Hard-Boiled Drama
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
when the phone rang, I was in the kitchen, boiling a pot full of spaghetti and whistling, along with an FN broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta. I wanted to ignore the phone not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame, went to the living room and picked up the receiver. 10 minutes, please, said a woman on the other end. I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew. Excuse me. To whom did you wish to speak to you? Of course. 10 minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other. Her voice was low and soft, but otherwise nondescript understand each other each other's feelings. I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting the thieving magpie. Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti. Can I ask you to call me back later. Spaghetti. What are you doing? Cooking spaghetti at 10 30 in the morning? That's none of your business, I said. I decide what I eat and when I eat it, true enough, I'll call back, she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. A little change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice. Hold on a minute, I said before she could hang up. If this is some new sales gimmick, you can forget it. I'm out of work. I'm not in the market for anything. Don't worry. I know you know. You know what? That you're out of work. I know about that. So go cook your precious spaghetti. Who the ****? She cut the connection with no outlet for my feelings. I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti back in the kitchen. I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. Thanks to of the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating and thinking