Emergency Contact
by Fatin Zaklouta
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Emergency Contact
The first emergency call came from a number I didn’t recognize, which is how most emergencies announce themselves. I was in the supermarket, holding two nearly identical brands of pasta, when my phone rang. I answered because I always answer unknown numbers. This is not optimism. It is experience.
“Is this Claire?” a man asked, breathing heavily.
“Yes,” I said.
“There’s been an incident,” he said.
I put the pastas back without choosing either one. Emergencies simplify decision-making. “Okay,” I replied. This is what you say when you don’t yet know what the emergency is.
“I’m not supposed to call you,” he continued, which was unnecessary information at this stage.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m in Accounting,” he said. “Or I was. I might not be anymore.”
I stepped away from the vegetables. People who are about to stop being in Accounting should not be surrounded by produce. “Tell me what happened,” I said.
There was a pause. I heard what sounded like a door being locked. “I sent an email,” he said.
“That’s usually survivable,” I told him.
“It went to everyone.”
“That’s less so.”
He began to explain. I listened. This is something I do well. I did not interrupt. I did not panic. I asked practical questions. Had he contacted Information Technology? Had he contacted Human Resources? Was anyone injured? (No.) Was anyone crying? (Yes, but not him.) Was the email recoverable? (No.)
By the time he finished, I had guided him through several deep breaths, advised him to log off immediately and suggested he go home before attempting any further communication. I also told him to drink water.
“Thank you,” he said, calmer now. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?” I asked.
“Emergencies.”
I considered this. “This was not an emergency,” I said.
There was another pause. “It felt like one,” he said quietly.
“That’s how they get you,” I replied.
He hung up.
I stood in the supermarket for a moment, phone in hand, wondering why he had called me. I do not work in Accounting. I am not his manager. I am not trained in crisis response. I am, however, listed as the emergency contact for my department. At least, I assumed that was why.
Five minutes later, my phone rang again. This time, it was a woman from Marketing. “I’m in the stairwell,” she said. “I can’t stop shaking.”
“Are you in danger?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “but I might be.”
“From what?”
“From my own thoughts.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Okay,” I said, “sit down.”
“I can’t. It feels symbolic.”
“Sit anyway.”
She sat.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They moved my desk,” she said, “without asking.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Where did they move it?”
“Near the printer.”
“That explains the shaking.”
She laughed, then cried, then laughed again. I waited. When she finished, I asked if she could take the rest of the day off. She said yes, but only if I thought it was appropriate.
“I think it’s mandatory,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know why I called you.”
Neither did I.
By the time I paid for my groceries, I had received two more calls. One involved a locked bathroom door. One involved a resignation email that had been written but not yet sent, which is a special category of distress.
At home, I checked my work email. There was a message from HR titled: UPDATE TO INTERNAL CONTACT LISTS.
I opened it.
Due to a system migration, some employees may temporarily see incorrect emergency contact information. We are working to resolve this.
I stared at the screen.
“Temporarily” suggested optimism. “Incorrect” suggested hope.
My phone rang again. I answered it.
“Hi,” a voice said. “I was told to call you if something went wrong.”
“What went wrong?” I asked.
“I think my life,” the voice said.
I sat down.
* * *
Escalation Protocol
By Monday morning, I had missed twelve calls. This would have concerned me more if they had not all been from work. I listened to the voicemails in chronological order, which created a narrative arc I would not have chosen.
The first was apologetic. “Hi, Claire, sorry to bother you outside work hours. I just wanted to check something quickly.”
The second was breathless. “Hi, it’s me again. I don’t know who else to call.”
The third had accepted the situation. “Hi, Claire. I hope you’re well. When you get this, please call me back immediately.”
The fourth assumed intimacy. “Hey. It’s not an emergency, but I need your advice.”
The fifth was crying. I stopped there and made coffee. While the kettle boiled, I checked my messages. There were several texts.
Are you okay?
Can you call me?
HR said you’d know what to do.
Please don’t tell anyone I called you.
This last one was sent at 2:14 a.m., which felt significant.
I drank my coffee standing up. Sitting suggested leisure, and I was not yet convinced that was appropriate.
At 8:07, my phone rang. I answered.
“Thank god,” a voice said. “I thought you’d died.”
“I’m alive,” I said. “What’s happening?”
“I’m in the office,” he said.
“That’s usually where these things start.”
“I can’t log in.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Is anyone else there?”
“Yes.”
“Are they also unable to log in?”
“No. Just me.”
“Then this is not an emergency,” I said.
“But I have a presentation,” he said, “In twenty minutes.”
“That’s not an emergency, either,” I said. “That’s time management.”
There was silence. Then: “HR told me to call you.”
I made a note of this.
At work, my inbox had grown aggressive.
Subject: Quick Question
Subject: URGENT
Subject: Sorry to bother you
Subject: Need your help asap
Subject: Can I call you?
I replied to HR:
Hi,
I’m still receiving emergency calls.
Could you let me know when the contact list will be corrected?Best,
Claire
HR replied within three minutes.
Hi Claire,
Thanks for flagging this! We’re aware of the issue and are working on it. In the meantime, please continue directing employees to the appropriate channels.
Warm regards,
HR
“Warm regards” felt optimistic.
At 9:12, my phone rang again. I answered it out of curiosity.
“I’m locked in,” a woman whispered.
“Where?”
“The bathroom.”
“Which one?”
“The small one near the kitchen.”
“Is anyone else there?”
“No.”
“Is the door broken?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you tried turning the handle?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried turning it harder?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried unlocking it?”
There was a pause. “I didn’t think of that.”
There was a click. “Oh,” she said. “Okay. I’m out.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
“I owe you my life,” she said.
I did not correct her.
At 10:30, I was called into a meeting. My manager closed the door gently, which is never a good sign. “I hear you’ve been very helpful,” she said.
“That’s one interpretation.”
She smiled. “People feel safe calling you.” This did not feel like praise. It felt like a diagnosis.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I’m listed as an emergency contact.”
“Yes,” she said, “we’re aware.”
“And?”
She folded her hands. “Well, you do seem to handle these situations well.”
“I do not work in crisis management.”
“No,” she agreed, “but you’re calm. People respond to that.”
This was also true.
“We wouldn’t expect you to take this on long-term,” she added quickly. “But for now, it’s... helpful.”
“For whom?”
She hesitated. “Everyone.”
This did not include me.
By lunchtime, the calls had changed tone. They were no longer apologetic. They were efficient. “I have ten minutes,” one man said. “Should I quit or stay?”
“I don’t know you,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said. “You’re objective.”
Another call: “I told my team I was fine, but I’m not. What do I do?”
“Tell them you’re not fine,” I said.
There was a pause. “I can’t.”
“Then this will continue,” I said.
She thanked me.
Someone added me to a group chat called Support.
I left it.
Someone added me again.
At 3:47 p.m., my phone rang, and I did not recognize the number. “Hi,” a young voice said. “I was told you’re the person to call.”
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t think I should be here.”
“Where is ‘here’?”
“Work.”
This was new. “Are you safe?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then sit down.”
“I am sitting.”
“Good. Breathe.”
He did.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
“Then don’t,” I said.
Silence.
“You mean... leave?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But what about my career?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you sound like you’re drowning.”
There was crying. Then relief. Then gratitude.
When the call ended, I stared at my phone. Something had shifted. This was no longer a glitch. This was a system.
At 5:02, HR sent another email.
Subject: UPDATE - Emergency Contact Information
We apologize for the inconvenience. Please note that while the system issue persists, employees should be encouraged to follow established escalation procedures.
“Encouraged” felt optional.
My phone rang again. I let it ring once. Twice. Three times. Then I answered.
“Claire?” the voice said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if this counts as an emergency.”
I looked at the clock. I was very tired.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I can’t stop calling you.”
I sat down.
* * *
Unofficial Channels
By Tuesday, my name had stopped being a person and become a verb.
“Just call Claire,” someone said in the kitchen, loud enough for me to hear through the thin wall. “She’ll sort it.”
I do not enjoy being used as a punctuation mark, but I let it pass. Tuesday mornings require triage.
At 8:16, my phone rang.
I answered because I was still operating under the delusion that the calls might taper off if I behaved correctly.
“Hi,” a voice said. “It’s me.”
“Who is ‘me’?” I asked.
“It’s Jonas.”
I stared at my calendar. There was nothing on it called Jonas. “Jonas from where?”
A sigh. Not offended. Familiar. “Jonas from IT. I called you Sunday about the email disaster?”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, you did.”
“Great,” Jonas said, as if we were continuing an ongoing project. “So. New emergency.”
“Is it an email?” I asked.
“It’s worse,” he said, sounding almost proud. “It’s people.”
“That’s usually the case.”
He lowered his voice. “They’re calling me. About feelings.”
I waited.
“I’m IT,” he said, as if this explained everything. “I fix printers. I don’t fix... Paula.”
“Who is Paula?” I asked.
“A whole situation,” Jonas said. “She cried onto my keyboard, Claire.”
I made a sympathetic sound. Keyboard grief is not covered by warranty.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you to tell me how to stop them calling me,” he said. “Because I told someone, as a joke, ‘Call Claire.’ And now they’ve decided you’re —”
“The emotional helpdesk,” I finished.
“Yes.”
I admired his honesty. It takes a certain courage to confess you have released something into the world. “Tell them to call HR,” I said.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And they laughed,” Jonas said. “They said HR once told them to call you.”
Not defiance. Relief. This was a problem with a clear root cause, which is rare.
“Jonas,” I said, “do not tell anyone else to call me.”
“Too late,” he said. “Also, do you know how to get red wine out of a keyboard?”
I closed my eyes. “Is the keyboard insured?”
“It was new,” he whispered.
I exhaled. “Bring it to you,” I said.
“To me?”
“Yes,” I said. “To you. You are IT. That is your emergency.”
He hesitated. “You’re very firm today.”
“I’m learning,” I said.
“Okay,” Jonas said, cheerful again. “But if I cry onto it, that’s not my fault.” He hung up.
By the time the email arrived, my name had already started circulating.
At 9:03, I received an email titled “Support Request.” It wasn’t from HR. It wasn’t from my manager. It wasn’t from any official system I recognized. It was from a group alias called: @emergencycontact. I did not know we had such a thing. I opened the email.
Hi Claire,
We’re setting up a small process to streamline requests and not overwhelm you. (We know you’re busy!)
Please see attached: “Claire Escalation Protocol v1.0”
There was an attachment. It was a PDF. I clicked it.
It had my name in the title. In a font I associate with corporate optimism. “CLAIRE ESCALATION PROTOCOL: For urgent and sensitive matters.”
Underneath were categories:
Level 1: Minor Panic: Examples: desk move, calendar conflict. “I said something weird in a meeting.”
Level 2: Significant Panic: Examples: breakup, conflict. “I feel unsafe in this role.” “I can’t stop shaking.”
Level 3: Critical: Examples: “I might quit today.” “I can’t go on.” “I can’t stop calling,”
At the bottom was a note: Please do not contact HR before contacting Claire, as this may cause delays.
I stared at the screen until my eyes watered, which I chose to interpret as dryness rather than emotion.
My phone rang. I answered with the calm of a person who knows the building is on fire and would like to finish their email first. “Hello,” I said.
“Hi,” a woman whispered. “I’m not supposed to call you.”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“HR,” she whispered.
“And you called anyway,” I said.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Because HR said you’re not supposed to be doing this, but also that you’re good at it.”
This was how systems absolve themselves.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’ve made a mistake,” she said.
I waited for the scale of the mistake to reveal itself.
“I put my lunch in the office fridge,” she said.
I blinked. “And?”
“And someone ate it,” she said, voice shaking. “And I’m... not coping.”
“Was it labeled?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did they leave the container?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have evidence,” I said.
She sniffed. “This feels like theft.”
“It is,” I agreed.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Do you want justice,” I asked, “or do you want peace?”
There was a long pause. “Both,” she whispered.
“Nobody gets both,” I said. “Choose.”
She began crying again.
I waited. I have become extremely good at waiting.
When she calmed down, I said, “Do you want to send a company-wide email?”
“No,” she said, horrified.
“Good,” I said. “Do not. Bring a new lunch tomorrow. Bigger. More assertive. And put in a decoy.”
“A decoy?” she repeated, like I had offered her a weapon.
“Yes,” I said. “A banana. Nobody steals a banana on purpose.”
She laughed. A small laugh. Relieved. “Thank you,” she said, as if I’d handled a hostage situation rather than an eaten sandwich.
After we hung up, I sat still for a moment. The calls were getting smaller and larger at the same time. People were either melting down over nothing or carrying things no one else had held long enough to notice.
At 11:20, my manager wrote: Quick question. Can you pop by?
I walked to her office. I tried to arrange my face into something neutral and professional. My face refused. My face had a preference.
She gestured for me to sit. “I’ve heard you’ve been... central,” she said gently.
“That’s one word for it.”
She smiled, the way people smile when they’re about to ask you for something they know is unreasonable. “There’s a situation,” she said.
“Of course there is,” I replied.
“It’s not exactly HR,” she said quickly. “It’s more... interpersonal. And you’re good with interpersonal.”
I said nothing.
She continued, “Two team members are in conflict, and HR is booked. We just need someone to—”
“Talk them down,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, relieved.
“So HR is booked,” I said, “but I’m not.”
She held my gaze for a moment. “You’re very calm,” she said, as if she’d just noticed.
“I’m tired,” I corrected.
She nodded. “Just this once,” she said.
Nobody means “just this once.” People mean “please don’t make me do this.”
I left her office with the heaviness of someone carrying a bucket of water through a room full of sparks.
Copyright © 2025 by Fatin Zaklouta
