| |
It was probably in some sort of memo Tom never read, but who was this guy and what is he doing here? He was dressed better than many of the agents and fawned over by management. Sitting in the corner with a smug smile on his face. Smiling at everyone as they walk in as though to say, “you should know who I am.” And some of them do. They are talking in an obscenely open and loud way for the occasion. The agents that don’t seem to know who the man is file into the boardroom for what could be a solemn affair. Any speaking done is always in a low tone, not a whisper, but so low a tone that the intended recipient would be the only one to hear.
Finally, the man Tom usually saw getting out of a car in the CEO’s parking stall stood and the room, to a man and as one man, swivelled their chairs to the front, rested an elbow on the table and leaned back. Tom followed quickly, but still was the last to swivel and lean, causing a few people to glance at him as though he’d spoken in a quiet movie theatre.
“Thank you for coming here today, I know you are all busy people,” the CEO said, and Tom snorted. No one looked at him or responded with their own laughter and the mistake was tactfully ignored.
“The book in front of you,” the CEO continued, “is one that’s been floating around the office for a while. And I have given it to a few of my top agents.”
A book lay near Tom’s elbow. He had never seen it before. He picked it up and turned it over. There was a picture of the mysterious guest in their midst. The man was smiling out at Tom and looked twenty years younger. And bigger.
There was applause and Tom knew he had missed the introduction. The man on the back of the book, Travis Bunk, now stood before their boardroom looking humble and saying hello to the people he knew, despite having just spoken with them. This was the sort of guy he was, the back of the book told Tom.
“I thank you for that wonderful introduction, I am glad you liked the book and I thought we could talk a bit about it, first, and then be open to questions afterward,” Travis Bunk said. “I wrote ‘Choose Your Own Reality’ because I noticed that there were a lot of sales-help books out there, and none of them really worked. So, I thought we needed one that does.” There was mild affirmation from those seated around the boardroom table. “And I knew there needed to be an industry-specific sales-help book. Just for life insurance agents. Because I was one before I turned to writing full time. Wally and I are old buds, isn’t that right?”
“That’$ right.” Wally nodded as much as the folds of his chin would allow.
“Yes, we go back.” Travis Bunk continued, “I was actually here at Consumer Life when I started out fourteen years ago. I worked here for two, oh, three months, I think.” He shook his puzzled head at Wally, waiting for the man to take the cue.
“That $ounds about right,” Wally said.
“Then I moved on to Ensurance, Ltd., I was there from ‘91 to ‘92, and then I was with Goto Health and Life from ‘92 to later ‘92. I worked as a consultant in ‘93 for a bit, but that fell through. We stumble, all of us. Let me be your inspiration. Umm, let’s see. I sold for banks in the late ’90s. So, I know the industry. I know it inside out. As do you.”
Tom was convinced.
“Now, who can tell me about Capital Gains and why it should be insured?” He scanned the room and his squinted eyes fell on Tom. His hand reached out in what could have been meant as a welcoming gesture. He smiled and Tom could not tell if it was genuine. He understood fully what he had read about ironic smiles. It took nanoseconds for Tom to respond, yet in that brief time these thoughts went through his head: He is looking at me. He is gesturing to me. He expects me to answer, or smile back. No, no, the hand is out. He expects me to answer. What was the question? Capital Gains. Why insure against capital gains. It was pretty basic. He remembered the principles. But if he gave a textbook answer he would look like a novice in front of all the seasoned agents. And in front of the guest. He had to explain it in a certain way, in his own words, in layman’s terms, that would make the guest and everyone in the room realize that Tom had internalized this information. He knew it deep, he knew it inside out. He did not have to simply regurgitate what he had read.
“The Capital Gains?” Tom said.
“Yes, why insure against Capital Gains?”
“Well,” Tom cocked his head and tried to smile out of the corner of his mouth. As though this were the easiest question in the world. As though: where to begin, with words, to explain such a basic concept that should be tattooed on the minds of everyone. Like trying to describe how to ride a bike. Do you begin with something as simple as “Get on the bike?” If the question is this simple, where could one begin the explanation or answer? “Well...” Tom said again.
Quickly, as though it did not happen, the guest’s eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. The welcoming hand waved off to the side, dismissing Tom. Waving away a bad odour. Then the hand rose to the sky, leaving the question open to more competent men than the one Tom had been mistaken for. If this episode happened too quickly for the naked eye to catch, Tom felt it. It was internalized.
“Capital Gain$ Tax can put a lot of $train on an e$tate.” Wally Russ began in a deep voice that was at once commanding and apologetic for having interrupted. His monologue was short and Tom recognized some of what he was saying. In fact, it was mostly taken from paragraphs three to seventeen on pages 96-105 of the training manual Tom read. Pure textbook. Yet the way Wally was saying it, the emphasis he put on certain words made the black dots Tom had seen on the pages dance around on a white canvas. Tom was beginning to believe every word.
When Wally finished there was an appreciative silence. The guest pulled a mock frown and nodded his head, deep in thought. “That’s correct.” Then the guest scanned the room again, wondering if anyone would counter such a reasonable and well-presented explanation of why life insurance is a good financial planning tool, and one particularly useful when planning an estate’s Capital Gains at time of termination. No one offered anything.
“That’s correct,” The guest said, “and while it is absolutely, 100% correct,” A long pause. An uncomfortable shifting in the seats. What the hell could be wrong with Wally’s answer? The guest continued, “And while it’s 100% correct, am I going to buy anything from you, Wally?” This hung in the air until the guest yanked it in, “And I don’t mean to pick on Wally here, we are old friends.” Relief laughter was louder than necessary, and Wally smiled, unaffected.
“Probably not on the fir$t vi$it.” Wally spread his hands apologetically. Knowing what was coming, there was no need to argue.
“That’s right! And why?” No one bothered to answer. Even Tom could sense the rhetorical nature of the question. Perhaps less rhetorical than narcissistic. It was a question that calls to be answered by the one questioning. “Because he told me a lot of crap...” This out of the corner of his mouth and his hand slightly raised in the caricature of informal confidentiality. The room is in on the joke. “He told me a lot of crap about securities and tax laws and all that mumbo-jumbo.”
“It goe$ right over the pro$pect’$ head.” Wally Russ spoke up. He would not be one of the ranks learning something new from this gentleman, he was in on the ruse the entire time.
“It goes right over the prospect’s head.” Travis Bunk held his hands out to Wally in congratulations. Tom could see others around the table nodding and he tried to make the light go on in his own eyes. His eyes, however, were not only unlit, they seemed to be transfixed by a knot in the grain of wood in front of them. Tom wiped the table with his palm as if that would smear the knot. He pulled his eyes away and toward the guest. The man knew somehow that Tom was the only one in the room who knew jack-shit about Capital Gains.
“They don’t need a lot of mumbo-jumbo.” Wally said to the room.
“They don’t need it.” The guest spoke louder, his eyes flicking to Wally in a veil of mild annoyance. This is my show. “But more than that. More than that.” He was near a whisper now. “They don’t feel it in here.” Hand to his chest. Now whispering so Tom had to lean forward to hear. Travis Bunk softly beat his chest with each syllable when he repeated: “They-Don’t-Feel-It-In-Here.” Tom felt his fingers unconsciously tapping along with the rhythm.
“These people must be bothered enough, disturbed enough to make them want to buy. They must imagine a danger to their loved ones. They must put themselves in the position of worst-case-scenario. You tell the nice bedtime story to get the kids to sleep at night. You tell the real-life horror plausible nightmare to the parents after the kids are in bed. You pull back the curtain and show them the ugly reality that could happen anytime. Did you know one in two people will contract some form of cancer in their lifetime?” The guest stopped and pointed to Tom and the robust agent sitting next to him. “One of you will get cancer, it’s a fact. Now, who wants to risk leaving their family destitute? Which one of you?” Neither spoke up. Tom thought of Eddy and found he didn’t really give it much thought. Yet, he nodded alongside the man next to him. The premium from a new sale would mean money on the next cheque. Could he sell a policy to himself? What about Eddy?
“Not a good idea,” The guest continued, “I have disturbed you, simple as that. A proven method for disturbing is outlined in my book. You will buy my product, not because of a bunch of statistics and percentages and mumbo-jumbo,” he gestured to Wally who nearly came to a blush, “You will buy my product because you have been disturbed. How do you feel now, knowing that you could be leaving the person you are closest to totally destitute because of a poor decision on your part?”
He was looking and nodding at Tom. Tom’s eyes moved back and forth, wondering if it was a question he should be answering. And if he did answer, would he know the correct response.
“I didn’t think so.” The guest leaned back, satisfied. As did everyone in the room, except Tom.
“$o give u$ an example of thi$ in the field,” Wally challenged, to save face from his previous embarrassment in front of a lot of rookies.
“Certainly, Walter,” The guest said, “Let’s role-play a bit.”
“Certainly,” Wally said.
The guest speaker’s face and demeanour changed, “Let me ask you this, Mr. Client,” To Tom, it looked as though he were mimicking someone, or trying on a caricature of himself. Chin tucked in, eyes focused hard on the center of his glasses, chest stuck out as far as it could. “You have a spare tire, don’t you?” He asked. Then his face changed again. His eyes bulged out and his lip hung slightly open, glistening wet that looked like drool. This was him playing the client’s part in the back and forth “Well, well,” He stuttered, “Waddya mean.”
“A spare tire? In the back of your car?” He answered himself.
$$$
Tom left the meeting with two certainties. One: the guest speaker saw right through him and hated him. Two: Tom was going to have to read Travis Bunk’s book. Disturbing people made sense. It was so logical and simple, yet the guest speaker made it sound as though no one used his simple method. True, Wally never picked up a copy when he left the boardroom, but Tom could imagine Wally seething with envy. After all, the guest speaker couldn’t have weighed more than 85 kg.
It was also a certainty in his head, at that moment, that he would read the book and learn the method. He did a facsimile of a strut to his office and closed the door behind him. He turned off the overhead lights and switched on his small desk lamp for mood. He opened Bunk’s book. When he was done reading the accolades from newspapers and other authors he never heard of, and the short preface in which the guest speaker told again, in writing, the spare tire scenario, Tom set the book down. He wrote in his day timer for the morning (which was fairly open) “Read chapter one of ‘Choose Your Own Reality’.”
The “y” in the last word grew an elongated tail because as Tom was writing the phone rang. He felt his chest flutter and his mouth go dry. He stared at the phone until it rang again. He reached for the receiver and untangled the cord and punched line 1. Dial tone. Had he hung up on the caller? No. Line two was for him. It rang. He punched Line 2 and cleared his throat into the receiver. “Tom Ryder speaking.”
“Mr. Ryder?”
“Speaking,” he waited too long to say, and said it at the exact time the caller said “hello?” “Yes, speaking,” he repeated.
“Hello, Mr. Ryder, this is Rebecca from underwriting.”
“Oh?” Tom could not hide his surprise. Underwriting usually just emailed him things. Not that he had anything to communicate with them. He had sold a total of two policies since starting, both on himself. He was working up the courage to ask his mother and Uncle Rich next.
“Hi. This is regarding policy #45933-002? We haven’t received the oral swab from this client.”
“Oh?”
“No. Did you send it in the package?”
“Well, I thought I did,” Tom said. “but if you haven’t got it then I must not have.”
“Not necessarily,” Rebecca said, her voice lost its previous edge. “There’s lots of things that can happen to it along the way.”
“Really? Like what?” Despite himself, Tom laughed and leaned back in his chair when he heard Rebecca laugh.
“I don’t know.” She said, “I’m new.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” Rebecca said, “A couple of newbies?”
“I guess.”
“How are things going for you?” Her voice relaxed. There was a light giggle just underneath her words, as though any minute she was going to break out into laughter. Tom suddenly felt the same sensation rising in his throat.
“It’s all right,” he said, “I haven’t sold much, yet.”
“Don’t worry, it will come. My husband did this for years.”
“...”
“And it was slow for him in the beginning, too. But he did quite well.”
“Is he still in the business?” Those words sounded awkward to him. The Business.
“No, he’s dead.” She said.
Tom sat up in his chair and felt his neck go cold. Stupid. Stupid. “Oh, I didn’t realize...” How could he have realized? “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Why? Did you kill him?”
Tom could hear the background noise on Rebecca’s end. No discernable words or conversations, just a babble of voices. Then, through the fog, he heard his name, plain as day, shouted out in her office, a thousand miles away: “Ryder!” He thought he heard his name called.
Rebecca’s voice was close to his ear now: “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Sometimes people don’t get my jokes.” Her smile came through the telephone. “It was ten years ago - we married young. He was a hot-shot up and comer and he was killed in a car accident.”
“That’s terrible,” Tom managed.
“Mm, hmm... it’s water under the bridge, as they say. I’m past it; it was a long time ago. He’s been gone for longer than I knew him.” She paused. “I miss him still, though.”
“I lost my father,” Tom said before he could stop himself. Why was he telling this woman about his father? How had this conversation taken this sort of turn where they would be sharing personal information? A stranger. “A few years ago. It’s not the same thing, I know...”
“No, no...” Rebecca interrupted. “In some ways it’s more. I mean, your father, my God.”
“It hurt,” Tom said, “It still hurts. I’m not sure if I ever quite got over it, yet.” There was the silence again. If Tom was waiting for his name to be called out like before, to be sure, it was only in his subconscious.
“His name was Tom,” Rebecca whispered.
“Who?”
“My husband. His name was Tom. Like yours.”
“No shit?”
$$$
Tom felt somehow compelled to take the sneaky back door on his way home from work. His feeble headlights barely found the road. Thankfully, the streetlights opened a patch of pavement and Tom could adjust according to the painted lines, watching the red flare of taillights in the vehicle just ahead. Drops of rain spat on his windshield and he grew tired of clearing it every few seconds, so he turned the wipers on low. More than necessary, perhaps, but it was darker just ahead, and it looked wetter as his internal compass guided him on a different way home.
Then there were trees. He remembered this. The SuperStore on the right. A graveyard a few blocks further up on the left. And it should be lit up with six of those overhanging lights. That one there. What the fuck? What is an i-scheduler? No, you idiot, you’re looking at the backside of the billboard. As he passed the i-scheduler advertisement he looked in his rearview mirror as long as he dared without colliding into the cars next to him. It was well lit. He couldn’t make out the writing but he watched just in time as the glasses dissolved. See? He looked ahead and peeked back only once or twice until the billboard became a blur of white against the dark sky. Until in his mirror, hanging in the middle of blackness, was the pulsing red glow of the city just below the horizon.
The mannequins flashed him and twisted their shoulders seductively when Tom pulled into his driveway. Tom avoided the nippleless breasts until a chill dripped down his spine and found a tingling pool above his ass. Get some fucking curtains. Now, and every time, the walk down the crumbling cement stairway to his home with the bulb burnt out seemed more frantic. The last leg. But anything could happen between here and inside. His foot sometimes overstepped the bottom step and it felt like finding, by accident, the deeper part in the water. Disorienting. Seemingly harmless, yet some have drowned.
Blindly, he dipped his hand into the mailbox and clutched at the envelopes inside, fishing them out and filleting the flyers right where he stood, by feel. His one hand held the mail and the other turned the knob and found it not giving. He alternated between searching his pocket for keys and ringing the doorbell until he heard Eddy’s muffled voice from behind the door. “What? Holy shit.”
“Hey. Let me in!” He shouted at the door.
“For... something... something... something...” Her voice was lost in the clicking of a lock and then her departure. He turned the knob and walked into complete darkness. In a few seconds, he could see candles of various sizes set around the apartment. In the corner Eddy sat cross-legged on the floor, shining a flashlight up at herself, her face glowing and floating in the center of Tom’s vision.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tom asked the floating face.
“What do you mean?” Snap went the flashlight. Now only the three small scented candles lit the place. On an end table, Tom noticed four or five burned-out party sparklers. She saw him looking. “Well I had to get to the flashlight somehow, all the lights were off.”
“And the other candles?”
“They were already lit,” she said. “The furnace doesn’t seem to be working.”
Then Tom became aware of how cold it was in the apartment. His coat was still on, but he could feel the chill. There was no warmth hitting him in the face. There was no comfort here. He decided to leave the coat on. “The furnace?”
“I tried to turn it up and nothing happened. It didn’t make a sound.”
“It didn’t kick in?” He asked.
“I guess not. It didn’t make that sound when I usually turn up the heat, you know, that whhooomph sound.”
“Hmmm...” Tom said. “I’ll check the pilot light, I guess.” He beckoned Eddy to follow him with her candle. They stepped slowly down the hall to the furnace closet. He glanced behind him to make sure she was doing all right, and her body seemed to float along in the darkness without a head. “Hold the candle up.” He said. She complied, and her face looked hollowed out now, no body, but cavities for eyes and an elongated shadow of a nose, her mouth shaped in a frightening grimace. “A little lower.” He told her.
Once inside the small closet, with Eddy holding the candle, Tom struggled with the faceplate of the furnace. It scraped and scratched until he was able to remove it and set it gently against the wall. He peered up into the darkness of the mechanism. He knew a little about the workings of the furnace. When he was small, maybe three or four or five, he would wake in his bed in the middle of the night, wondering about the darkness all around him. He would take his blanket and step out of his room into the silence. Always, he found his way to the furnace, which, in their old house had no separate room. It was in the middle of the living room, tucked away in a corner, inconspicuous to anyone who lived there and saw it often. He would make a bed for himself with the blanket and a pillow and stare up through the slats in the furnace’s front panel. The small pilot light would burn steadily and blue. He would watch it flicker and feel his eyes flicker with its rhythm. Then, without warning, but as though he knew it was going to happen, the pilot light would ignite a row of yellow flame along its insides, right in front of his eyes. They would dance and illuminate the mechanical organs of the furnace until just as suddenly the row of flame disappeared and the lone blue flame was there again, comforting him until the next performance. He knew this much: you needed an initial flame to light the others, which in turn would make the heat necessary to warm the house.
“Do you have matches?” he asked.
“Just a second,” Eddy said and swam away in the dark. He heard her stumbling around in the apartment while he lay there, his eyes involuntarily closing now and then, threatening to stay closed for a long time. Maybe they were closed for a long time. Maybe he slept.
“Here you go.” Eddy appeared out of nowhere and his hands reached for the lighter. He flicked it and held it into the mechanics. His own meek yellow flame looked small and empty in the guts of the furnace. There was nothing happening. He found the knob and read the instructions.
Tom did as he was instructed and waited. Nothing. Darkness. Cold. He tried again. Nothing. There would be no reassuring blue light, there would be no dancing yellow soldiers standing all in a row. If the furnace was his amusement park as a child that would lull him to sleep, then this particular park seemed closed for the winter months. The ferris wheel, the salt-n-pepper shaker standing still and useless without someone to start them up. All the popcorn and refreshment stands boarded. “I don’t know.” He admitted.
“Should I call someone?” Eddy asked.
“If the power is out, the phone will be out too,” he said.
“I know,” Eddy said. “I’ll Google it. We can figure out how to start the furnace.” Her voice was excited.
“Google it? On the computer?”
“Duh,” Eddy said.
“No computer, Eddy. The power is out. Use your phone.”
“But if the power is out we have no wi-fi,” she whined.
Tom did not bother to consider the logic of this. “Well, what are you doing sitting here in the dark, anyway? Is it just our house?” He asked. He slid out of the furnace room and they made their way back down the hall. He followed the glow of Eddy’s back. He fumbled his way through the kitchen and found a beer in the darkened fridge.
“Not like I had a choice,” Eddy said from somewhere in the living room.
“What?”
“The lights won’t go on. They went out about three and they won’t go back on,” she said.
“Did you check the breaker?” He asked and when she didn’t answer he tried to make his way through the dim light to the bedroom, where the breaker box was located at the back of the closet. He reached for one of the candles on his way. Moving his clothes aside he held the flickering light to the switches. They were all in the on position.
“Is the power out?” he yelled from the bedroom.
“Um, I think so,” Eddy shouted back, yet the irony was still apparent.
Tom gave her the finger when he came back to the living room. Her eyes were shrouds and he wasn’t sure she noticed. “I mean, is everyone’s power out?”
“No,” She said and shone the flashlight at the ceiling. “Not the mannequins. They got lights. They got it made, up there.”
Tom looked at the ceiling; the peripheral glow cast his elongated and jumpy shadow across the walls. “Then what the fuck?” He whispered.
“Maybe because we didn’t pay the power bill,” Eddy said.
“Why didn’t we pay the power bill?” He asked innocently.
“Because we don’t have any money, dipshit.”
“Oh,” Tom said. “I thought you were going to take care of all that.”
“Tom?” She said in the dark. “Are you kidding? I’m volunteering. I’m frigging sick of giving my time to everyone else. Fuck.”
“Well, should we phone somebody?”
“With what phone?” She was in the living room now. “They all work, on the power too, Tom. That’s what you said. Should we check the news on TV Tom? Duh.”
“Let’s Google it.”
“Fuck you, ok,” she said.
“What do we do?”
“Use your cell phone and call the company and tell them how much we can pay,” she said. “Then tell them to turn it back on.”
“My cell phone?”
“Yes, Tom, your fucking cell phone. The number is on the bill. It’s on the table. With all the other frigging bills.” This last part lost in a mumble. She was moving slowly around in the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door, as if she knew the light would not come on and she could attack the food unawares.
“All right, all right. Give me a minute to think.”
“Are you kidding? I have been in the dark two hours waiting for you to get home with the phone.” She was swaying in the dark, looking for him. He backed up as he instinctively felt her nearing.
“I’m just saying, if we’re broke, then we have to watch our money.” He pleaded, “suppose I sit on hold with the power company? I don’t have a good phone plan.”
“It’s a 1-800 number, not long distance,” she shouted. “Get the fucking power back on.” He felt something swoosh by his head and he fumbled in his pockets for the phone. By its light he found the number and misdialed.
$$$
(Recorded conversation between Tom Ryder and Exclusive Power’s automated customer service:)
Place: Tom and Eddy’s apartment
Time: A few seconds later.
Setting: Very dark.
Automated Voice: (Extremely exuberant, but still automated.) Welcome to Exclusive Power’s automated customer service. Please enter your 12-digit account number using your touch-tone keypad, followed by the number sign or pound key.
Tom: (Muffled, his mouth away from the phone) Eddy, do you know where the power bills are?
Eddy: (Unintelligible mumbling in the background)
Tom: They need our account number.
Automated voice: Or, say your last name followed by your date of birth.
Tom: (Away from the phone) Forget it. (Closer now) Tom Ryder. Sept. 6th, 1982.
Eddy: (Unintelligible mumbling in the background)
Tom: SHHH!
Automated Voice: I’m sorry (very recalcitrant) there is no listing for anyone with the last name Tomryder with that birth date. Please state your last name and your date of birth, and then press the pound key or the number sign.”
Tom: (Realizing his mistake) Oh! Ryder.
Automated Voice: I’m sorry (very recalcitrant) there is no listing for anyone with the last name O’Ryder with that birth date. Please state your last name and birth date followed by the pound key or the number sign.
Tom: (Frustrated) Ryder! Sept. 6th, 1982!
Automated Voice: There is no need to shout, sir. Please hold and one of our representatives will be with you in a moment. This call may be recorded for quality assurance.
(There is maddening music too distant to hear. Worse, Tom can hear everything going on in some far away office. Nearly everything. Low rumbles that could sound like talking and laughter. Deep clunks that could have any origin. And underneath it all. Yes. There is the sound of a hundred voices in one room all talking quietly at once, and the smaller clicking of computer keyboards, a conversation in themselves...)
Belraj:GoodevenningsirthankyouforholdingmynameisBelrajhowmayIhelpyou?
Tom: (somewhat startled) Hi, my name is Tom Ryder and...
Belraj: Do you have your account number, sir?
Tom: Yes, here, I think...(The sound of shuffling papers.) 167434689433.
Belraj: Thank you. (Clacking of computer keys) Just to verify your identity sir, what is your date of birth?
Tom: Umm...(Cough) Sept. 6, 1982.
Belraj: I’m sorry sir, I cannot verify that birth date.
Tom: (louder) What? How could I not know my own birth date?
Belraj: Sir, I cannot verify this account with your birth date. And you’re not even female... (softly) ah, shit.
Tom: (Relieved) Eddy. Eddy set up the account. My girlfriend?
Belraj: Ok, whatever. I’m not supposed to do this. What can I help you with?
Tom; I haven’t received a power bill and I thought maybe we had a credit. But now our power is out.
Belraj: It says the account is past due. Didn’t you get anything in the mail?
Tom: No.
Belraj: We send the bills to... Hey! I think I know you! I went to this address in my cab! You were in my cab? The other day? You were the duck guy!
Tom: The cab driver? The actor guy? This is weird!
Belraj: It is weird. What can I do for you, my friend?
Tom: (Exasperated) I am going to kill my girlfriend! Upstairs. That’s upstairs where they hang them. The mannequins. Our landlords store their spare mannequins in the upstairs apartment and some of the bills must have been going there. I swear I will take care of this right now, online, even.
(The remainder of the transcript is a back and forth with Belraj and Tom in which Belraj says: I don’t know, and Tom says, Come on! And Belraj concedes and they exchange pleasantries and hang up)
Partial transcript of conversation between Tom Ryder and Christina Xing of the Ubiquitous Gas company:
Tom: (Laughing) I am not kidding you, I am going to kill my girlfriend. You know what she did?