Andrew Gretes

Character Calls the Story Hotline

            He pulled out his wallet and dialed the number. “It’s not working…” he muttered into the phone.
            The representative on the other end of the line was seated in her chair, raising her hands to the ceiling and tucking them back into her chest, performing the mandatory call-center exercise known as “The Runaway Mountain Climber.”
            “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Mr. Richter.” Her voice through the wireless headset was flat. Except for adverbs. She pronounced her adverbs 10 decibels higher for the benefit of her supervisor.
            “Look, I just want it to work…”
            “Yes, of course. I absolutely understand your inconvenience. Tell me, Mr. Richter, have you consulted Freytag’s Pyramid?”
            “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m looking at it right now.”
            Mr. Richter stared at the items hanging on his wall. Degrees. Pictures of marriage, children, vacations, etc. He stared at the files on his desk. A notarized separation agreement. An affidavit of irretrievable breakdown.
            “They’re all here,” he said. “There’s rising action, climax, falling action—”
            “Dénouement? Is there dénouement?”
            “There’s goddamn closure.”
            “And Mr. Richter, just for clarification, may I have your POV?”
            The call-center representative moved on to “The Hungry Giraffe,” reaching her arms to the ceiling and lingering, touching her palms together and lifting her chin until the back of her head was nudged into her spine.
            “Mr. Richter, are you still there?”
            “Yes…”
            “Is it possible perhaps you’ve slipped into using the second person?”
            “No.”
            “And the protagonist wants something?”
            “Of course I want something; I want it to work!”
            “Mr. Richter, I deeply sympathize with your frustration—”
            “Can I return it, get a new one?”
            The call-center representative transitioned to “The Clumsy Piano Player.” Swiveling in her chair, she dangled her wrists up and down as her supervisor conducted the entire room with a pen in his hand.
            “I’m afraid the warranty is expired. But let me tell you what I positively can do for you right now—”
            He hung up. He folded his hands on his paunch. Looked down and sighed: “Round, I’m even round. It doesn’t make any sense. Why doesn’t it work?”



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Andrew Gretes is the author of the novel, How to Dispose of Dead Elephants (Sandstone Press 2014). His fiction has appeared in such publications as Witness and Front Porch. He is currently a doctoral student at the University of Southern Mississippi. His website is andrewgretes.com