Chronic Inflection

Raoul is driving me nuts. In probably a thousand different ways. One in particular, though, is bound to be the first to shove me over the edge.

During one of our first few dates, he casually mentioned that he hated making phone calls, because those voice-activated answering things never seemed to work. It had to be his British accent, I told him. It's so thick I have to watch his head to see if he's saying yes or no. His lips barely move when he's screaming, so I thought a machine wouldn't stand a chance.

A few weeks later he used the phone at my place, and I realized the accent wasn't the problem. He called his bank to get his balance, and dictated his account number. "One four zed eight naught two," he said. Then he shook his head disgustedly. "What the fuck is wrong with these things?" he asked the air, and then into the phone he repeated, "ONE FOUR ZED EIGHT NAUGHT TWO."

Zed? I thought. Naught? Why not just say "Farf flam bingo bango"? Because to Americans those are as close to being meaningful as zed and naught. Yes, there's a country where those words make sense, but it's across a very wide ocean. Here they make people -- and answering systems -- go "Huh?"

After he hung up I explained the problem to him, and thought he understood. Just a few days later, though, I caught him in another argument with a telephone. "Quite," he was painfully enunciating. "SMASHING. Certainly! RIGHT-O! TA! You bloody stupid answering machine!" he snapped before slamming down the phone. "You can't blame it on me this time! I didn't say 'zed' or 'naught.'"

I stared at him like a dog would if you asked it to mix you a martini. "'Smashing'?" I repeated. "'Ta'? That's not how you talk to an answering system: that's how you audition for My Fair Lady. Did you actually think you could say 'ROIT-O!' instead of "Yes' and the machine would know what you meant? You're talking to a computer program, not a newspaper-hawking urchin in a jaunty tweed cap."

"The voice was so friendly I forgot it was a machine. Besides, it's not like I said anything too obscure. Everything I said meant either yes or no."

"Somewhere in the universe, but not here," I said. "You think sailors should be able to call in and say 'Aye aye!'? You pretty much have to stick to something an American landlubber would say."

I went to bed that night questioning his intelligence, and swearing to keep him away from the phone. The next night we wanted to go to a movie, though, so somebody had to give Fandango a call. I snapped up the phone before he could get it. "It starts in half an hour," I said to an angry glare. "We don't have time for you to tell the machine that the first screening after tea time would be a spot of all right."

"I'm not stupid," he declared frostily. "I can do it." I handed over the phone, still doubtful, and he dialed. "Yes," he said into the receiver, a smug look on his face. "No. New York City. 'There Will Be Blood.' Oh, something around sixish would be fine."

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" I yelled, grabbing the receiver out of his hand. I yelled into it at the top of my lungs: "NOT BLOODY LIKELY! ABSO-BLOOMIN'-LUTELY! ARE YOU DAFT? BOB'S YOUR UNCLE! PIP-PIP!" I slammed down the phone. "Bloody hell! It didn't understand a single word I said!"

"Right," he snarled, his eyes burning red. "Like you'd do any better in England. 'What show time would you like?' 'Twee toidy.' 'Would you like to speak to a representative?' 'Naw, dude -- fuhgedaboudit!'" See how far that gets you!"

I reeled back like he'd slapped me. "I do not have a New York accent."

"No, you don't. I jes' made dat up while I was sittin' on da terlet."

Needless to say, we didn't get to the movies.

A couple months later, though, we actually went to England, and it was exactly like he predicted. I was as lost with their phones as he was with ours. My lips got sore from enunciating and all the machines still hung up on me. I couldn't buy theater tickets. I couldn't make restaurant reservations. I couldn't check the train schedule. All the blood ran out of my head and started to gurgle around my feet. Raoul stood there smugly, arms crossed, as the room started to spin around my head. Would I actually have to apologize? Months of aggravation and yelling, and it turned out I was wrong?

I stumbled for the couch as he dialed another number. "It's the National Health Service," he announced, handing the receiver to me. "Press 2, since your knickers are in a twist."