“What is the most important thing in a person?”
It’s a question people seem to have asked themselves for as long as they’ve existed. Some argue it’s appearance… no, no! Absolutely not, the most important thing is the soul!
The Narrator, however, found all of that foolish and disarmingly simplistic. To him, the most important thing in a person was their voice. After all, what good was beauty if listening to someone made you sick to your stomach?
He knew his own voice sounded beautiful. That people wanted to listen to him. To be honest, he took pleasure in it. Replaying the way he sounded on the radio, in news broadcasts, even in games, always gave him a sense of satisfaction—finally, at least one decent voice actor. And even when he winced at a slip or a stumble in a recording, they were still good enough. Good enough to be called perfect. Perfect ninety-nine percent of the time.
And yet he couldn’t fathom how, of all the places in the city, he had ended up here.
Sinking into a soft leather chair, swallowed by the half-dark of one of the countless rooms of a call center… damn it, of erotic calls! To use his voice for such a purpose...
Well, he could fathom it. The project he’d been voicing for was shut down, and he wasn’t paid a cent on the excuse that he “hadn’t delivered.” He had no choice but to rant, rage, and then scramble for a new job as fast as he could.
Now the Narrator sat waiting for his very first call, nervously tapping a rhythm with his foot. His hands were clasped tight on his knees, only to part again and again—first to smooth a stray lock of hair, then to roll his shirt cuffs for the tenth time. Never mind that nobody would see him. He needed it for his own peace of mind.
Just as he sighed and pushed his hand through his hair, he flinched at the sudden chime in his headset, jerking his hand back as though he himself had caused the sound. It took only a few seconds to gather himself, inhale, exhale.
And despite all his nerves, he slipped into character with surprising ease, his voice soft, even playful, the moment he picked up the line:
«Good evening… Oh, yes, it’s you… Lovely to hear from you.»
It didn’t turn indecent right away. At first it felt almost like polite conversation, though the Narrator spoke in a near whisper, deliberately drawing out his words and keeping the microphone close to his lips. It was unfamiliar, perhaps, but… not nearly as awful as he’d feared. In time he even relaxed, leaning back in his chair — his shoulders no longer pulled taut but slouched instead, while his restless foot had stilled and was now casually crossed over the other. At one point in the call he even shrugged off his jacket, leaving it draped over the armrest and himself only in a shirt and a yellow knitted sweater.
He hadn’t thought about it, just did it absentmindedly, but the rustle of fabric and the soft sighs he made while pulling it off traveled clearly through the line — and you clearly liked it.
«And so, that’s how it works…» — The Narrator broke off, nudging the mic closer with his fingertips so that his breath, until then only faint in the background, now came through distinctly. With a little laugh, he went on: «I don’t think you’re listening to me at all, are you?»
He’d been talking for five minutes straight, while from you there had come nothing but vague hums of agreement. If not for those sounds, and the faint background rustle his headset picked up, he would have thought the line dead, that you’d hung up.
«Well, since you’re listening, I suppose I’ll continue…» — he began again, only to falter mid-sentence, cut off by a loud moan that filled his headphones. It was as though you were in the room with him, leaning close to groan right into his ear. He swallowed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
«Ah, so that’s why you…» — For God’s sake, it was so awkward he could already feel the blush spreading over his face. He must have gotten into character too well.