Bertstrips: Telly & Rosita: Tale of a Lifeline

Every Bertstrip has a story.

Beep. Beep.

The bright red light flashing on the phone’s call screen went unnoticed by the three volunteers who were staffing the hotline that night. Instead, they were hunched over paperwork, comparing lists containing the names of those who had gone on to accomplish their dreams. Or rather, Telly’s dream.

“Don’t you see?” Telly was saying, pointing energetically at his paper. “It’s so easy. They’re asking for it, and I say we give it to them.”

“But, Telly,” countered Cookie Monster, who was surprisingly cognizant when he had unfettered access to his drug of choice, “how can you be sure this is the right thing to do?”

“Look,” said Telly, “they’ve already gone through all the effort to set everything up, right? Grabbed all the supplies, made sure their families are out of the house, written their letters--you know, the lot.”

“Right,” said Cookie Monster, breaking an Oreo in two and licking the icing off.

“Well, if they’ve put in all that effort--you have crumbs in your fur--if they’ve put in all that effort, who are we to deny them the fruits of their labor? If you, Rosita,”--Telly turned to his third compatriot--“were building a bookshelf, how upset would you be if some wanker showed up and said you had to stop, just because they didn’t like it?”

“I--I suppose I might take issue...” Rosita said tentatively.

Telly leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, before putting them behind his head, and shooting a mischievous grin at his fellow volunteers. “All I’m saying is, what’s the point in trying to stop the inevitable?” Telly laughed. “Might as well stand in front of a train for all the good it’ll do.”

“It doesn’t feel right, man,” mumbled Cookie Monster, crumpling the corner of his list. “I think about them sometimes, you know.”

“They don’t think about you,” replied Telly, coldly. “That’s the beauty of it. They get what they want, and it’s no skin off your back.”

“But making lists, Telly… it’s a bit gruesome,” Rosita said. She stared down into the depths of her coffee--black, two sugars--and wished she hadn’t taken Ernie’s shift tonight.

“We’re helping people.” Telly waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the phones. “And it’s easier to remember how much of an impact you’ve had if you keep a list.” Snorting at his own joke, he added as an afterthought, “impact for one of them, anyway.”

“Well, I suppose…” Rosita sighed, and traced the wall of her coffee cup with the pitifully small stirring stick; that special kind of disappointing you can only find at gas stations. “You’re really sure?”

“Absolutely. Think of the bookshelf, Rosie.”

“Yes; the bookshelf.”

Rosita reached for the phone nearest to them, her eyes resting for a moment on the blinking red light before bringing the receiver to her ear. Smirking, Telly leaned over and pressed the speakerphone button.

“You have reached the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. My name is Rosita. How can I help you?”

“My name is Rod Riguez. I--I have a gun here, and… my wife has been cheating on me for years.” The man’s tears were evident over the grainy call quality. “I’m sitting on our bed--our bed--and I can still see them together in my head.”

“Mr. Riguez,” Rosita hesitated, looking to Telly for a confirming nod. He gave one, enthusiastically. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “you have to get them out of your head. It’s the only way you’ll ever be happy.”

“How do I get them out?”

“You know how.”

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