The Third Time I Got a Voicemail from Putrina Donk

My apologies to those of you who have waited eleven months to experience the vicarious adventure of getting eccentric voicemails from a complete stranger. For the uninitiated, allow me to direct you to my first and second experiences with "That Particular Lady."

But before we get started, I would like to retire the moniker of "That Particular Lady" or "TPL" that was established in the previous edition of this serialized chronicle. In the period intermediating that second and this the third installment, I decided she deserved better than the generic designation which I had afforded her. Bearing this in mind, I turned to my friend Ken, a consummate artisan who works solely within the medium of silly names, and asked for his input. His consult provided the following candidate list:

Putrina Donk
Aquatic Mercury
Helgerpan, the Delightful Sardine
Voicemail McGee
Winnie Tunabox
Tortilla Sue
Ms. Issues
Ms. Voicemail
The Usual Suspect
Voicemail Woman
Strange Fruit (by Billie Holiday)
Tomato Snips (since tomato is a strange fruit)
Helga
Helga Tomato
Someone Elsie
Eggplant Elsie
Wilhelmina

My friends, it is always euphoric to see a virtuoso at work. I needed look no further than the first entry to find a sobriquet worthy of my cryptic voicemail interloper, but how could one resist savoring the entire catalogue? I offer my heartfelt thanks to Ken.

So now, let us rejoin the narrative. Turn back the dates on your imagination clock to March 15, 2010, the date upon which the world was exposed to Putrina's first voicemail, and the author's analysis of it. Except, the author of this here 'blog hadn't really told anyone about it yet, so worldwide saturation of this information was somewhat limited.

It had been nearly a month since I received any calls from Ms. Donk, and I did not expect to ever be troubled by her ramblings again. But less than 24 hours after my post, my switchboard lit up with her number in the caller ID. At 3:30 AM. Multiple times. In my sleep-addled state, I was a bit unnerved. At first, I merely silenced my phone each time it rang. But by the third cycle of this routine, I decided bold action was necessary, and turned the device off. My best attempts to return to slumber produced no success, only visions of Putrina somehow discovering my essay and formulating a babbling, incoherent verbal evisceration for the ages.

And then at 4:04 AM on March 16th, there was an earthquake. A mild earthquake, only a 4.4 on the Richter scale, but it shook my bed more than mildly, and my already perturbed mind much harder than Mssr. Richter could have measured.

"Maybe she was trying to warn me about the earthquake!" suggested my brain.

I am not proud of having thought this thought. But I thunk it. And in my defense, I will inform those readers who may be snickering that this momentary hypothesis flashed across my cerebral cortex early on during the seismic boogie, before my brain moved on to more important matters: whether the shaking was proliferating or depreciating; and whether I was safer in my bunk or stumbling over the flotsam and jetsam of my darkened room in a vain attempt to find a more secure shelter.

I wisely remained recumbent for the 20 to 30 seconds of undulation. When I was confident that my life was not in mortal peril, I turned my phone on to see if Putrina Donk had left a voicemail that might help me ascertain her level of clairvoyance. She had left a message, but shed no light on any precognitive abilities. She just creeped me out.



For once, no transcript is necessary.

My agitated state of mind now took on the additional burden of genuine concern for Putrina. For the first time, I actually contemplated returning one of her calls. But I wondered, what kind of problem could she have, and what help could I really be? I also pondered that trying to explain who I was and why I was calling might be more upsetting than helpful.

As I paced about the apartment, my roommate emerged from his domicile, his sleep having been another casualty of the earthquake. We shared a few exciting moments discussing that event, and I unloaded upon him some frantic ravings concerning Ms. Donk. After verbal expulsion of that neurosis, I felt better, and decided that she was not my responsibility and eventually returned to bed.

But I did consider that if I never heard from her again, it would bother me. I even considered checking the obituaries in the local newspapers of her area code. Fortunately, that action would soon prove unnecessary.

The First Time I Taught Someone How to Use a Vending Machine

I can't say that I have a specific memory of the first time that I used a vending machine, or how it was that I came by the knowledge required to operate such a contraption. It's possible that in some forgotten grade school class, a teacher may have dedicated a day to highlight the basic fundamentals of vending machine patronization, emphasizing ideal postures for button pressing and dialectic principles of snack choice-making. But I do not remember this.

I just know that I am confident in my ability to finagle heavily-manufactured foodstuffs from the retrieval slots. In fact, I have been privy to advanced manipulation of vending machines. As a child, I honed my skills by obsessively pushing the coin return button on every available coin-operated device within an 8-mile radius, once yielding somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 to 70 cents from a newspaper dispensary in an Orlando Holiday Inn.  My prowess also once led me to a forgotten soft drink repository on the neglected fourth floor of a building at my university, an appliance that would offer Dr. Peppers for an unadvertised and paltry price of 75 cents, saving the informed student a whole, shiny quarter. And I don't think I've ever had the misfortune of a rotary coil retaining its grip on an item I purchased.

Upon further reflection, it seems most of this vending machine savvy was acquired in the following manner: by using vending machines.

So keeping this in mind, you might understand that if I was flagged down by an elderly Armenian man who required assistance purchasing bottled water from an automated vendor, I would react with a bit of confusion.

"You help me?" he suggested, waving several dollar bills in his hand, startling me out of the aimless stupor that characterizes my constitutionals through large shopping centers. With caution, I approached and accepted the assignment designated to my person. The gentleman offered further clarification.

"You help me buy it." He pointed to the vending machine. It was not a difficult device to use; it had very large buttons that clearly advertised the products the consumer had the opportunity to purchase, exactly like the one you see below.

"Sure. You put the money there," I instructed my elderly pupil, directing his attention to the receptacle for paper currency.

He timidly submitted a dollar to the machine, as if to suggest that maybe it would like one. His thrusts were so limp that the bill slot refused to acknowledge the presence of legal tender.

"Here, let me try," I offered. I recall a slight hesitation on his part, like that of a skittish feline, but I slowly and steadily extended my hand, and he granted me use of his fiduciary resources. I quickly and confidently inserted one dollar, and then a second dollar, and from there my protégé sprang into action without further tutelage. He selected an Aquafina with a skillful press of the button, and had no difficulty with retrieval of his beverage or the 50 cents in change.

He thanked me, and I departed, accepting his thanks.

But my small good deed carried with it a terrible burden: endless speculation. Just who was this fellow, and why didn't he know how to use a vending machine? And why choose me as his instructor?

Why was this particular elderly Armenian man all alone? The described events unfolded in the city of Glendale, California, which has the highest concentration of Armenians of any American municipality. Furthermore, groups of elderly Armenian men are known to congregate in the public parks of Glendale. They huddle around picnic tables, angrily discussing Armenian politics (at least I imagine they're angrily discussing Armenian politics; I don't speak Armenian), and occasionally playing chess. The point I excise from these observations is that the presence of a lone elderly Armenian man is far more suspicious than a rowdy throng of them.

Could he be a very recent immigrant from Armenia? This might explain his lack of participation in communal conference with his peers, a result of unfamiliarity with the customs of Glendale. His inexperience with vending machines might be explained by growing up in Soviet Armenia, where the freedom of choice offered by such devices would certainly be frowned upon by the totalitarian regime.

Perhaps he had recently awoken from a lengthy coma? This could explain his unfamiliarity with the bill insertion slot, as well as his need for bottled water, as I would imagine one would wake up from a coma quite parched.

Was he a Terminator-style killbot, sent from the future to identify the future leader of the human resistance to a machine army, by collecting fingerprints on the dollar bills? Given that I'm still alive over six months later, we can only conclude that if this scenario is true, he is a very bad killbot, or I am not the future leader of the human resistance.

I fear the weight of insatiable inquisition is mine to bear until such a time as I can solve this puzzle.