hello

by ­­Michael Czyzniejewski

Dr. Whisenhunt had me come to his office so he could explain the research I’d be doing. I sat there as he sent several emails, finished a sandwich. He turned to me: “Hello.”

“Hello.”

He said, “It’s funny we say that, because Hello is your research.”

I didn’t understand anything that was happening.

Whisenhunt explained he’d just learned the word Hello hadn’t been invented until the early 1800s, and for decades, was considered vulgar slang, big-time commoner talk. When Alexander Graham Bell picked it as the standard telephone greeting, it became the word we know now: Hello.

“Can you guess his first choice?”

“Ahoy?” I’d heard that somewhere on YouTube.

“Excellent. This is going to work out just fine.”

The entire semester, I’d be tracking everything written or made after 1800 but set pre-1800, searching for the word Hello: movies, novels, stories, whatever. Whisenhunt was writing an article, something about anachronisms.

“Start with the Revolutionary War,” he said. “Every time a founding father says Hello, I want to know.”

~

Most grad students in my cohort TAed sections of History 101. Some worked in the writing center, helping craft freshman comp essays. Others researched for professors who weren’t crazy. My roommate, Bailey, worked with Dr. Timrick, our mentor, who had her translating French secret code from WWI. This other guy, Mohammed, was tracking voting habits of Black New Englanders in the 1970s. These were projects they could finish. Better yet, they mattered. Whisenhunt’s task was not only infinite and impossible, but stupid. I wanted to study secondary immigration patterns of Baltic ex-pats. Whisenhunt wanted me to help him point out that people didn’t know when Hello was invented. He was Department Chair. I was stuck.

I downloaded an old TV miniseries called George Washington and made Bailey watch it with me. It was eight hours long and starred the Brad actor from Rocky Horror. Characters said Hello thirty-seven times. Those eight hours were one hour short of my weekly commitment; a week in, and all I got was thirty-seven Hellos in one old TV show. I was not going to find all the Hellos.

Unrelated to anything, I started picturing George Washington in a leather bodice and G-string, seeing it every time I handled a dollar.

~

Bailey suggested Outlander, a show about a woman from the 1940s who travels back in time and falls for a hottie soldier in the 1740s. Her sister was in love with the actor who played Jamie. Fifteen minutes in, I was, too. He was … Jamie. I binged all the seasons. By the third episode, I’d forgotten to count Hellos.

I joined Outlander chatrooms. I wrote a fan-fic episode. I stopped thinking about immigration and stopped going to class, missing deadlines and exams. I wasn’t showering or doing laundry. Bailey said I needed help. The cohort, and Dr. Timrick, tried an intervention, which failed miserably. I had lost it.

~

Week five, Whisenhunt asked me to report what I’d found. I lied and told him it was going well, that I was almost done. He replied, “Excellent!” I was lying and he was buying it, which was so fucked up. I was just relieved he wasn’t firing me.

Whisenhunt asked to meet at a coffee shop two towns over, quite a journey for something I could’ve emailed. He said he’d buy; I was out of coffee. When I arrived, it wasn’t a coffee shop but a fancy Italian restaurant. Whisenhunt wore a sport coat, had trimmed his beard, and was wearing cologne. I hadn’t showered in forever.

Whisenhunt asked for my report. I told him I didn’t like talking with my mouth full. Whisenhunt frowned, then destroyed his veal, eating like he was being timed. He watched as I plodded through my farfalle, milking it.

Whisenhunt grilled me and I asked if he’d ever seen the Washington miniseries. He said he had, when he was a kid.

“Thirty-seven.”

Whisenhunt’s mood perked.

That was it. I’d shot my load.

I asked him if he’d ever watched Outlander. He hadn’t heard of it. I’d just finished my third binge. I was wearing a Jamie T-Shirt, his hair out of its ponytail, his eyes squinted, his steamiest pic.

“It’s amazing,” I said. “You should check it out.”

Whisenhunt’s face gave off a Are you just watching a bunch of TV? vibe. I said, “Three hundred ninety-seven.” Again, his mood rose—I’d made it up: I had no fucking idea.

Whisenhunt asked what was next, but I kept on about Claire, how she wasn’t good enough for Jamie. Whisenhunt tried to interrupt but I told him about the time travel. I guessed what he was thinking: If there was a time traveler from the twentieth century, that would skew the result: Claire could have used Hello, making it spread. It was a tainted sample, anachronism explained. I’d thought of this during Season 4.

Before Whisenhunt could speak again, I stood and started twisting around, stumbling from table to table. I claimed I was reenacting the time-travel sequences, that Claire was sent back in time by a tornado. This was another lie—magic rocks sent Claire backward—but Whisenhunt didn’t know that. I added sound effects, blowing and whooshing. I fell to the ground, pretending to be unconscious. Then I jolted up and yelled: “Where am I? Or better yet, when am I?”

Then I stood, breaking character, and took a bow. Waiters frowned. The couple at the next table applauded.

Whisenhunt signaled for the check. “Now seems to be the time to inform you that we’re dropping you from the program.”

I pretended to hear Whisenhunt but that I didn’t know where his voice was coming from, looking side to side, past him. “Jamie? Is that you?” I used a horrendous British accent, Dickensian workhouse. I put my hands against my chest, on the picture of Jamie on my shirt. “Jamie, my love. It’s me, your Claire. I have returned to you at last. Hello. Hello! Hello?”

Photo of Michael Czyzniejewski

BIO: Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has had work anthologized in the Best Small Fiction series and 40 Stories: A Portable Anthology, and has received a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.