming out of nowhere, he said, his body shaking.
He still dreams about them, their eyes glowing like coals
in the dark when he’s huddled under the covers.
I told this story to the 911 operator a few days ago,
and her breathing hitched just a little bit on the other end
of the line. Not much, but just enough
to let me know she was listening.