on the phone for nearly an hour,
using my crackly elderly woman voice.
i call myself sandra pinchot.
age 78,
alone, and lonely, but quite wealthy.
he wants my social
security number
and my medicare card number
in order for him
to send me
a new plastic card.
one with a gold star on it.
i'm fixing tea, and then sitting
in the garden with my imaginary
cat in my lap,
Juniper, he's a nice cat, i tell the man,
whose name he says is James.
do you have a cat, James?
if not you should get one,
they're such great company.
hardly anything ever goes
wrong with them.
i go on about my dead
husband, Clifford, but we called
him Cliff.
his golf game was stupendous,
i inform James, he could go on
and on for hours telling me about
his short game,
but his drinking did him in.
do you drink, James?
i like a little hot toddy before
bedtime, but my
martini days are way behind me.
don't get me started on those days,
thank god the internet didn't exist
back then, or those damn cell phones,
Holy Hannah, would i have been in trouble
back then.
ma'am he says, i just need you to
verify your numbers, could you
read them off your blue and white
card. you have medicare A and B
don't you?
hold on young man, let me get
my reading glasses,
they're in the other room
in my purse, my white purse,
or was it the black one?
when i come back after i find them
i want to hear a little bit about you, okay.
i've been doing all the talking here.
unfair. let's find out
what makes James tick?
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