Erie-at-the-switchboard

Originally published March 25, 1994, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1062

There are some people who do their job extremely well. Their ability to do that job effects hundreds, even thousands of people every day. And when they die, their passing prompts outpourings of grief from those many hundreds and thousands of people. There are memorial services, and obituaries (albeit sometimes erroneous ones) in national newspapers.

And there are some people who do their job extremely well. Their ability to do that job effects hundreds, even thousands of people every day. And yet, by an interesting turn of priorities in our society, these people are generally not noticed. At least not consciously. Because the nature of the job is such that, if done right, the person isn’t really acknowledged by the outside world. Like a gimmick that’s part of a magician’s illusion, it makes the trick work without drawing attention to itself.

“Invisible People,” as Will Eisner might say. I prefer to think of them as “Subtle People.” If someone is invisible, then it doesn’t matter how closely you look: You still won’t see them. “Subtle,” though, means that you can indeed see them if you know where to look.

I direct you, then, to the switchboard at Marvel Comics.

If you call and ask for someone, you might get put through fairly quickly. Or there might be a lengthy delay as the operator checks over an unseen list. The delay might even be expanded if the person you’re asking for has only recently come aboard and the list isn’t updated yet. Or if the operator didn’t hear you properly, or if the name of the person you want is difficult to spell. You might be told that your party doesn’t work there.

Or let’s say you’re a kid—the kind who calls in on occasion with questions like, “Who’s faster, Superman or the Silver Surfer?” Now you might get kicked up to the WHAM! office, or perhaps to the promotions department. Or you might be greeted with befuddled silence.

And you’ll mutter to yourselves, “Boy, how inefficient. How irritating. I have other things to do. I have important business to conduct. I’m being tremendously inconvenienced. I did not need this.”

And if you’ve called before, and give it any thought, you might… you just might… remember that it wasn’t always this way. Used to be, you could get right through. A few months ago, you didn’t have to spend extra time spelling “Nicieza” (presuming you could.) You could just ask for “Fabian” and get right through. Heck, you could even ask for people by nicknames. “Is Mary Mac there?” would get you put through to Tom DeFalco’s assistant, although her real name is somewhat longer.

And if you think about it really, really hard, you might remember a voice. Low. Sultry. Subtle. “Marvel Comics,” or simply “Marvel,” the voice would purr, wrapping itself in velvet tones around the syllables. Turning two syllables into three.

“Maaarvel,” it would say, in a manner that said, “Don’t you wish you were here?”

And if you think about it really, really, really hard, you might start to notice that you’re not hearing that voice anymore. No matter what time of day you call, no matter which operator you get… that voice just ain’t speaking to you.

It’s gone.

Along with its owner.

Her name was Ericka. And she died.

She didn’t get national obits, and she didn’t get issues of CBG dedicated to her. But she’s just as dead.

She died a little over one month shy of her forty-third birthday. Born March 31, 1951, died February 22, 1994.

She was one of the Subtle People. Subtle People do their job, and everyone internally is grateful that they’re around, because they’ve been there forever and without them things would be much harder. They’re the lubricant that keep the cogs turning, the grease that attend to the squeaky wheel. One of those people whose full name becomes shortened to a sort of handle. It becomes combined with their job function, said in one breath. Problem with a voucher? Talk to Millieinaccounting. Has your check been cut yet? Consult Jackieinpayroll. Expecting a Federal Express package? Check with Joeinthemailroom. Waiting for something to come in through the fax machine? Call Erieattheswitchboard.

Oh.

You can’t call Erieattheswitchboard.

She’s gone.

Erie (pronounced “airy”) began working at Marvel Comics nine years ago. Her official title was that of “receptionist.” Strictly speaking, a receptionist sits at the front desk of a company and is a sort of public face. She greets people who come in, tells them to take a seat, and calls those employees with whom an appointment is held to inform them that so-and-so is here. And, with a button underneath her desk, she can also electronically unlatch the large glass door that blocks the reception area from the actual office (a security procedure to prevent theft of artwork, for example.)

In the case of Marvel Comics, she’ll also get the occasional would-be freelancer. The tyro, trying to break in to the business, who might adopt strategies ranging from outright bluff (“Joey Cavalieri is expecting me. No need to call him. Just buzz me right in, and I won’t take up any more of your time.”) to outright begging (“This’ll just take five minutes! Just let me show my portfolio to someone! Anyone!”) All of them, all visitors, must be dealt with without losing one’s temper or one’s mind.

That’s what Erie did.

Except she also fielded phone calls. Dozens. Hundreds.

Probably a thousand or more in the course of a day (although I admit I haven’t counted, but it doesn’t seem unreasonable).

Marvel hasn’t exactly shrunk over the past nine years, now, has it? So Erie would operate the switchboard, switching callers through to their parties so quickly that either she had an incredible ability to scan the directory, or else an absolutely encyclopedic knowledge of who was where. Operating the switchboard while dealing with visitors…

Plus she operated the main fax machine on the tenth floor. Situated to her immediate right, the thing is constantly in use. Either there are faxes going in or coming out.

Paul Curtis at Marvel related to me how he would see Ericka besieged from all sides. Let’s take what some might term a worst case scenario, although others might just call it a day at the office. There would be Erie, and the fax machine would be out of paper and an editor might be shrieking about something that a freelancer swore he faxed in but it’s not anywhere and where is it, and the Very Important Person in the reception area who is accustomed to having hundreds of fans waiting hours for his autograph has now been made to wait for five whole minutes for an editor to come out, and hey, lady, yeah, you at the switchboard, call this jerk and tell him to get his butt out there, and Erie is arguing with the editor, and trying not to blow up at the freelancer while reloading the fax machine…

…and then the switchboard rings.

And according to Paul, no matter what else was going on, Erie could pick up the phone, her voice would drop about half an octave and she would murmur, “Maaaarvel.”

It would have been nice if she had had six arms, four ears and three mouths. It would have made her job a hëll of a lot easier.

But she didn’t.

What she had was a son, Lamontte, who still works in the Marvel mailroom. She had a home in the Bronx. She had a husband from whom she was separated.

And then, one day… she had stomach cancer.

And then she had a stay in the hospital.

And then she had a funeral.

The world goes on, of course, as it will most likely continue to do. Marvel hasn’t folded up its tent, or shut down the switchboard, or stopped taking calls. Various operators and a few temps are being pressed into service. Mistakes are being made, which is natural and understandable, although not very subtle.

The other day my studio line started ringing. And I picked it up and heard, not a voice, but a high-pitched tone that I knew all too well. It was a fax machine. Someone was trying to fax me something, and they had the wrong number. My fax machine is hooked up to a dedicated line (or, as I once mistakenly called it while on the phone with Harlan Ellison, a “devoted” line. “Devoted?!?” he said. Without missing a beat–since backing down to Harlan is always unwise–I said, “Yes, because my fax line really adores me,” which broke him up and got me off the hook).

There are few things more frustrating than staying on the line with a fax tone and saying, “Hello?! Helloooo?!”, particularly when–as in this case–the sender doesn’t pick up the phone to see why the fax isn’t going through.

From time to time throughout the rest of the day, the fax machine would call back and beep at me again. Finally the caller herself phoned up to find out what was going on. Turned out it was one of the replacement receptionists from Marvel. She’d been given the wrong number by someone at Marvel. Now, Erie would have known my fax number, but the replacement had been betrayed by wrong information. It wasn’t her fault, but nevertheless she was flustered and apologetic.

And she said, “I’m really sorry. I’m just the receptionist.” Now me… it may sound corny, but I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who is “just” anything.

Be patient with the Marvel operators for a while, folks. They’ll need all the help they can get.

Then again, don’t we all?

(Peter David, writer of stuff, extends his condolences to Ericka’s friends, family and co-workers. She will be missed.)