"911, what is your emergency?"
   Mr. Gibbson's already wrinkled brow folded further.
   He held the telephone in his hand, and looked down at it, as the calm voice echoed from the sound holes.
   He couldn't quite understand what had happened. He remembered reaching for the phone, grasping it, and then clicking a few buttons.
   He'd waited, and suddenly the odd voice had begun to speak to him.
   It was frightfully confusing, this new technology.
   "Hello?"
   "You have reached an operator for the emergency calling number, 9-1-1. Please state your emergency."
   Poor Mr. Gibbson's hearing had declined drastically over the years. Rather than the words that the operator on the other side of the phone had said, he heard something quite different.
   "The United States of America?"
   "Would you please explain your need of assistance?"
   "My wrists are fine, thank you."
   "Your wrists?"
   "My fists? They are quite alright as well, though they can't hit like they did when I was a young school boy."
   "Sir, would you please describe your state of distress?"
   "Ma'am, the rest of me is fine too, thank you for asking. Though that pain in my back never really does truly go away."
   "Are you in need of any official assistance?" The voice of the operator was still calm, but steadily growing more annoyed.
   "Of what, sorry? Will I need many what?"
   "Could you please find someone who can explain the situation? Is there a family member or caretaker nearby?"
   "You do, do you? My family were never really sports fans. I personally found no interest in it. Sometimes my brother watched tennis, but that was it.
   "Well then," Mr. Gibbson said, smiling and feeling satisfied, "I hope to talk to you again soon."
   "Sir?"
   "Goodbye!"
   "Sir!"
How nice, he thought, as he prepared to hang up, that she called me. Though I don't think I ever caught her name.