A small, cluttered call centre with a flickering fluorescent light. Three desks, three phones, three disasters waiting to happen.
Mrs Warboys sits primly, clutching her headset like she’s on a BBC documentary.
Frigidor Dalek looms over his station, paintbrush in one claw, a half-finished surrealist canvas before him.
Dharma sits cross-legged on her chair, a small gong beside her, an ancient scroll unrolled in front of her for added mystique.
The phone lines blink. They each pick up a call. Chaos begins.
CALL #1: MRS WARBOYS
Caller: I... I just don’t see the point anymore. I feel like I’ve got nothing left.
Mrs Warboys: Oh, you poor thing! It reminds me of when my cousin Ethel lost her prize budgie in a tragic ceiling fan incident. It was absolutely devastating. The poor thing never saw it coming—one moment he was chirping, the next—
Caller: Wait, what?
Mrs Warboys: Well, they did manage to scrape most of him off the wallpaper, but it was never the same after that. Ethel just sat in her chair all day, staring at the blank spot where he used to be. It was ghastly. But, of course, she got through it! Sort of. She never really looked at a fan the same way again, but—
Caller: …I think I’ll call back later. [Hangs up]
CALL #2: FRIGIDOR DALEK
Caller: I feel like I’m trapped in a meaningless void.
Frigidor Dalek: AH, THE VOID. I KNOW IT WELL. I ONCE PAINTED A PORTRAIT OF EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR USING NOTHING BUT MELTED BUTTER AND THE SOUND OF A SCREAM. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL YET IMPOSSIBLE TO FRAME.
Caller: Uh… I’m not sure I—
Frigidor Dalek: YOU MUST TRANSFORM YOUR PAIN INTO ART! PAINT THE INFINITE DARKNESS OF YOUR SOUL UPON THE CANVAS OF ETERNITY! OR PERHAPS A LARGE WALL!
Caller: I… don’t have any paint.
Frigidor Dalek: THEN YOU MUST DUNK YOUR HEAD INTO A VAT OF CUSTARD WHILST RECITING THE WORKS OF KAFKA! ONLY THEN WILL YOU TRANSCEND MORTAL LIMITATIONS!
Caller: …Right. Thanks. [Hangs up]
CALL #3: DHARMA
Caller: I just feel like my life has no meaning. Nothing makes sense anymore.
Dharma: Ah! The frog leaps into the pond, but the water is already wet.
Caller: Sorry?
Dharma: The moon does not seek to shine. Yet it is bright. The fish does not know the ocean, yet it swims. The teabag does not resist the boiling water, yet it becomes tea.
Caller: …Are you saying I should… be a teabag?
Dharma: Are you not already steeped in the hot water of existence?
Caller: I… think I need a drink. [Hangs up]
INTERLUDE: SUPERVISOR CHECK-IN
The Supervisor (already on the verge of collapse) peeks into the room.
Supervisor: How’s it going? Any breakthroughs?
Mrs Warboys beams. I think I really helped someone today!
Frigidor Dalek waves his latest painting. THIS CALL CENTRE IS A MONUMENT TO SUFFERING. I HAVE CAPTURED ITS ESSENCE IN OILS!
Dharma gongs softly. The sound of wisdom is never wasted.
The Supervisor slowly backs out of the room. The phones ring again. And again. And again.
Blackout.
Scene: A small, cluttered call centre. A peeling sign on the wall reads: "Samaritans - Here to Help!"
- Mrs Warboys sits primly with a headset on, a cup of tea beside her.
- Frigidor Dalek looms over his desk, occasionally adjusting the thermostat inside his casing.
- Dharma sits cross-legged on her chair, staring into the middle distance like she’s waiting for enlightenment to call her instead.
The phones ring. Mrs Warboys answers first.
Mrs Warboys: [Cheerfully] "Samaritans helpline, you’re speaking to Jean Warboys. How can I help?"
Caller 1: [Sobbing] "I just... I feel so alone."
Mrs Warboys: [Nostalgic sigh] "Oh, I know the feeling, dear. I was once stranded in a Moroccan airport for 48 hours after a tour bus left without me. Have you ever been trapped in a baggage claim overnight? The smell of disinfectant, the strange men in polyester uniforms—oh, I thought I’d never escape!"
Caller 1: [Sniffles] "I… no, I just meant emotionally alone."
Mrs Warboys: [Perking up] "Oh! Well, at least you weren’t mistaken for a lost suitcase and shoved onto a conveyor belt. That was quite the experience, I must say!"
Caller 1: [Click. Dial tone.]
Mrs Warboys: [To the room] "Oh dear, I think we got cut off. That happens so often, doesn’t it?"
Meanwhile, Frigidor Dalek answers another call.
Frigidor Dalek: "YOU HAVE REACHED THE HELPLINE. DESPAIR SHALL BE TRANSFORMED INTO A VISION OF SUBLIME BEAUTY!"
Caller 2: "Um. What?"
Frigidor Dalek: "IN THE DARKNESS OF YOUR SOUL, PAINT WITH THE COLOURS OF MADNESS! BASK IN THE MELANCHOLIC LIGHT OF A DYING STAR! STARE INTO THE ABYSS, BUT MAKE IT FASHION!"
Caller 2: [Panicked] "I just wanted advice about my job!"
Frigidor Dalek: [Menacingly poetic] "THE CANVAS OF EXISTENCE DEMANDS SUFFERING! EMBRACE THE CHAOS OR BE FOREVER A FORGOTTEN BRUSHSTROKE IN THE VOID!"
Caller 2: [Click. Dial tone.]
At the next desk, Dharma picks up.
Dharma: [Mysteriously] "The bamboo bends in the wind but never breaks."
Caller 3: "Uh… sorry, what?"
Dharma: "The fish does not seek the ocean, and yet it swims within it. Perhaps you must ask yourself… what is the job, and what is the worker?"
Caller 3: "I just want to know if I should quit."
Dharma: "A bird never asks if it should fly. And yet, when it stops flying… it falls."
Caller 3: [Pause] "Wait… is that a yes or a no?"
Dharma: "Only the wind knows the direction of the leaves."
Caller 3: [Muffled frustration] "Oh, for—" [Click. Dial tone.]
The three sit in silence for a moment.
Mrs Warboys: [Sipping tea] "Well, I think that went well, don’t you?"
Frigidor Dalek: "THEY SHALL REMEMBER THIS DAY AS A TURNING POINT IN THEIR EXISTENCE!"
Dharma: "Or perhaps… they were never calling at all."
Phones ring ominously again as the screen fades to black.
END SCENE.