Friday, July 14, 2006

A Slow and Steady Pace

I found this poem the other day. I wrote it a few years ago after a friend of mine told me a story about something that had recently happened to her.

At the time, Nancy was working as a student Admissions Representative for St. Joe, and each week she was required to make a certain number of phone calls to prospective students. One evening, a girl had called her, rather than the other way around, saying that she just needed someone to talk to. Nancy, toying with the idea of a psychology major at the time, decided to take a break from selling St. Joe and counsel this poor girl.

The girl opened like a floodgate. She began telling Nancy about how hard her life had seemed lately. Apparently she was having a lot of problems fitting in - her family didn't understand her and she felt like her friends were beginning to desert her. The girl was in her car at the time and kept telling Nancy how she almost didn't make the call because her cell phone was roaming, but randomly dialed the numbers anyway. As my friend continued to give advice to the girl she thought was suicidal and lost, the girl continued to open up and reveal her problems.

Satisfied with the good deed she was doing, Nancy noticed a steady change in the girl's voice - she seemed much less gloomy. In fact, she was almost upbeat and happy. Breathless, even.

Nancy, suddenly deciding that something about the whole situation wasn't right, stopped talking for a moment. Just as she was about to ask the girl what she was doing, the girl said:

"Don't stop. I'm masterbating to you."


A Slow and Steady Pace

A trusting girl,
a sturdy desk,
a phone with an extra-long cord.

A lonely road,
an emotional time,
a random roam from a beat up Ford.

She wanted to help,
thought maybe she’d win,
give the voice an outlook anew.

Cracking and strained,
jaded and drained,
but soon light began to peek through.

Just when she felt
that she’d finally done well,
reality slapped her square in the face.

The voice was happy,
the voice was pleased,
at a rather quick but steady pace.

Then she understood
as her hill toppled down
why the voice had changed at such an alarming rate.

For while she thought
she was changing someone’s perspective,
she was just a tool used to masturbate.


charlesj said...

Holy shit. That made my Friday 100% better. Thank you, Becky. Thank you.

annie said...

F'ing Hi-larious.
nicely done.
wow again.
one more time...

Anonymous said...

I for one think that more people would read poetry if the word "masterbate" popped up more often.

on an unrelated subject. . . . Becky what is Karen's phone number?


deuber said...

So, other people do this too? What a relief! The lady I talked to on the phone at CVS said I was a freak! Crazy bitch. I'm going to call her back and tell her all about this.