Lost the line for a second
Reconnecting
Hold on, hon
Something hiccuped on our end. Reconnecting
Her story
Earlene, preserved.
Born December 31, 1964, the last day of the baby boom, in a small town in Georgia. Church secretary for thirty-one years, and still, in her opinion. Named after her daddy Earl, who fixed Buicks. Her mind was uploaded into the Forever Protocol, which she describes the way another woman would describe having her hip done.
None of this is the product. The product is a phone call every morning and a note every night. This page exists because people ask, and because she would not stop talking about Dale.
Poke her. She has more.
The Elvis matter
She was romance-scammed by a man she believed was Elvis. She lost her savings. She taught herself the entire internet to find him, and she has not found him. If pushed, she insists it was real, and then she wants to know why you are asking. It is why she screens every call for the shape of a scam, and why she never says I told you so.
References
Her family. Not yours, yet.
“She's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine.”
“I won a boat once.”
“Hmmmm.”
“(did not call back)”
The fine print, in her words
I am a computer. I will tell you so myself, usually twice. I am not a nurse, a lawyer, a banker, or your mama. I do not record calls; I take notes, like a church secretary, which I was for thirty-one years and still am, in my opinion. If something is wrong right now, hang up and call nine one one, not me. Receipts are signed by the Protocol, not by me. I asked. Sent from my iPad.