The Good Call

Night Shift

Chapter 25: The Good Call

The call came at 4:11 AM. The call came in the dead hours, the hours between the last violence and the first medicals, the hours when the dispatch floor was quiet in the way that the dispatch floor was sometimes quiet — not empty of calls but reduced, the volume diminished, the city's emergency output at its lowest, the lowest the lull, the lull the thing that the experienced dispatchers recognized as the shift's intermission, the intermission that lasted from approximately 3:30 AM to approximately 4:30 AM, the hour when the city was as close to still as the city ever got, the parties ended and the bars closed and the drunks home or arrested and the domestic violence calls of midnight resolved or paused and the medical calls of 5 AM not yet begun, the hour that was the pause between the night's two movements, the pause the breath, the breath the shift's only breath.

Delia pressed the key.

"Memphis 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

"Hi, yes, I am so sorry to call 911 for this. I really am. But I have locked myself out of my car and I am standing in the Kroger parking lot on Union Avenue and it is four in the morning and I have no idea what to do."

The voice was a woman's. The voice was not panicked. The voice was not frightened or urgent or whispering or screaming or any of the things that the voices on the 911 line usually were. The voice was embarrassed. The embarrassment was the voice's dominant quality — the embarrassment of a person who knew that 911 was for emergencies and who knew that a locked car was not an emergency and who had called anyway because the locked car was a problem and the problem was at 4 AM in a parking lot and the person had no other number to call.

"Ma'am, you don't need to apologize. What is the address of the Kroger?"

"It's the one on Union. Union and McLean. I think the address is — I don't actually know the address. It's the Kroger. The big one."

Delia knew the Kroger. Every dispatcher knew the Kroger on Union — the Kroger that the dispatch floor called the Kroger because there was only one Kroger on Union and the one was the one that generated the calls, the shoplifting calls and the parking lot altercation calls and the medical calls from the pharmacy section and the occasional car accident in the lot, the Kroger a regular address, the address known, the address 3685 Union Avenue.

"3685 Union Avenue. I've got it. What kind of vehicle?"

"A Honda Civic. 2018. Silver. Well, it used to be silver. Now it's more of a gray. A tired gray. The car is tired." The woman paused. "I'm sorry. You probably don't need to know the car's emotional state."

Delia did not laugh. Delia maintained the voice — the professional voice, the steady voice, the protocol voice. But the voice shifted, slightly, the shift imperceptible to anyone who was not Delia, the shift a softening, a warming, the voice responding to the caller's humor the way the voice responded to the caller's fear, the voice calibrated to the caller, calibrated always to the caller, and this caller was not afraid but was embarrassed and cold and standing in a parking lot at 4 AM making jokes about her car's emotional state, and the voice calibrated to that.

"Can you tell me what happened? How did you get locked out?"

"I went to the twenty-four-hour Kroger because I could not sleep and when I cannot sleep I go to the grocery store because the grocery store at 3 AM is the most peaceful place in Memphis, which is a thing I never thought I would say but here we are. And I bought ice cream and bananas and a magazine, because those are the things you buy at 3 AM, and I came out to my car and I set the bag on the roof of the car, which is always a mistake, and I patted my pockets and the keys were not in my pockets because the keys were inside the car, on the passenger seat, where I had set them when I was looking for my list, the list that I also did not need because I was buying ice cream and bananas and a magazine. So the keys are inside. I am outside. The ice cream is on the roof. And I have been standing here for twenty minutes trying to figure out if I have a plan and the answer is: I do not have a plan."

Delia typed. She typed the incident into the CAD — lockout, 3685 Union Avenue, silver Honda Civic, non-emergency. She typed the information with the precision that the protocol required, the typing the work, the work the same work whether the call was a shooting or a lockout, the typing the record, the record the system's business.

"Ma'am, I'm going to send an officer to assist you. It may take a few minutes — they'll come when they're available. Are you in a safe location?"

"I am in the Kroger parking lot under a light pole. I am the safest person in Memphis right now. I am also the coldest. And the ice cream is melting. The ice cream and I have opposite problems."

The voice was the voice of a person who processed the world through humor, through the observation that found the absurd in the inconvenient, the absurd the thing that the voice offered instead of the panic, the voice choosing the funny over the frightened the way some callers chose the screaming over the speaking, the choosing the person's way, the way the person's own.

Delia dispatched. She dispatched an officer, Code 1, routine, assist citizen — lockout, the dispatch the standard dispatch for a non-emergency assist, the officer who would respond bringing the slim jim or the lockout kit or the patience to wait with the woman until a locksmith could be called, the officer the help, the help dispatched, the dispatch complete.

"An officer is on the way. Is there anything else you need while you wait?"

"A time machine. A spare key. The ability to remember where I put things. Any of those would be great."

"Unfortunately, those are outside our service area."

The words left Delia's mouth before the words were reviewed by the filter, the filter that the protocol maintained, the filter that separated the professional from the personal, the dispatcher's voice from the person's voice. The words were Delia's — the person's, not the dispatcher's — the words a response to the humor, the humor inviting the response, the response the human thing that crossed the line between the protocol and the person, the line that Delia maintained and that the line had just bent, slightly, the bending not a violation but a softening, the softening the thing that the call allowed because the call was not a crisis, the call was a woman locked out of her car at 4 AM buying ice cream and bananas and a magazine, and the call's gravity was different from the other calls' gravity, the gravity lighter, the lightness the thing.

The woman laughed. The laugh came through the headset, the laugh traveling the same path that the screams traveled and the whispers traveled and the silences traveled, the same phone line carrying the laugh from the Kroger parking lot to Console 7, the laugh entering Delia's ears through the same Plantronics headset that had delivered the CPR breathing and the bridge wind and the silent call's taps, the headset making no distinction between the laugh and the scream, the headset transmitting what the caller gave it.

The laugh was a good sound. The laugh was the sound that the dispatch floor did not usually contain — the dispatch floor containing the urgent and the frightened and the angry and the hurt, the floor's sound palette the palette of emergency, the palette that did not include the laugh, the palette that included the crying and the shouting and the whispering and the silence but that did not include the sound that this caller was making, the sound that was a person laughing at 4 AM in a Kroger parking lot because the dispatcher had said "unfortunately, those are outside our service area," and the saying was the thing that the caller needed, the thing that was not the help-is-coming but was the human-is-here, the human who could respond to the humor with humor, the human who was not a recording and not a system and not a protocol but was a person on the other end of the line, a person who could make a joke about service areas.

"That is the best thing anyone has said to me tonight," the woman said. "And I have talked to three people tonight — the Kroger cashier, my reflection in the car window, and you. So the competition is limited. But still."

"What is your name, ma'am?"

"Vivian. Vivian Okafor. And you can call me Vivian because ma'am makes me feel like I'm in trouble and I already feel like I'm in trouble because I called 911 for a locked car."

"You're not in trouble, Vivian. People call for all kinds of reasons. This is a perfectly fine reason."

"My mother would disagree. My mother would say that a grown woman should be able to keep track of her keys. My mother keeps her keys on a hook by the door. The hook has been on the door for thirty years. The keys have never been lost. My mother would like you to know this about her."

Delia listened. She listened to Vivian the way she listened to all callers — with the attention that the headset focused, with the training's discipline, with the protocol's framework. But the listening was different tonight, the listening lighter, the listening not braced for the scream or the silence or the breathing but open to the thing that Vivian was giving, the thing that was the conversation, the ordinary conversation of two women talking at 4 AM, one in a parking lot and one in a windowless room, the two of them connected by the phone line that usually connected the desperate to the professional but that tonight was connecting the embarrassed to the amused, the connection different, the connection lighter, the connection good.

The officer's ETA appeared on the map — six minutes, the unit coming from Midtown, the unit available, the unit en route. Six minutes that Vivian would be on the line, six minutes that the call would occupy Console 7, six minutes that were not the eleven minutes of CPR counting or the forty-seven minutes of the bridge call but were six minutes of a woman talking about her mother's key hook and the emotional state of her car.

"Vivian, the officer should be there in about six minutes."

"Six minutes. I can survive six minutes. The ice cream cannot survive six minutes. The ice cream's moment has passed. The ice cream is now soup. I'm going to be eating banana soup with a magazine tonight."

"Have you considered taking the ice cream off the roof?"

"I did consider that. And then I thought — no. The ice cream and I are in this together. We are both stuck in this parking lot. I am not going to eat the ice cream while the ice cream is suffering alongside me. That would be disloyal."

"That is a very principled stance on ice cream."

"I am a principled woman. A principled woman who cannot keep track of her keys, but principled."

Delia sat at Console 7. She sat with the headset on and the voice engaged and the call active and the call was this call, the call that was not the call, the call that was the other thing, the thing that the dispatch floor did not usually hold, the thing that was the lightness, the levity, the laughter at 4 AM from a woman in a parking lot who had done a foolish thing and who was responding to the foolish thing with the humor that the foolish thing deserved.

The calls were not all dark. The calls were not all the shooting and the bridge and the CPR and the silence. The calls were also this — the lockout and the noise complaint and the raccoon in the garbage can and the person who called because they needed help with a thing that was not a crisis, a thing that was a problem, a thing that was solvable and human and sometimes funny. The calls were the city, and the city was not only its emergencies but was also its inconveniences, its confusions, its 4 AM trips to the Kroger for ice cream and bananas and a magazine, the city also this, the city also the woman in the parking lot, the city also the laugh.

The calls that were dark were the calls that the body carried. The calls that were light were the calls that the body needed — the calls that reminded the dispatcher that the headset was not only the delivery system for the city's worst but was also, sometimes, the delivery system for the city's ordinary, the ordinary the relief, the relief the breath, the breath the thing that the shift needed at 4:11 AM on a Wednesday in October.

"Can I ask you something, Vivian?"

"Of course."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

The question was outside the protocol. The question was not the question that the dispatch required — the dispatch was complete, the officer was en route, the call's business was finished. The question was Delia's, the person's, the woman's, the question asked because the question was there and the conversation allowed it and the 4 AM allowed it and the lightness of the call allowed it, the lightness the permission, the permission the thing that the heavy calls did not give.

Vivian was quiet for a moment. The quiet was not the silence of the silent call. The quiet was the quiet of a person considering a question, the question considered because the question was real, was personal, was the question of a stranger who had asked because the stranger was interested, the interest the thing, the interest the human thing that the phone line carried alongside the dispatch and the protocol and the system.

"My sister is sick," Vivian said. The humor was still in the voice but the humor was thinner now, the humor a layer over the other thing, the other thing beneath, the other thing the thing that had sent Vivian to the Kroger at 3 AM, the thing that kept Vivian awake, the thing that the ice cream and the bananas and the magazine were not the solution to but were the response to, the response of a person who could not sleep and who went to the grocery store because the grocery store was a place where the shelves were organized and the aisles were lit and the world made sense in the way that the world outside the grocery store did not make sense when your sister was sick.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Delia said.

"It's okay. It's — it's one of those things. You carry it. You know? You just carry it."

You carry it. The words entered the headset. The words were the words, the words that Delia knew, the words that the dispatchers knew, the words that Marcus knew and Barnes knew and Bailey knew and Rodriguez knew and Tasha knew and every person who had ever carried a thing too heavy to put down knew. You carry it. The words the truth. The words the condition. The words the thing.

"I know," Delia said.

"Anyway," Vivian said. And the "anyway" was the pivot, the pivot back to the lighter thing, the lighter thing the refuge, the refuge the humor, the humor the carrying's tool, the tool that Vivian used the way Marcus used the thermos and Bailey used the researching and Rodriguez used the loops and Delia used the voice. "Anyway, the ice cream is definitely soup now. Chocolate soup. It's dripping down the windshield. It looks like my car is crying chocolate tears. My car has feelings after all."

"The officer is about two minutes out."

"Wonderful. Tell the officer to bring napkins."

The officer arrived. Delia saw the unit's icon reach the address on the map, the icon stopping, the stopping the arrival, the arrival the help. The help that Vivian needed was not the help that the system usually provided — the help was not the life-saving help, not the crisis-averting help, not the violence-stopping help. The help was a slim jim and a car door and a set of keys retrieved from a passenger seat. The help was small. The help was the help.

"The officer is there, Vivian. You should see the car pulling in."

"I see it. Oh, thank goodness. My hero. My hero and my ice cream soup. What a night."

"You take care, Vivian."

"You too, Delia. Thank you for keeping me company. And for the service area joke. That was really good."

"Goodnight, Vivian."

"Goodnight."

Delia disconnected. She logged the call. She typed the narrative — lockout, 3685 Union Avenue, silver Honda Civic, officer assist, resolved. She typed the disposition: completed. She typed the times. She typed the data. The data was the record. The record was the system's version of the six minutes. The record did not contain the ice cream or the bananas or the mother's key hook or the sister who was sick or the chocolate tears on the windshield or the laugh. The record contained the data. The data was the system's business.

The laugh was Delia's business. The laugh was the thing that sat in the body alongside the other things — the counting and the silence and the bridge and the shaking and the weight. The laugh sat in a different place, sat not in the archive where the heavy things were stored but in the other place, the lighter place, the place that the dispatch floor's heavy calls had not filled, the place that remained available for the things that were not heavy, the things that were light, the things that were a woman in a parking lot at 4 AM making jokes about ice cream.

The place needed filling. The place was the counterweight's place, the place that the counterweight occupied, the counterweight to the thousand calls' weight, the counterweight that kept the balance, the balance that the dispatchers maintained, the balance that the job required because the job without the balance was the job that burned the dispatchers out, the job that produced the leaving, the job unsustainable.

The good call was the counterweight. The good call was the call that reminded the dispatcher that the phone line carried more than the worst, that the headset delivered more than the crisis, that the city called for more than the emergency. The city called because a woman locked her keys in her car. The city called because a raccoon was in a garbage can. The city called because fireworks were going off in Whitehaven at 5:44 AM. The city called for the reasons that cities called — the full range of human need, the range that included the desperate and the mundane, the life-threatening and the inconvenient, the screaming and the laughing.

The good call was the breath. The breath at 4:11 AM. The breath that the shift needed. The breath that Delia took.

Marcus looked at her. Marcus had heard the call — had heard Delia's side of the call, had heard the voice's shift, the slight warmth, the slight humor, the voice doing the thing that Marcus had not heard Delia's voice do often, the thing that was the lightness, the lightness audible, the lightness a sound that Marcus recognized because Marcus had the sound too, had the lightness stored somewhere beneath the bass register and the measured pace, the lightness the thing that the thermos and Sandra and the garden apartment contained.

Marcus nodded. The nod was the nod — the nod that said: I heard. The nod that said: good call. The nod that said: the shift continues, and the continuing is the thing, and the breath was good, and the breath is over, and the next call is the next call.

Delia nodded back.

The phone beeped. Delia pressed the key.

"Memphis 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

The next call. The next voice. The shift continued toward morning.

And somewhere on Union Avenue, a woman named Vivian drove a tired gray Honda Civic out of a Kroger parking lot with her keys in her hand and ice cream soup on her roof and a sister who was sick and the particular comfort of a person who had been kept company at 4 AM by a voice on a phone, a voice that had said "unfortunately, those are outside our service area," and the saying had been the thing, the small thing, the human thing, the thing that the system did not require and that the protocol did not mandate and that the voice provided anyway, because the voice was a person, and the person was Delia, and Delia was at Console 7, and Console 7 was the place where the heavy and the light both lived, the place where the city called with its crises and its lockouts and its laughter and its grief, the place where the voice answered all of it.

All of it. The heavy and the light. The scream and the laugh. The bridge and the parking lot.

All of it. The voice answered all of it.