Damien Galeone

Mid-April. It was a nice, quiet Tuesday evening, or some day that’s innocuous like a Tuesday or maybe a Wednesday, but not tranquil like a Thursday or a Friday. I was in my armchair and I was reading. The TV was on in the background. We had eaten, so there was nothing to look forward to for the rest of the day, except maybe a yogurt. My phone buzzed and, being a resident of the 21^st century, I dropped my book instantly to find out who was contacting me.

My sister. I staved off the disappointment. I mean, I love my sister, but there could always be more exciting correspondents. The message was this: Hey.

‘Hey’ can mean a lot of things. It already meant a lot of things back when we spoke to each other in person with our mouths. It could be a greeting, a warning, a threat, a complaint. Nowadays, removing intonation, facial cues, and the 71,292 emoticons that usually accompany one of my sister’s messages, and it could be anything from remonstration to greeting to precursor to ‘I have some bad news. Are you there?’

And I was there. But I wasn’t sure if I was going to be there. Answering a message can make or break your day. It can lead to good information, a fun chat, information you didn’t want on an innocuous Tuesday or, worst of all, tasks you didn’t want to undertake. I had a few moments and considered my options. I plopped my phone in my lap and vaguely hoped for another vibrating text from someone more exciting.

This sister and I had not had any recent fights. So, ‘Hey’ was unlikely to be a ‘Hey, we need to clear the air here.’ This sister lives at home. Were there a problem with one of my parents she would likely be the spreader of that news. This could potentially be, ‘Hey, I have to tell you something.’ And this sister will, on occasion, just say hello and she can be a drop tone deaf. So it was possible that ‘Hey’ was simply ‘Hey.’ But could she want something else? I wasn’t sure. In a moment of familial loyalty that I’d kick myself for two weeks later, I wrote back.

‘Hey.’

The floodgates opened.

The gist. My mother had decided – along with the higherups at her work – that it was time for her to retire. This was a big decision. My mom has been working at the same company for almost three decades and, to put it in patently understatement terms, she loves her job. She is, until this Friday, a beloved and loyal employee. Moreover, the love that she has for this job and her colleagues and bosses is returned in spades by those bosses and colleagues. At the age of around fifty, my mom got the job of her dreams (organizing things for other people) and never looked back.

The problem. My sister’s ‘Hey’ was followed by ‘…can I ask you to do something?’ My mom’s bosses were throwing her a retirement party. They thought a neato thing to do would be to get her beloved family members – aka, those who’d ruined her uterus and were thus guilted into doing pretty much whatever she asked for the rest of her life – to record congratulatory videos. These videos were to be watched during the retirement party. So, not only did we have to record videos – closeups of our faces while speaking – but we were going to be watched by a party full of people we didn’t know holding paper plates with half-eaten slices of pound cake with vanilla icing up to their lips and asking their neighbor through plastic forks ‘who’s this again?’

That was ‘Hey.’

Despite my personal disappointment (for answering the ‘Hey’ message) and the fury I planned to direct at my sister at some point (for sending a ‘Hey’ message), life went on as usual for the next two weeks. I ate. I drank. I took my morning vitamins. I worked out. Life went on.  

On another Tuesday in early May, leg dangling over the arm of my chair, (different) book perched on my lap, I eked toward content. Still, in the faraway reaches of my brain, in some valley or ripple or patch reserved for ruining my life, there was a nugget, a node of understanding that there was something I should be doing that I wasn’t doing. I ignored it as best I could, but it wouldn’t let up.

My phone buzzed (again) and I, never being a lesson learner, (again) rushed to see who was contacting me.

The same sister.

‘Hey.’

I rolled my eyes into my head as realization poured in. I had forgotten. The nugget presented itself and said to me: You done forgot to record your mother’s retirement message. And after you laid waste to her uterus.    

I couldn’t ignore this message. I didn’t remember when she needed the recording but a vague memory of the phrase ‘early May’ stampeded through my something-campus. She retires after thirty years and you forget to record her a message. I have no choice but to respond, and using the same ammunition I do just that.

‘Hey.’

‘Can you record that video for Mom?’

‘When do you need it?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘What?’

‘Her party got moved up.’

‘Of course it did.’

The next evening, after rehearsing aloud (to the grand delight of my terrified neighbors) I adjourn to my desk and get ready to record. I prop up my phone, I center myself. I turn on the camera and switch it to video mode. All at once my face is at center screen. Nanoseconds later I realize just how much I hate my face. Just look at it! I’m going to be on a giant screen in front of a bunch of makeup specialists pointing out the various chemical interventions I need in order to make me look like a normal human being and not an alien from some bug planet in a polo shirt. How do young people do this all day and post it onto sites like TikTok and YouTube. Just them talking! Not them hitting a baseball or playing squash. Talking. Just a closeup of their mugs talking about their opinions. How?

Misgivings aside, I start.

Take 1 0:08 (I hate my face)

Take 2 0:02 (Is that really my face)

Take 3 0:11 (why do my eyes do that?)

Take 4 0:18 (nobody else’s lips do that)

Takes 58 (how does anyone listen to my terrible voice every day?)

Take 59 0:01 (Wow. I feel bad for my students)

…………………………… wine break …………………………..

Take 93 0:21 (Bah! Slur much!?)

…………………………… second wine break …………………..

Take 99 9:19 (‘I love my mommy so much! Wait . . . what am I doing again? Oh…)

Take 117 0:47 (‘…and so, Mom, enjoy your party and the beginning of your many years of retirement! . . . Peace out. . . Peace out? Peace out!! What the motherfu—’)

Take 121 0:51 (‘When I began leaving this message, I was a young man, full of hope, and now, as an old person who is going to leap off this building the second I hit stop, I tell all of you people at that party this advice: No matter what happens, don’t ever agree to do anything for my sister.’)    

Take 133 0:45 (‘…and the beginning of your many years of retirement! Congratulations!?’ Is that it? Am I done? Did I do it?’ Burke: ‘Are you still recording?’ Me: ‘FU—’

Take 135 got it. Take 134 was a near miss, but as I signed off, a friend’s Messenger chat bubble popped up his face was literally in the middle of mine while I finished my heartfelt message of hope and congratulations. I will never speak to him again.

In the end, my sister didn’t use my message. Nobody else from our family could be at the party and they thought it would be odd to have a random video of a family member during a work party. I agreed and then began to conceive a plan for the destruction of my sister’s life. I don’t know how it will come and I don’t know when it will come and I don’t know in what form it will manifest, but I do know that it will kick off with this message:

“Hey.”