Fall of 1995, Boston, Massachusetts

By Pete Cummin

After setting the date and time on my new GE digital-answering machine, I am now ready to leave the all-important outgoing message.

I contemplate leaving some type of joke message – “Hello? … Hello? … I can’t hear you! … oh, that’s right I’m only an answering machine.” However, being a comedy writer, people will expect me to leave the best, most original outgoing-message joke in the history of outgoing-message jokes. It’s too much pressure.

No, my message needs to be short, professional, and direct. And it needs to have my name in it. I hate when people leave messages like, “You have reached 659-7161. Please leave a message.” What’s the point in telling me that I reached the number I just dialed? I know that. I just dialed it.

“You’ve reached the home of Pete Cummin. Please, leave a message.” Perfect. And it lets people know who they’ve reached. So placing my mouth approximately 6 inches from the tiny slit marked Microphone, I press and hold down the Answer 1 button, wait for the beep, and say, “You’ve reached the home of…. Pppppete … Cccc … Fuck!” I release my finger.

“Beep,” the machine retorts.

I knew this was going to happen. You see, I stutter sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. In fact, you could talk to me for 20 minutes and barely detect it.

Certain words and situations bring it out more than others. Words that start with a hard consonant like B, K, or P, and are followed by a vowel sound such as “eee” or “uhh,” are particularly difficult, which is why being named Pete Cummin sucks. Sean Sloan – great name; it should’ve been mine.

Now back to the task at hand. Holding down the Answer 1 button again, I wait for the beep and … “You’ve reached the home of Ppppppppppp … Pppppppp….” My lips sputter like an outboard engine, refusing to separate, and give me the damn “ete.”

“Fuck!” I say again, taking my hand off the Answer 1 button.

“Beep!” the machine says again, informing me that at least one of us is working properly.

I give another try. “Hi, you’ve reached the home of Ppppppp.…” Amazing! Every pore in my body is shouting “Pete Cummin!” but my lips are paralyzed. They’re like that spastic kid in right field who just watches the baseball sail over his head. Do something!

“…ete,” I eventually say, quickly following it with “Ccccccc.…” This is perfect. Because in my Little League analogy, the ball lands 10 feet behind the kid and rolls around a bit before he finally picks it up. With his teammates yelling for him to throw to the cutoff man, he pulls his arm back and … and the ball squirts from his hand and falls on the ground behind him.

“Cccccccc….”

Now my fist is banging on the desk, trying to force the “ummin” out. Every muscle in my face is contracted, my back is arched and my shoulders are up by my ears. But none of this matters because the other team’s players are all running around the bases crossing home plate. I’ve single-handedly lost the game.

“Fuck!” Stupid lips.

I try four or five more times to leave a message - all unsuccessful. Not good. But whatever I do, I can’t make a problem out of this, because if it becomes a problem, then I’m going to be here all day. I don’t always stutter, even on my name, so theoretically, I can do this. Right? Right. “So this isn’t a problem,” I tell myself, “it’s a challenge.”

It seems to me that part of the difficulty lies in the abrupt nature in which the machine is asking me to leave my message: “BEEP! Say it! Go! 1, 2, 3 seconds gone by; what are you waiting for? SPEAK!” Maybe if I can get into a smooth speaking rhythm beforehand, and then, without ever breaking stride, push the button, and just continue talking, I’ll be able to do this.

“You’ve reached the home of Ppppete Ccccccummin you’ve reached the home of Ppete Ccummin,” I begin to chant. “You’ve reached the home of Ppete Cummin you’ve reached the home of Pete Cummin you’ve reached the home of Pete Cummin …” I press the button - WE’RE LIVE!

“…………Beep,” the thing finally says.

“…Uh … You’ve reached the home of… ” Nothing - my lips feel like they are Krazy Glued together. I back up, get a running start, and try again, “Home of…” Stupid machine! It took too long to beep and completely threw off my rhythm. I release my hand from the button.

“Beep!” it says, cheerfully oblivious to its own screw up.

“Fuck you,” I yell back. At a machine - albeit one whose crescent-shaped LCD display window is starting to look like a giant smirk - but nonetheless, a lifeless machine. And I’m an adult. And this is supposed to be a challenge.

I never stutter when I sing. Maybe I can sing or sort of half sing/half say my message. I do it. It goes smoothly. Unfortunately, when I play the message back, I sound like an Italian immigrant in an old Warner Bros. cartoon - “Yuvv reeeched the hommuv Peedacummin” – which doesn’t exactly scream “professional.”

I also don’t stutter when imitating the Moviefone guy. But, “HellOooo You’Vvve ReeeChed PeeDer CuMMinn…” just makes me sound like an asshole; or worse yet, a hack comic trying to do a Moviefone impression.

OK, it’s time to try another tactic – total relaxation. After taking a series of deep breaths, I close my eyes and imagine myself at the beach, having a picnic with my wife.

It’s late Saturday afternoon. We have the entire night and following day to ourselves. We are talking. We are laughing. Life is good. I take a sip of wine, pop another cracker with melted brie into my mouth, casually lean over, hold down the ‘Message 1’ button and…

“Beep.”

“You’ve reached the home of PpppppFUCK!”

“Beep.” Okay, back to the beach, the beach…

“Beep.”

“You’ve reached the home of PPpppppp…”

“Beep.” Come on…

“Beep.”

“You’ve reached the home of PPppppATHETIC FUCKING LOSER!”

“BEEP!”

“BEEP!”

“YOU’VE REACHED PETE CUMMIN! LEAVE A MESSAGE!”

“BEEP!”

Hey, that was it! I play it back. Crystal clear; however, while it’s apparent that I’m not home and don’t stutter, it’s also apparent that I’m a madman who hates all callers. Probably not good for business.

Except maybe, just maybe, I can do a controlled yell. If I just yell on my name, but make sure that I’m far enough away from the machine when I do it, it might sound passable. I press the button…

“Beep.”

“You’ve reached the home of.…” then, keeping my finger down, I lift my mouth away from the machine, look up to the ceiling and shout, “PETE CUMMIN!” before turning my head back and ending with, “Please leave a message.”

Yeah.

Okedokey.

When I play it back, it sounds like the caller’s actually reached the mouth of a well, in which Pete Cummin is trapped inside, shouting for his life. I’m a fucking idiot!

Enraged and frustrated, the next 20 minutes are a blur of beeps, p’s, and FUCKs! mixed with slogans of self-hatred and thoughts of revenge (against whom I don’t know). A brief summary follows:

“PpppFUCKPpppSTUPIDFUCK … yeahwhoyoulaughing … PpppFUCK … youwannagoFUCKME … PppppSAYITYOUASSHOLE … what’dyousayFUCKYOU … PppppLOSER … whosorrynowFUCKYOU … PPpppppppppppppppFUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!!”

I knock the machine clear across the room.

Fortunately, it bounces off my sofa and lands rather safely on the floor. But I instantly feel regret. Grown men are not supposed to fly into temper tantrums, especially against helpless General Electric products. How could I let myself get like this?

I pick the machine up, place it back on the desk, and inspect for damages. Except for the battery compartment popping open, it looks pretty good. Even its once-sardonic grin seems to have been replaced by a crescent-shaped LCD display window.

I set the date and time on my now slightly worn GE digital-answering machine, and then, placing my mouth 6 inches from the tiny slit marked Microphone, I hold down the Answer 1 button, wait for the beep, and say, “You’ve reached 659-7162. Please leave a message.” I release my finger.

“Beep.” Perfect. After all, it’s better to not be quite sure you’ve reached Pete Cummin, than to be 100 percent certain you reached “Ppppete Ccccummin.”

Fuck, that was hard.

Despite the surly tone and questionable morals expressed in his writing, Pete is a graduate of Harvard University. All of his stories are 100 percent true and, when studied as a whole, offer the astute reader a practical theorem as to how a Harvard diploma can one day metamorphose into a beautiful piece of scrap paper. This story was originally published in National Lampoon.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, August 29th, 2007 | Email This Post

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