The Switchboard

Nora never drove anymore. But when she saw the old switchboard on the side of the road she went back to get her grandfather’s truck. It took her nearly an hour to load it by herself and now it sat in the back of the old Ford, tied up in a mess of sailor’s knots. Nora eased into the seat, cranked the truck and drove away as she fiddled with the radio. The first strains of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You” sounded over the din of the engine. Its hypnotic chords rose in intensity and washed over her with a sickening dread. Her stomach lurched as she moved to punch off the radio. She struggled to pull off the road as her arms and legs began to prick with pins and needles. Just as she reached the shoulder, her limbs shook harder and she thrashed about in the open space of the truck‘s cab. The ropes holding the switchboard gave way, and it crashed into the truck bed. Her vision blurred as everything went black.

Liam and Ed found her later, the Ford wrecked and blocking the road. Their garbage truck screeched to a halt.

“Someone’s in there!” called Liam, swinging down from the back of the garbage truck.

“Who?” said Ed, radioing 911.

“The trash girl!” Liam pulled off his gloves and looked for something clean to wipe the blood from her face and tangles of black hair.

“Well, you finally got your chance to meet her,” said Ed, approaching the wrecked truck. “Too bad she’s passed out.”

When the paramedics took her from the truck a little black book fell to the ground. Liam slipped it into his coveralls as the ambulance drove away.

***

“And when did the aura start, Nora?” said Dr. Talpa.

“Before the first measure was over.”

“How long did the seizure last?”

“I don’t know. They told me the garbage men found me,” said Nora.

“Did you experience any nausea or vomiting? Stiffness, clumsiness?”

“My stomach dropped into a pit. I tried to shut off the radio, but I was transfixed,” said Nora.

“Any headaches?”

“It felt like there was a jackhammer inside my head.”

“Last time we met you mentioned your head injury as a child. How old were you, Nora?”

“Seven, I think.”

“Did you have an MRI?”

“No.”

“Were you hospitalized at all?”

“No.” Dr. Talpa jotted something down.

“With this seizure did you experience any agitation or elation?” asked Dr. Talpa.

“Fear,” said Nora. She looked around the dismal psychiatrist’s office. She hated coming here. She wondered what kind of trash the psychiatrist threw away. Copies of Brain magazine. Boxes of EEG results.

“We’re going to start you on a new medication. Carbamazepine. We’ll see if this one works.”

Dr. Talpa removed his glasses and studied Nora, bags under his eyes, forehead creased. The gallery of his diplomas dwarfed him under the humming fluorescent lights.

“And Miss Nora,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Stop driving.”

***

Nora was sore since her seizure a few days ago and paused to stretch between digging through bins. To pass time, she made a short list of items she hoped to find: a ball of yarn, a ‘68 chrome bumper for the Ford and a diamond bracelet - for her medical bills, which were piling up. She pretended not to hear whispers of “there goes that trash girl” from the back porch of a shot gun house. She floated along, softly humming Sonny Rollins’ tunes to herself and the stray cats that joined her.

“Did you find anything good today, Miss?” Liam asked as the garbage truck passed her in the alley. Nora looked up. A tall dark man stepped down in front of her.

“Oh, just this,” said Nora, pulling a pot from her bag.

“An antique soup tureen,” said Liam.

“It’s a chamber pot but I suppose you could eat soup out if it. After a good scrubbing,” said Nora, smiling.

“I’m Liam,” he said. “Ed and I were the ones that found you after your wreck. How are you feeling?”

“I...I’m well,” said Nora, eyes downcast. When she looked up she saw concern in his brown eyes. Something stirred inside her.

“My truck is not so well, I’m afraid,” said Nora, trying to shift attention from herself.

“I could have a look at it if you want. Will it crank?”

Before she knew it she was scrawling her number and address on a scrap of brown paper bag. She waved, turned and headed back down the alley, biting her lip.

“That went well. You got her number?” said Ed.

“Yeah, I’m gonna fix her truck,” said Liam pulling out the black notebook.

“What’s that?” said Ed.

“It’s hers. From the wreck. It’s a playlist,” said Liam. “I’m going to play a song for her and ‘oh, you love that song too?’ She’ll think we’re soulmates or something.”

“Don’t you think you should just be yourself? I mean, you have the trash in common,” said Ed.

“I found this for a reason. A song is like a direct line to the heart.” said Liam holding up the notebook.

“I don’t know, man. I think you should give it back.”

***

The local college station was playing on Liam’s transistor radio.

“I think your engine’s misfiring,” said Liam, as he stooped under the hood of Nora’s wrecked truck, trying to turn loose a stubborn bolt. After an hour of sweating and chatting Nora went in to grab some drinks. Liam pulled out his phone and made a request on the radio, then went back to work. Nora emerged from the house as the jaunty intro to Édith Piaf’s “Milord” sounded from the radio.

“Do you like Édith Piaf? This song is great,” said Liam. Nora froze. Not here. Not now, she thought. She dropped the drinks and clamped her hands over her ears, shutting her eyes tight and rocking from foot to foot. She felt nauseous as her blood ran from hot to cold. She tried to run but fell to the ground in spasms.

***

“It felt like we were really connecting. And then that wretched song came on. I couldn’t get away from it. It took hold.”

“Nora, with these brain injuries sometimes we don’t know the extent of the damage until years later. Tell me about when you hit your head as a child.”

“I was riding in the back of the truck. A dog ran out in front of the truck and my grandfather slammed on the brakes. I smashed my head into the side of the truck bed.”

“And you weren’t hospitalized, correct?”

“No. We just bandaged up the gash.” said Nora, touching her forehead.

“Nora, what associations do these songs bring up?” asked Dr. Talpa. “What’s the thread holding them together?”

“After my mother died I lived with my grandparents. My grandmother ran a switchboard for the phone company, you know. My grandfather ran a record shop. That’s where they met. Between playing records too loud and running the switchboard all those years my grandmother lost her hearing. Her mind started to slip after she couldn’t hear anymore.” Dr. Talpa shifted in his seat.

“When my grandfather died my grandmother left him in the house. She just played records over and over.”

“She left his body in the house?” said Dr. Talpa.

“She left him there in the bed and played the same records over and over again. C.W.Stoneking, Mendelssohn, Carlos Gardel, Chick Corea. She wouldn’t stop playing those damn records.”

***

“I hope you like chickpea curry,” said Nora, opening the door for Liam.

“I love Chick Corea,” said Liam.

“No. Absolutely no Chick Corea,” said Nora.

“Wow, I love your place,” said Liam, trying to take it all in. “What do you do with this stuff?”

“Keep it, resell it. I make good money doing it but everyone thinks I’m the town crazy for digging through trash.”

“I know what’s it’s like being an outsider,” said Liam. “It’s hard to get a date once they find out you’re a garbage man.” Liam’s hand grazed Nora’s hand for moment.

There were odds and ends on every piece of furniture. Figurines, pottery, strange lamps, knick knacks, paintings and old photographs were on every shelf and square inch of wall. Books galore, odd mannequin parts and the records. And in the corner of the room sat the old switchboard like a sentinel keeping watch over the chaos.

“Does the switch board work?” asked Liam.

“I don’t know. Plug it in.” The switchboard hummed and crackled to life with electricity running through its old wires.

“I wonder how this thing works,“ he said unplugging and replugging cables.

“I’ll be right back, said Nora. “I’m going to check on the curry.” Liam looked around the crowded room. There were records leaning in stacks everywhere. There had to be thousands of them. He shooed her cat from atop a crate and thumbed through the stack, searching for a name familiar to her list. He could scarcely use a record player but chose a Carlos Gardel album and carefully dropped the needle. The record crackled to life, the sound of skeletal strings filled the air as “Por Una Cabeza” resounded throughout the room.

“I love Carlos Gardel. He was such a great artist,” called Liam. He heard a crash in the hallway and ran in to find Nora on the floor erupting in convulsions. In the corner of the room the switchboard began to smoke.

***

Liam spotted Nora up the road and ran to catch up with her.

“Nora.” She pretended not to notice him. “Nora.”

“What, Liam?” she said digging through a box.

“Why haven’t you answered my calls?” said Liam.

“Oh, you called?” said Nora coldly.

“Have I done something, Nora?” She didn’t lift her eyes from a box of broken china. Liam sighed and started to turn away.

“Here’s your playlist.” he said, taking the little black book from his pocket. Nora looked up, eyes wide.

“Where did you get this?” she asked incredulously.

“It fell from your truck, at the wreck. I was going to give it back.”

“This isn’t a playlist!” said Nora, gritting her teeth, her hands curling into fists. “It’s a list of songs that trigger seizures!”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t-“

“These songs give me seizures! I have musicogenic epilepsy, you thief!” said Nora as she snatched the book from his hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Liam.

“I wouldn’t have to tell you if you just gave it back!”

“I was just trying to impress you, Nora.”

“Go away, Liam!”

***

A tea kettle, a copy of Moby Dick and a pill box hat. She would find these three things today. Nora still saw him from time to time, riding on the back of his garbage truck. She pretended not to notice him and never once looked up from the cans and roadside boxes she plundered. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like if things hadn’t gone awry.

Nora found a dresser relieved of its drawers, sitting in the mud. Beside it sat the drawers in a disarray. A lifetime’s worth of dingy socks and old stockings were left for the taking. She felt around for some hidden trinket, some over looked treasure. In the second drawer she found a yellowed envelope buried under ancient nylons. Inside the envelope was a small fortune. It had to be ten or twenty thousand dollars. She tucked the money in her bag along with a pair of nylons. She plumbed the depths of the drawer a few more times before she made her way home, hands covering her ears against any siren song that might drag her away.