This is my job. Being a relay operator. Feeling pain is essentially and literally what I do for money. Whether it’s physical, emotional, psychological pain – it doesn’t matter. I make more than minimum wage, nothing that warrants complaints yet nothing to brag about either. It’s more than enough to support myself to be honest. There are people out there who are in worse situations. Nobody knows that better than me.

I put in the hours, then go home to rest for a while, until morning comes and the cycle repeats itself. What started out as a temporary job somehow became permanent.

The clientele is diverse. Each person has their own problems, the degree of severity ranges from a loved one’s funeral to getting the flu shot. The common denominator here is money. Depending on the situation, and for the right price, people will pay any amount to avoid life.

Here’s how it works: the client needs to book an appointment at one of the computer-based consultation centers. From there, a certified technician takes over. They outfit the client with a precision-engineered helmet that must be worn as they undergo the standard application and questionnaire procedure. At the end, the memory card that’s implanted in the helmet gets ejected and uploaded into a computer. All of their recorded answers – everything from their own sensory data to emotional perceptions – gets bundled into one digital file and transfers over into the main server. Then there’s this performance algorithm that decides which relay operator receives each file. It’s based on a whole variety of factors – worker’s approval rating, stress levels, current emotional load, you name it. The operator that yields the highest compatibility score receives the file; it automatically goes to their computer and is put into their queue.

Every morning, before the operator reaches their cubicle, their bar code is scanned at the entrance kiosk to see what they can handle for that day. Think of a mental capacity check. This heavily enforced policy isn’t as controversial as it was in the past. It’s a one-time operation much like receiving a tattoo. All employees are designated with a unique bar code stamped on their wrist – everything is completely individualized for efficiency in the workplace.

On the other hand, society is just trying to keep up with technology. No company wants to be bombarded with lawsuits. So the amount and order of tickets need to be organized in a way that keeps employees from “breaking”. You realize just how much one person can take in a regular eight-hour shift. Guilt, grief, embarrassment, humiliation, anxiety –those are just some of the feelings encountered on a normal day. But it gets easier the more you do it.  Once an operator reaches their desk, the right number of tickets should already be lined up in their inbox.

But the schedule is never the same; some variety is needed to not only keep from getting bored, but also to make sure you’re a well-rounded employee. You need to be capable of handling any kind of scenario.

Don’t feel like having a bad day? Let us have it for you. This is the company’s slogan.

It was morning. Before I reach my seat, I look to my right and notice there’s a girl sitting across my cubicle. She’s reading the new employee handbook. I briefly consider saying good morning, but then again, when was the last time I told someone good morning?

I stay quiet.

My first ticket puts me at the dentist’s office. Someone needs her wisdom teeth pulled out. The next ticket sends me to a funeral. I’m standing next to a frail old woman. Once she gets the waterworks going, my floodgates are opening up as well. Now I’m standing in the middle of a foyer telling my husband that I’ve been having an affair. I’m watching him crumble, shaking his head, trying his hardest not to fall apart at the seams. When I first started this job, I thought the physical pain would be the worst. Nope. What’s a root canal compared to emotional heartache? I stare as this man struggles to keep his head up, his uncooperative nose sniffling. And then I blink, and I blink again until the world momentarily fades to black. Now I’m back sitting in my office chair. I wonder what the lunch special in the cafeteria will be.    

I shut down the computer after I finish my last ticket of the day. Putting on my jacket, I sneak a glance over at the new girl. She appears to be on the verge of tears, but she’s fast on the recovery and catches my gaze. Her back quickly turns to me and I grab my bag and walk out.

Each day is more of the same. Tickets get fulfilled. Lunches are eaten. Coffee breaks are taken. I walk past the same new girl in the hallway. Her badge reads the name Jessica. I’m not sure if she knows my name. She doesn’t look at me when I walk by. I think she does that on purpose. The last time we made eye contact she was crying. She probably wants to show that her walls are properly set up now.

Message received.  

It’s been a slow process, but I have built a small inventory of moments with Jessica. Sometimes I’ll get stuck with her in the elevator as we head up to our offices or we’ll cross each other’s paths in the hallway. Every time I see her, she doesn’t look at me. But she doesn’t look at me in a way that I find rude. Judging by the way she doesn’t look at me I get the impression that she’s forcing herself to not look at me. Like there’s something about the way that she doesn’t look at me.

It’s oddly invigorating.

We exchange words for the first time at the water cooler.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“My name is Taeyeon.”

“I’m Jessica.”

“I’m in the cubicle right across from you.”

Offering a customary smile, she tucks her hair over her ear before taking a sip of water. “I know.”

I feel stupid. Of course she knows. I might as well have told her that the water she’s drinking is wet. “It’s been pretty dry this season. I can’t believe how hot it is in the middle of February.”

Jessica doesn’t reply. She keeps her smile though with her lips sealed on the cup.

I mentally shoot myself in the head as I excuse myself to head back to my cubicle.

I’m at another funeral. Why did I talk about the weather?

I’m at a seedy motel with no clothes on. Should I have told a joke?

I’m lying in a hospital bed. What do I do now?

I take a deep breath and exhale. My shift is over. I still feel stupid.

The next day arrives. I blaze through two tickets in one hour. I’m on a roll. It would be nice to get off early, grab a drink right after I’m done here. The computer screen blips and I’m on to the next one.

Wait.

Someone is tapping my shoulder. It’s Jessica. She asks me to go over to her cubicle. A momentary lapse of surprise pops up then fades when I say okay. She puts her hands on my shoulders to stop me from standing up. Mildly confused as to what she’s doing, I find myself rolling across the floor in my seat until I stop in front of her desk. She explains that her next ticket is a 00016.

Now I understand.

Ticket number 00016 refers to ending life support for a hospitalized patient. Even though this is only one ticket, the mental load that you carry is considerably heavier than others. This particular ticket comes along once every few months, but estimating the length of Jessica’s time here and her request to have me present, this is probably her first experience.

Jessica squeezes through to get into her own chair. These cubicles are clearly made for one person at maximum capacity; it’s not a long shot to assume that two people would create a cramped space. She readies herself, combing her hair with her fingers, sitting up straight, taking a few breaths before she puts her hand on her mouse and clicks.

The computer screen is blank to me – I don’t see what she sees. I look around since there’s nothing for me to do but wait. Her desk is void of any personal items or any type of items for that matter. No pens, no clock, no paper, no pictures, no anything. I make a mental note to ask her about this vacancy when I feel her hand grab ahold of my own. The sensation strikes me cold, but like a reflex I turn my palm upward so that her fingers interlace with mine. She reciprocates with a firm grip. Looking down at our hands, I can’t help but think how warm she feels.

At the end of the day, I ask her out for a drink. There’s a bar within walking distance that I suggest and, whether it’s my company or the promise of alcohol, she agrees. I order a round of beers for the both of us. For me, alcohol used to make me queasy but now it induces a mellow, numbing effect that I’ve actually grown to like.  

We don’t speak as much as we drink. Our conversation, or short blips of exchanged words, has its fill of comfortable silences and aimless sighs and stolen glances (mainly from me). By the end of the night my wallet is starting to look empty and I’m left with more questions about Jessica than before, but the alcohol is getting the best of me so there’s not much room to care about anything anymore.

I’m calling it a night, but Jessica is the first one to get up like she was waiting for that exact cue. I follow her outside where the night air shakes me awake. It’s impossible to describe this new shift, but now I’m thinking maybe I’ve had everything backwards. Possibly because it’s the way her lips sharply curve that suggests she has me right where she wants me. Because when I hail a cab, she doesn’t hesitate to climb in after me, and when the driver asks where to, I look towards her to find that she’s staring at me expectantly with closed.

I give him my address.

She throws me a bone by putting on a sly smirk, but still not meeting my eyes, when we pass each other in the hallway now. It’s a nice change and it gives me something to look forward to whenever I take a break.

“Don’t you want to feel other things?” asks Jessica one night. “Happy things?”

“It’s all temporary. There’s a beginning and end to everything. The pain doesn’t last forever.”

“So you’re planning on staying at the company?”

“Yeah. The salary is nice. I get benefits. The insurance policy takes care of me when I’m not well. I’m okay where I am now.”

She drops the conversation to kiss me.

I stare at her as if she just told me secret that I didn’t understand. She looks at my face scanning for something that leaves me in the dark. Her eyes are unwilling to meet my own, but they’re so glowingly soft that I don’t mind when she doesn’t say anything.

What is this feeling? It’s sitting low in the pit of my stomach but it’s not heavy. Is it indigestion? No, that can’t be it. Cramps? Nope. This is not painful. Hunger, maybe? It’s a possibility but not entirely accurate. Some of those same elements are there, but it seems like some new unidentifiable ingredient has jumped into the mix as well. So what is it? And how long will it stay with me?

She traces her fingers over my cheek, and then leans in for one more kiss to wipe my mind clean.

I open a ticket. I’m sitting in a chair in another hospital room. Father is lying in the hospital bed, fragile and small, with the overwhelming stench of impending death lingering in the air. We’re holding hands. His fingers are slipping from mine and his hand drops against the bedframe. He keeps his eyes on me, the tears forming as he looks at me. No. More like through me. If it’s possible, I think he knows. His eyebrows scrunch a little, like he knows something is different, but can’t pinpoint what exactly. So he keeps looking around for his daughter, but she’s nowhere to be found and all he can see is me. With his last breath, he realizes that his daughter is a stranger, but he doesn’t look angry at all, just sad.

Another night brings another question. We’re in bed when Jessica asks. “Do you feel like you’re making a mistake?”

Mistake regarding what, I wonder. I wait for clarification.

I don’t think it’s coming.

“No.”

She leans into me a little more. “Me either.”

I’m the big spoon this time. She feels warm in my arms. I can hear her breathing, slow and rhythmic, and that’s how I know she’s close to sleep. I try to slow my breathing, catch up to where she is, but my nose is buried in her hair and the scent of cherries fill me up. Real cherries wish they could smell like this.

But of course there’s a catch to all of this, because one day when I wake up, the only thing left is empty space.

Wake up. Go to work. Eat. Do more work. Go home. Eat. Sleep. There are minor variations to this schedule but for the most part this is what my life is.

Maybe this is what Jessica was trying to tell me, with all of those silences and distant eyes, that I don’t have feelings of my own anymore, that the pattern that I’ve fallen into has taken over so quietly that I didn’t even realize that I’m so far gone. Like I know exactly what I’m supposed to be feeling in any given moment, but something’s missing. Days have built up as an operator and it seems as though some residual ts of negative energy got through to me. No person is perfectly sealed, but it seems as though I’d let some things seep in little by little, here and there, and everything inside of me has been eaten up.

I walk into work. I get my first ticket that sends me to the hospital. I look over to where Jessica should be. She isn’t there. I open another ticket that puts me in a hospice. I turn around to see she’s still not there. I fly through all of my tickets until it finally clicks in my head that Jessica isn’t here and she isn’t coming back.

At the end of the day, I try calling her cell phone. No answer. No voicemail set up either. I pull some strings with human resources to figure out her current home address. I go to her apartment with concern flooding my veins and knock at her door. No response. I push my luck and turn the doorknob. It opens.

I walk inside to wide-open space. The walls are bare, floors are clean and rooms are stripped empty like no one had ever stepped floor here. I call out her name.

“Jessica.”

I repeat it over and over and over as I feel my insides turn to dust.

It’s weird how you can repeat a word so much that it starts to lose its meaning. Like it doesn’t sound like that word anymore. Like it’s just a bunch of foreign sounds mashed together.

Jessica is no longer here.

There’s nothing here – nothing for me anyways. I leave and close the door behind me. When I get home my apartment feels hollow. I chuck my shoes off and trudge my feet to bed. I fall asleep wondering why she left this emptiness with me instead of taking it with her.

I wake up when my alarm sounds off. I get ready for work.

Jessica isn’t in her cubicle. I don’t know what I was expecting. I think of what she’s doing, if she’s thinking about me at this exact moment that I’m thinking about her. Maybe this job was a pit stop for her. Or I was the pit stop. I can’t think about her anymore. I open a ticket.

I’m at a funeral.