Hold Me Music

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Amen. From among the perks of living in an English-friendly environment, I already knew that I missed opening letter mail, for example. You know, the routine bills, advertisements, tax returns, surveys and whatnot. I’m not even blessed with junk mail here. But it wasn’t until I had to call my bank to fix a glitch with a wire transfer that I realized what I missed even more than sticking the pointy tip of my letter opener into the edge of an envelope and hearing that crisp schrk. It was the sound of Customer Service, that Deep Reassuring Standard American White Male (the same one that all news anchors have) that tells you “We accept all collect calls”, encourages you to enter your access card number, thinks it over for a second, then prompts you to enter your password. Your reward for such diligence is the live version of him. He who comes on the line next (since my issue is not among the options listed, it never is). “Jeff” mine was, so courteous, so obliging of my unnecessary chitchat, my light venting, so in tune with my colloquialisms. “Jeff”, who kept addressing me by name and always, always asked if I minded before he put me on hold while he looked into what was causing the problem with the magical transformation of my exorbitant amounts of toy money into modest amounts of real money. Oh how I’ve missed those dozens of routine calls. You know, to restaurants to order delivery, to shops to ask about stock, to dispatch to book a taxi, to information for an address and above all, to Customer Service to hear that Problem Solving Bass followed by the sweet sound of On Hold music. So groovy, so dance-in-your-chairable.

Would it be weird if I called again? You know, just to say…

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