Harold opened the phone book and started with the letter Q. He had always liked the letter, particularly its alphabetic conjunction with R, S. Damn. Why is it so few people answer their phones on a Saturday? “God made Saturdays for working in the home”, Harold said aloud, “and I need to off-load this piana!”

After listening to the answering service message, left by a man named Quaintance, Harold carefully delivered his name, telephone number, home address, in case the man wished to reply via the post, and a detailed description of the instrument he desired to sell.

There had been discouraging Saturdays, letters like C and L that had left him crestfallen. Even letters that had stung and humiliated Harold like F and T, but ever since his retirement back in 1977, his only duty had been these weekend sales. Selling personal and found items was Harold’s job, and he was not a quitter. This last call was pleasing enough. Harold noted what he felt was an improvement in his message leaving and was ready to tackle more calls.

A woman had once suggested putting an add in the paper, “You know, let the advertising do the work for you.” Thought she was a real help, that one. Loathsome as he found hang-ups, akin to line cutters and loud public conversation, Harold dropped the receiver in its cradle hard enough to sound ding. Papers were shifty in his estimation, full of reviews on restaurants that only serve spicy food and other numerous perversions.

Quering, Quigley, Quinden…
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello sir, my name is Harold Rinkler and I was won-“
“Who?”
“Harold Rinkler, would you-“
“Yes sir.”
“Harold Rinkler.“
“Harold Rinkler?”
“Yes, my name is Harold Rinkler and I-“
“Dolores! There’s a man on the phone. Would you come and take this thing, I can’t understand a word he’s sayin'.”
“I’m sorry sir, my husband is a bit hard of hearing and not so goo-“
“I…
“What?”
“Buy my piana!”
click.