Eidolon
Carrie Cook “Thank you for calling Eidolon customer service. How may I help you?” “Yeah, hi. So I went to the Eidolon on Greaves Avenue, and I was there for forty minutes before anybody even said hello, and so I asked to speak with the manager, Gerry, I think, who really talked down to me the whole time I was there. He set me up with the Ancestral Package, and it doesn’t work right. I should’ve known. I mean, really, there’s not even any ancestors. I wanted to talk to Mom again, and maybe Grandad, but there’s just this weird guy who rifles through my fridge, looking for potato chips.” “What’s your account number, please?” “I gave all that to the automated thingie, before it put me on hold. For fifteen minutes, I might add.” “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’ve had a lot of service calls lately.” “I bet.” “The system doesn’t give me account information, though. If you could just repeat the number so I can look it up?” “Then why does it ask?” “To verify that you’re our customer, ma’am.” “Fine. It’s 854129.” “Got it. Mrs. Coates. I see you’re in the system, and you have the Ancestral Package.” “I just told you that.” “And the Spirit apparating isn’t a relative?” “Yes. That’s the problem. I mean, he’s looking in my refrigerator for chips. And when I ask who he is, he just says, ‘Eff those camping spawn killers.’ Only, he says the actual f-word, not eff. He’s not even old enough to be an ancestor. He has acne, for goodness sake.” “I apologize, ma’am. We’ll get to the bottom of this. The first thing were going to do is check the equipment. Let me just pull up your service contract.” “I bought this so I could see my ancestors. That’s the promise Gerry made me. Satisfaction guaranteed, right? But now I have this guy in my apartment, opening and closing the refrigerator, saying Doritos, saying eff this and eff that, changing the channel on the TV to Fox News, and my cat’s been hiding behind the toilet and losing hair since he showed up, and I turned the dang thing off and that didn’t work, he won’t go away, and I can’t believe this company. This thing is just a—a piece of excrement.” “You should have a Genetic Apparator 3500. Could you flip the Apparator over and read me the serial number?” “Fine. I wanted to see my mom, not some potty-mouthed weirdo. You know, we didn’t have a strained relationship or anything, but she didn’t like to talk on the phone and I live in Kansas. We just didn’t talk. I thought—I just thought that she’d—I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.” “Ma’am. The serial number?” “It’s GN-3278416.” “Let me just pull that up; okay, it’s the right model, so the next thing we’ll check is if there’s an item in the Genetic Chamber.” “I’m so stupid, you know? I thought she’d be here forever. Stupid. No one lives forever.” “Ma’am, if you’ll just open the Chamber and let me know what you put inside—” “She told me on the phone she was dying. She told me but I didn’t go right away; I finished the movie I was watching before I even went to check flights. Pleasantville. Can you believe it? I watched Pleasantville, a movie I already saw a hundred times.” “Mrs. Coates, if you could just tell me—” “When I got there, I showed her pictures of the cat I got last year. Last year! She hadn’t even seen Muffin.” “Eidolon recommends that you put hair, teeth, or nails in the chamber. Ma’am, what do you have in the Chamber?” “What chamber?” “The Genetic Chamber.” “Where is that?” “There’s an orange button on the front of the Apparator. Hold it for three seconds and it should open.” “I don’t have anything from her. How can I put anything in there? I don’t have any hair, or any nails, or any—any teeth. That’s the point. I went there, and she was still alive, and she was still alive when I left. She died the day after I left. I wasn’t there, you know? Dad told me it was inevitable, she had liver cancer, it was better this way. But it was me.” “Ma’am, you put your genetic material inside the chamber. If you want to see your ancestors, you got to put your material in.” “She died when I left. I did it. I should have stayed, and maybe she would’ve gotten better. But I didn’t, because I didn’t have the time.” “Mrs. Coates—” “I want a refund. I want to cancel my account. I want to see Mom, I want to tell her I’m sorry, I want to talk to her every day. I can’t now, because of this, because of this—sweaty pimple—looking for my chips.” “Your Ancestral Package didn’t come with Psychological Support, but I can transfer you free of charge today.” “I don’t want to talk to Psychological Support. I want to talk to your supervisor.” “Certainly, ma’am. Let me just place you on hold.” |
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About the Author:
Carrie Cook retired from the military in 2008 and began studying creative writing at Kansas State University shortly thereafter, with a slight detour for a degree in fashion design. Originally from California, she currently enjoys mountain living with her husband and three dogs. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in The Columbia Review, Menacing Hedge, Midwestern Gothic and Bartleby Snopes.
Carrie Cook retired from the military in 2008 and began studying creative writing at Kansas State University shortly thereafter, with a slight detour for a degree in fashion design. Originally from California, she currently enjoys mountain living with her husband and three dogs. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in The Columbia Review, Menacing Hedge, Midwestern Gothic and Bartleby Snopes.
