☎️ Our Options Have Changed

A flash-fiction short story about life’s consequences.

Backstory

This is a story birthed from my wonder at the soulless technology that surrounds us.

I once went through a horrifying medical ordeal half way across the country. It involved a missed flight, blood, an ambulance, hospital stays, sleepless nights, and bills. Lots of bills.

In the aftermath of this trip I had to call car rental companies, airlines, hospitals, medical insurance, and my bank. Often multiple times.

I got to know their automated receptionists intimately. Sometimes they were set up well and served my purposes. But more often than not, they were an exercise in frustration.

And I began to wonder about the people behind such soulless technology. This is the story of Justin, one of those people.

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☎️ Our Options Have Changed

He first became aware of a rushing, pulsing energy. An omnipresent charge engulfing him.

Then, voices.

They were garbled, distant, carried by the flow. Now that he focused on them, they rose to a crescendo; a cacophony surrounding and enveloping him. Waves of senseless sound crashed, threatening to overwhelm and sink him.

Then the voices faded to imperceptible whispers as one broke through.

“. . . to check your account balance, press two. For questions concerning debit cards, press three. For all other inquiries, press four . . .”

An automated receptionist?

The stream of words was vaguely familiar. Where was he? How did he get here?

The automated voice droned on, looping and repeating. He looked all over for the phone to make a selection. Where was it? Where was anything? He looked around to find his hands, realizing he could not see or feel them.

“. . . debit cards, press three. For all . . .”

Aaahh! Endless looping nonsense. Paths to nowhere. Infinite voids! Panic engulfed him. He steadied himself, trying to clear his mind. He closed his eyes, only to realize he had not been looking at anything. He—had no eyes?

Why didn’t anything make sense!?

Those voices! Something about them seemed eerily familiar, a memory more real than any of having eyes or a body.

“. . . if you know your party’s extension press—”

A scream of anguish rang out from somewhere. The cold, emotionless response gave him chills. “I’m sorry, that was an invalid selection, please select from the following . . .”

Another anguished scream, this one nearer. He recognized her voice. Jane McKenzie, a voice actor he’d hired.

Jane was pleading in front of a mirror. Her distorted, robotic reflection responded with a recording using Jane’s own voice. “I’m sorry, I could not locate that extension. Press one for . . .” Jane pulled the flesh of her face as she screamed. Her robotic reflection looked on with passive, immovable indifference, parroting more recordings in Jane’s voice.

He longed to reach out and help her. Something told him he could; he knew the way out of her trap. But the gulf between them was too great.

Countless souls seemed to swirl around him, making desperate attempts at getting through to cold, soulless receptionists, offering endless choices, but no way out.

Bump!

He turned. At least that was his intention; he had no body to turn. Instead, his surroundings seemed to obey; what was behind rotated into view.

He stared at an open door. Just beyond it was a deep red mahogany desk with a name plate. Justin Davis. A computer sat open, surrounded by sticky notes and markers. A whiteboard took up the entire back wall; project lanes marked off with dutiful precision.

Justin Davis.

The name now seemed more familiar than anything he had experienced here.

I’m . . . Justin Davis?

Yes. That seemed right. This was his office. Except, not quite. It had never been this clean.

He stepped in and—

Silence.

Complete, painfully void silence.

A blinking light on the desk phone caught his attention. He walked over, aware that he now had legs and arms. Someone was on hold. He pressed the button and the speakerphone burst to life.

“Hey buddy! Justin, is that you!? You little devil. Where have you been hiding? Never mind. I’m having a hell of a time setting up this phone system you sold us. Can you send over . . .”

The memories returned. That’s why this place was so familiar! He had sold these automated systems for a living. He clasped his chest in relief, trying to convince himself this was only a nightmare.

Relief was short-lived.

He moved to leave the office, but there was no door. There was no opening of any kind. Panic returned. He reached for the phone and pressed the button to summon his secretary.

The speakerphone came to life. “Hello, you have reached the sales department. Please listen carefully as our options have changed . . .”

Impossible! Not another robotic system! He mashed the zero to speak to an operator.

“I’m sorry, that was not a valid selection. To repeat the menu, press or say—”

“Operator!” he yelled.

No response.

He started to shake. Trying to throw the phone off his desk, it disappeared like a vapor. He looked down at his hands, but again, he had none. Then he was surrounded by robotic voices, repeating their patterned speeches, and the occasional echoing cry of despair—a soul trapped in an endless maze of options.

He retreated, trying to escape the madness.

And then, as if walking off the edge of the earth, he fell.

Tumbling to a stop, he leaped up to avoid being scorched by the searing floor. He’d landed in a small room, a phone booth, illuminated by a singular source—his name emblazoned across the wall. The only other ornament was a red phone.

He reached for the receiver and nearly dropped it, his hands were so sweaty.

Not knowing whom to call, he studied the phone’s faceplate. Scribbled on the bottom was a note to call the front desk if anything was out of order. He dialed.

“Hello. Thank you for calling. I’m sorry, but all of our operators are busy. Your call matters to us and will be answered in the order it was received.”

He mashed the dial pad.

“We’re sorry, that was an invalid entry. Please try again. If you know your party's extension, you may say or dial it at any time.”

In frustration, he blurted out, “Aww hell!”

“One moment, connecting you to an operator.”

He froze. What—just—happened?

It started ringing.

Two rings.

Three.

Four.

The ringing stopped. A connection was made. He blurted out, “Hello! Hello! This is Justin! Ca—”

A cold voice interrupted as Justin’s sweat dripped down to the earpiece and sizzled. “Hello, and welcome to Hell. Your valued feedback has resulted in changes to our menu. Please listen carefully, as our options have changed . . .”