Voice Over Internet

In addition to “good morning” and “good night” text messages, they used to send each other blank emails. What started as a glitch of Rachelle’s ADD became a sneaky show of affection—not to be overused lest it lose its magic. She had hit Send before attaching the modeling shots that cost her $100 but jumpstarted her online portfolio. They both realized it was nice receiving messages on multiple platforms: text messages, social media, and yes, even email. The simple delight in checking at random and seeing a blank but bolded message from your college sweetheart motivated them throughout the day.

They were going to different schools, Sid a community college in Virginia, and Rachelle GW, but they still called each other college sweethearts and met as often as possible, usually late at night after a full day studying, when bars and nightclubs were the only activity available.

Sid hated every club in the city except for VoIP, precisely because no one went there. His first time was as a customer, not an employee. Toni tagged along too—newly 21 and wanting to party with friends she deemed safe. For as long as Sid could remember, he could only make friends with women. Men caused his words to lock up and his stomach to tighten. He relaxed around women but felt added pressure when out with too many. A man with one woman is dismissed as a couple; a man with three women is seen as fair game.

In certain bars—in clubs especially—he felt the weight of male eyes like tiger sharks circling prey, wondering if he would be friend or foe to their budding interests. Raised a gentleman, Sid channeled his anxiety into a secret duty: ensuring the comfort and wellbeing of everyone around him. Fortunately, Sid’s friends were street-smart, and the confrontations he dreaded never really manifested. Still, VoIP was the first place he felt he could drop his guard.

“This place is a graveyard,” said Toni.

They thought it strange there was no cover fee and were ushered in by security.

“No, not a graveyard,” said Rachelle, “more like a hospice.”

VoIP stood for voice over internet protocol, something they had to Google to learn meant phone calls. Often confused for MVP—a Capitol Hill sports bar—VoIP’s esthetics were modeled after a tech startup. Private lounges were cordoned by mock cubicle walls; they even had a “conference room” adjacent the main dance floor and offering modest relief from overworked speakers.

“I like it,” said Sid.

The clientele weren’t members of DC’s cultural elite who drove high-end imports to executive service jobs, but they were non-threatening and appeared to be enjoying themselves.

Rachelle made a fair point:

“Imagine working all week in an office and then coming here on your precious night off.”

“Or imagine working all week at a club,” said Toni. “Where would you go for fun then—the library?”

Something about her comment stuck with Sid. He applied at VoIP the very next day.

The owner took one look at him and said “Security.”

Sid thought he had offended him somehow.

“You’ll do fine in security,” the man said again.

Darryl was a Chicago native who started with fitness and fast-food franchises—seeing them as complementary rather than competing industries. “Sell them burgers and then sell them personal training; then, when they are hungry, sell them burgers again.” VoIP was a pet project entirely his own, though he was growing disillusioned:

“Americans want an experience they can expect, and VoIP was unexpected.”

A week later, Sid was fitted in a suit and thrown in rotation. Half his shift spent outside checking IDs, and the other half inside discouraging horseplay. Despite his apprehension, people did what he asked without question. The most common task was telling drunk college kids to vacate the VIP cubicle they hadn’t reserved—and which sat empty most nights earning no money.

He enjoyed the work. Felt a small thrill getting ready each night. DC is a city diverse in thought but conservative in dress. He’d always wanted an excuse to match the business attire of important people commuting to work. He became as stiff and vague as they when asked what he did.

“I work in entertainment,” he would say, glancing elsewhere.

Without realizing it, a year blipped by working nights at VoIP. Then another. The initial pride he felt suiting up morphed into drudgery. It seemed like everyone was advancing in life but him. Toni was now in law school, and Rachelle had dumped him to pursue a modeling career in New York. All Sid had to his name was his trusty associate’s degree and stable employment at VoIP.

She broke up with him at a coffee shop. They both sat down without making a purchase.

“Good luck,” he had said in a tone more hurt than sarcastic. He shut down and let her do the talking, overwhelmed by a flood of conflicting emotions. What if I go with you, he wanted to pose before pride got in the way, caught between rooting for her success and thinking she’d return penniless and desperate. She didn’t. Instead, she became famous. Her social medias were now managed by people other than her and featured destination posts from places like Dubai, Milan, and the Coachella Valley.

He went through a phase wondering if he too could model. After all, he knew more about moisturizers and facewash than most men his age. Alas, late nights at VoIP had taken a toll on his complexion. Smoking didn’t help. What started as bumming loose cigs from co-workers had turned into buying packs of his own. He began dreaming of an exit strategy. Something that would afford him the same sense of esteem as one of DC’s elites. Maybe he could counter Rachelle’s life of glamor with a notable career. Become a staffer on the Hill or work for a respectable non-profit. Problem was, the skillset he’d spent the last two years acquiring didn’t carry well into corporate. He tried anyway:

•         Promoted public safety in a fast-paced work environment
•         Detected falsified identification documents and denied entry onto premises

With VoIP’s declining business rate, he eventually shifted focus from finding his dream job to finding any job. Darryl, happy to have him but not wanting to hold him back, suggested the Smithsonian Institute—doing the same work but in plush museums, which was probably his best bet, Sid had to admit. Security at VoIP had become boring. He had mastered this domain and thought a museum would be even easier. But who was he to say no to a stable government job protecting national treasures.

He applied online and was sent a confirmation email thanking him for his interests in employment with the Smithsonian. Also in his Inbox was a message from Rachelle. Hey Stranger, read the subject line. Her now famous name appearing in his email sent a jolt of excitement. The message itself was blank, which confirmed it was really her and not a social engineering attempt at his bank account info. He responded with the poop emoji. Her: an upside-down smiley face. Once rolling, the conversation was hard to stop. She bragged about her life without sounding conceited and then told him she was returning to DC for work.

I’ll meet you anywhere other than VoIP, she wrote.

He had to break it to her that VoIP was going under, and he was trying to go federal. He didn’t specify federal museum guard—hoping she might assume Secret Service—but she stopped messaging, leaving him to check his phone every five minutes before giving up and going to bed.

Next Friday at VoIP began like no other. They actually had to form a line. Darryl imposed an entrance fee but hadn’t considered a policy. Sid started his shift collecting loose money and issuing change from the same sweaty wad. By the time he fought his way inside, the building was beyond capacity. The VIP cubicle was reserved for once, and the floors were sticky from Vodka Red Bull spills.

“Have you ever seen it this busy?” Sid asked the bartender.

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Rachelle Tameron is coming tonight.”

He tried to tell him they used to date but was drowned out by clamor for alcohol. He began to feel out of place—as if his first day on the job. A sensation that worsened when Darryl put him on the “Rachelle detail.”

“Get her from her ride to the VIP cubicle,” he said. “Don’t take your eyes off her.”

He thought he meant now and worked his way outside only to realize she wouldn’t arrive until midnight—not just a famous-person flex but byproduct of her ADD. Back inside, his heart pounded in rhythm with the basses. VoIP had never been busier, yet there seemed little for him to do other than stand against the wall watching other people have fun.

His first night here he’d managed to coax Toni and Rachelle onto the dance floor. They wanted to go elsewhere but once in motion it was hard for them to stop. They weren’t rubbing elbows with DC’s elite—which was exactly the point. Not fretting about looking “cool” allowed them to dance uninhibited, acting silly and attempting moves they wouldn’t have dared in any other club. Toward the end of the night, just before lights flicked on causing instant sobriety, the trio linked hands and circled clockwise, turning a Beyoncé song into a nursery rhyme. For one brief moment, time stood still. As if their movements had synched with Earth’s rotation. Sid’s fuzzy inner contentment reminded him of his first bong hit. His nerves felt insulated from pain, fear, and worry. Something he had often felt around Rachelle but never this potent—like breathing through a straw versus wide, full breaths. They made love that night, or rather that morning. The sun was playing peekaboo after seeing Toni home safely. They slept in each other’s arms and awoke with a vigor ill-suiting the eve of a Monday. They eventually disentangled bodies so Sid could apply at VoIP, and Rachelle could blog about cosmetics in her dorm room.

She stopped him in the doorway for an extended kiss goodbye. Skinny arms around the nape of his neck, “I had fun last night,” she said. “But promise me we’ll never go back there.”

“Only if I get the job,” he said, thinking it wouldn’t make sense to party where he worked.

Here they were, years later, breaking their promise.

Rachelle came in through the back.

“She’s here,” Darryl said, straightening up.

Sid also hopped to, ready to beeline for the entrance.

“No,” said Darryl, thumbing behind his back.

“In the alley?”

Rather than a splashy entrance, Rachelle was famous for appearing out of nowhere—like a magician’s trick. Wait, is that . . . the puzzled and then delighted faces amused her. Has she been here this whole time?

Sid felt out of a job when her security detail stepped out of driver and passenger seat. Furrowed brows and shaved heads, with scar nicks here and there. Elite and joyless professionals. Without having a purpose, an outlet for his anxiety, Sid felt himself deflate—reverting on-the-spot to the same maturity level as when she’d last known him. Rachelle, on the other hand, was immaculate. Of course, she was paid to be. Though somehow she had retained her same buoyant energy. The constant perfectionism demanded by the limelight hadn’t weighed her down an ounce, as Sid had secretly hoped, but had brought out her best self.

“Hello, handsome,” she said, taking his hand, like she was bringing him in and not the reverse. Her security duo moved beside them.

“They’re not with me all the time,” she said, as if justifying outlandish jewelry. “Just on special occasions.”

Once ensconced in the VIP cubicle, Sid assumed a role more waitstaff than security, taking drink orders, song requests, and peppering her with hospitality gestures.

“Slow down,” she said, pulling him next to her onto the couch. “Just talk with me.”

Who was he supposed to be right now: former boyfriend or paid employee?

Darryl eyed him from across the bar and gave a sort of shrug. He knew better than interfere with the whims of a celebrity.

“You attract quite the crowd,” Sid said.

“Yet you still look surprised to see me.”

It’s true, he’d stopped following her online after her fanbase broke 2 million. Her content no longer felt intimate and personalized—like following a product rather than person.

“Thought you hated this place.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanna see it die.”

“So you’re a celebrity defibrillator?” He looked around. “I think it’s working.”

Her security duo was talking arms-crossed to a group of girls begging for a selfie. They walked away heads low, shoving phones into glittery purses not larger than Sid’s wallet.

“Think you just lost a few followers,” he said.

“If I take one I’ll have to take a hundred.”

An awkward silence followed. Not a silence because the music was loud, more like a tension. The opposite of seeing a long-lost friend and picking back up as if only yesterday. The years and experiences between them now felt too wide to bridge. Unfathomable given their chemistry just two years prior. Back when banter was their love language and stillness a balm for the soul. He thought about asking her to dance but questioned the logistics of it.

“How’s Toni?” he said, memories being the one shallow tributary for conversation to flow. All other topics felt forced or voyeuristic.

“How are you,” she countered, which felt like the guest serving the host in their own home.

Her question made him defensive. He couldn’t pinpoint why—people ask it every day.

“I guess I’ve always wondered what sitting in here felt like,” he said.

“And now that you have?”

“Reminds me of a cage.”

Rachelle grimaced.

“A place to be seen by others but not good for much else.”

“Well, I thought you would enjoy it,” she said, cutting him off. “Do you even know why I came out tonight?”

To gloat, Sid thought.

“To help out an old friend. Clearly that was a mistake.”

Her rising voice caught the attention of her goons. Sid found himself shepherded outside the lounge like the kids with the phones. Embarrassed, he resumed his usual perch against the wall.

That should have been me escorting me away, he thought, wondering what life might look like had she never left him. Him becoming some sort of boyfriend-bodyguard.

“Did you just strike out with Rachelle Tameron?” Darryl asked.

“Yes,” Sid said. “Two years ago.”

Later in the night, he wanted to punch a wall when a local rapper wormed his way into her VIP lounge. She laughed at everything he said, and at one point, they stood as if considering the dance floor, but Rachelle sat back down scrunching her nose and shaking her head.

Good, Sid thought. Stay in your cage.

He wanted to do something drastic: Leave his jacket and tie on Darryl’s desk never to be seen again. He had once thumbed through an article while riding the Metro about something called region-beta paradox. Putting yourself in a bad situation can often create a better outcome by forcing yourself to act. Like setting yourself on fire before upgrading your wardrobe. If he left VoIP tonight, where would he be two years from now? A fed? In a different city? . . . Dead?

Alas, at the end of the night, Darryl had him escort Rachelle back to her car. He opened the passenger door for her like he did when dating, proud at usurping this one small duty from her guards. She rolled her eyes but accepted. Outside their energy felt more like feuding friends. As if they really could wind back two years to their first night at VoIP. Back when they were no-name college kids who could link arms and dance in unison until time stood still.

Traces of their old familiar body chemistry left him feeling somewhat better about himself. He returned home, locked the door, doffed his tie, and crawled into bed alone. Then the email pinged his phone. Rachelle must have had too much to drink.

Heyyy, read the subject line.

I relly needed you tonight. . .

Sid dropped his phone on the bedside table. Something felt lodged in his throat. And if he could cry, it just might pry loose.