People skills, hello people. I can speak. I am social. I am normal. I function. Hello. 9-5, 9.00 an hour, paycheck @ about $360 a week which equals $720 biweekly. There is commission too, and I make a lot of that. I can now afford a leather couch. It's brown. I keep a stack of books on the last cushion--the one right next to the keyboard I found. On the otherside of the couch there are cupholders. It's thick enough for a coffee mug. My mug says: "Frontier Diner."

Cubicle 4
was spotless. Everyone else had itty memos and reminders scattered everywhere, family photos like debris pegged by thumbtacks and the occassional multicolored pushpins. He had no family, no waxy crayon pictures, but he did have coffee. That sat beside his computer, inking up a square napkin. The phone was thrashing in its cradle. The ring tone sounded just as chaotic as the person behind the line would be. It was on the third ring, but no one was passing by. Christian was hibernating under his desk like a child in hiding, cradling his knees, rocking himself into a gentle buzz.

But his rule was to always answer by the fifth.

He untangled fast. He was so startled by the lead needles surging through his legs that he knocked his head against the desk. The coffee took a spill and now there was a steady trickle dampening the neutral dustball-blue carpet. Numbly he tucked back his arm inside his dress shirt sleeve and tried to mop it up. But by now he was on the sixth ring. He swiveled in his chair around the mess and crammed the phone against his ear.

"Hello?"

"Yes. Yes. Is this--is this the ...is this for..." It was a mousy-voiced teenager on the other end; a boy.

"Yes, it is," Christian stated. "I'm Christian, and I'm here to help you. What's your name?" His voice began to churn with a paternal balm, it was hushed, it was soothing, it was baby powder.

"Nick. It's Nick."

"Hello, Nick. It's very nice to meet you, even though this is a bit impersonal -- being over the phone and all." He sighed at the coffee and skittered one finger over the keyboard to wake up his idle monitor screen. "How are you feeling today, Nick?"

"Fucking bad, man! Why the fuck else would I be calling?!"

"Well first, you can start by telling me what's wrong so we can talk about this together."

"I--my dad is kicking me out of the house. I have no money, I have no car, I just got out of high school, I can't go to college--I had a school picked out and he won't even help me out!"

"Can you start by telling me why your dad kicked you out?"

"He caught me and my girlfriend--oh, who's not even my girlfriend anymore cos she fucking dumped me, man, because of my dad. He's this crazy Protestant guy and he doesn't want me having premarital sex. But I'm eighteen. He's not backing down. And I don't care anymore. I don't care. It's not like..." The boy on the other line started heaving a mess of sobs and sputtered breaths. "I don't know. I just want to do it."

"Do what?"

"Kill myself."

"How do you propose to do that?" Blank-faced, he canted back on his chair. The machine inside him gunned to a start, this was all well-rehearsed.

"With one of my dad's guns."

"What problem do you think that will solve?"

"Well, fuck it--"

"You're willing to kill yourself to get revenge on your father? This is what this is about. You want to make him feel bad. What about your mom? Do you want to make her sad?"

"No. But she's not doing shit about it either."

"Suicide is a very selfish thing. Most of the time it's done out of anger. You're a young man. You have plenty of things to live for."

"Like what?"

"Shit!"

"The future. Have you ever heard of the DIY work ethic? Making something out of yourself by working? It's not the end of the world. You could put yourself through college on your own. That's what I did." Liar.

"And you work for a suicide hotline?"

"I'm a trained psychologist." Two.

"That's bull, man."

"No, it really isn't, Nick. Could you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"I know this sounds stupid, but take two deep breaths. I want you to speak to me calmly. I want you to feel calm."

There were a string of murmurs on the other end, but his voice eventually watered down to a quiet slur.

"Okay."

"Have you tried talking to your father?"

"Yeah, and he doesn't give a fuck."

"Is there anywhere else you can go?"

"No!"

"No relatives, no friends..?"

"Yeah, I got a grandma. But that's not the point."

"But that is the point. Let's talk about you, Nick. What are your hobbies? Who are you? What do you like to do? Who's your favorite band?"

It took less than ten minutes before Christian maximized the program. It made him cringe each time.

"Have you ever considered a self-help book, Nick? These help you to reach down deep inside, to get to know your inner self, to handle situations calmly and with confidence."

"No, I don't ..." Nick sounded drowsy. Christian always put his customers to sleep before this crucial step.

After typing in 'No' on a black screen, he read his response aloud, convincingly.

"Well, we just put a new book out by a very famous psychologist named Dr. Thomas Wollencraft."

"I don't care."

Christian once more typed in 'no.'

"Let me tell you about it before you get judgemental. This man has helped a lot of people like you. I was once suicidal myself, and after reading the first book by Dr. Wollencraft I found a whole new outlook on life. I've started living for myself. And that's what you have to do [insert name here], live for yourself."

For $44.95, wasn't life worth living?