Rescued Document

c. 1997

I remember how she always complained about it
+ + + + + + –the machine, I mean.

It was a nice one,
an AT&T 2000
with dual minicassette
+ + + + + and personal memo function.

It had
coded remote entry,
coded remote preprogramming, and
coded remote access call forwarding
+ + + + + to seven predesignated
+ + + + + + + + + + predestinations.

She said the machine hangs up on her.

I recall those conversations now,
+ + + + + her voice fades through the space
+ + + + + of cyberoptic analog.

No, I said, it works fine for everyone else who calls. It must be something you’re doing.  I’m not doing anything, she says, I’m just trying to talk on the damn machine. I don’t know why it does it!

In my pastiche of memory, I shake my head.
There is nothing, I know, that a machine can feel–a signal is a signal.
I check the message cassette:
+ + + + + still 20 minutes left on it.
She’s doing something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.

I tell her that the machine hates her.
And with all sobriety she says, I know it does.

And that is that.

Our lives go on,
+ + + + + our jobs pull our schedules into disarray,
+ + + + + and we plan by
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + remote
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + conversation:

Don’t call back if this time will work for you, but call if you have another idea. I told her once we should get E-mail. No, she said, I need a voice.

I sit now before my laptop computer,
at a writing conference 250 miles away,
and listen to her voice echo through three time zones,
reproduced through six devices,
distanced beyond my compassion.

I know when she left it,
when the machine forwarded it to the network, and
when I retrieved it into my remote voice box.

The deterioration, the loss of pattern integrity. . . .
The thinness of it, that vacant sound. . . .

There is paper shredded at my feet–
+ + + + + restaurant flyers, celebrity theorist handouts, maps.
+ + + + + I would shred this page except that it, too,
+ + + + + + + + + + parades through the nowhere of the Internet until it, too,

finds its way to my machine,
accesses my gigabyte hard drive and
etches itself there,

“Save Confirmed.”

I am assured that this, at least, won’t be lost.

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