On Hold

I don't mind being put on hold, but when the person comes back I won't be mentally equipped to deal with the problem we were trying to solve. I can't even remember who I've called. There's a splot of coffee on my deskpad, regurgitated from the flimsy foam cup when I set it down too hard, and I'm watching the paper dissolve under that one little drop while the office sounds go on around me. There's the radio on so low I can hardly tell it's country music, for which I'm glad, but anything's better than the disco hour on Magic 99 on Mondays. In fact, I can't think of a worse designation for a station than Magic 99. It positively screams "hour-long loop of horrendous classic rock that repeats 12 times in a row." I also hate the jingles in commercials for our local businesses. Especially the ones the DJ sings himself. I can hear Nancy's keyboard like an automatic weapon on the other side of the cubicle wall and Lee coughing, Jim hollering across his desk at someone on speakerphone, Frankie's squeaky dolly wheels as he loads copy paper onto shelves in the back. Now the woman's back on the phone and I'm considering just hanging up and starting over.