T.A.O.T.G. Episode 1: Of why and when the phone is answered.

The phone rang.

No seriously, it really did ring but when it does I always think about how 78% of all detective stories start with this sentence and the irony being that 100% of my cases start this way not because this is, in a way, a detective story, but rather because that’s how my job works. I am, to put it simply, an on-call associate for Acme Private Investigation & Fine Italian Dining, Inc. I’m a P.I. like Magnum minus the whole swanky Hawaii gig. And the moustache. Like many industries, the P.I. industry was appropriated in the late 90s by corporations and now I work at a desk in a cubicle taking calls from our hotline. I don’t drive a Ferrari but when the phone rings, I know for a fact that something at least slightly mysterious awaits me at the other end. I live for these morsels of irony.

The phone rang again.

Ah, the sound of an actual bell. Last year the boss bought all of us these olive-green Mountain-Bell rotary phones from 1972 because he said it would create a more “Sam Spade-like” office environment. I must admit, in this day of cell phone ring tone madness, the mechanical bell sound is music to my ears.

But wait, you say. Whats up with “Private Investiagation & Fine Italian Dining”? Interesting story. In 2001, we hired our 40th Associate and basically got too big for our britches. Three months later the boss purchased a two-story building downtown with more than enough office space upstairs. What was on the ground floor? Carter’s Seafood. This old bastard Carter had basically run his restaurant into the ground and was about to liquidate.  The boss decided to buy everything in a lump and reopen it as an Italian joint. I guess he figured he could save us a little money on lunch while making a little money on the outside world. The kicker is that 2 days out of the month we all have to rotate through the service team in the restaurant. I tend bar.

Yet again, the phone rang.

By the third ring, I’m usually starting to feel a little guilty for not picking up as we are supposed to be a pseudo-emergency hotline. But then if you’re having a heart attack, I can’t help you anyway, other than transferring you to 9-11, which I have done, twice.
“Acme Investigations & Italian, Green Speaking. Personal, professional, or take-out?”
“…(gurgling)…I’ve….been…shot…I think…I…”
“Please hold while I transfer you to emergency dispatch.”

I guess the point, if there really is one, is that I usually answer my phone about halfway between the 3rd and 4th rings. That gives me an answering rhythm, or “A.R.”, as the Bobs like to call it, of 3.5. And I do it not to be an asshole, but merely to take the few moments mechanically allotted to me by the telephone to reflect on how point A led to point B, which led to C, and so on...

And so this is when I pick up.