Shahdaroba

I lean back in my desk chair here in the kitchen, a beard three days old growing on my wind chapped face and a glass of cheap red wine sitting next to me on the dinner table. Job applications, job search strategy guides and a few phone numbers written in a scrawl on grease stained napkins, are in a heap at the base of my wine glass. In my iTunes library, Roy Orbison sings “Uptown” and I drift off--in dreams--to penthouse number three. Seconds later or hours, the phone rings, startling me from sleep.

“Hello?” I curse myself in the darkness, wishing, for once, I’d answer the phone with a declarative sentence.

“Ramandu,” I hear a woman’s voice say, “this is an opinion poll. I am not selling anything. Will you answer a few questions for me?”

The house is dark. There doesn’t seem to be anything better to do.

“Sure.” I have a new friend.

She asks me about my TV watching habits and I’m proud to answer: I don’t have that habit. The conversation is short and sweet--yes and no question and then good-bye. I hang up with a certain satisfaction. I’m not alone. I’m part of the collective. My opinions matter. Democracy.