MAN: Something like that. Your name is Nurse Angela, let’s say. You’re a hot little number, a feisty Latina. You’ve got the prettiest brown eyes. You’ve also got great knockers.

OPERATOR: And what am I wearing? Triangle hat with a red cross on it, white dress with my bust bursting through the buttons, that kind of thing?

MAN: Standard-issue scrubs will do. Pink top and loose pink pants, but bare underneath. Let’s also pretend I’ve got severe arthritis in my joints and lost a foot to diabetes, so I’m confined to a wheelchair.

OPERATOR: Gotcha. So you need me to help with routine tasks, to bend over and lift you in and out of that wheelchair while brushing my big breasts against you, am I right?

MAN: Oh yes. Now, what I want you to do is come into my room and act normal—take my blood sugar, give me my shot, fluff my pillows. Then I want you to shimmy out of those scrubs and sit on my face.

“Wow, so Mr. Harris has a hard-on for Angie,” I said. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve seen him chase her around with his stalker eyes.”

“I’ve seen it, too, but to be fair,” Wally replied, “I think about me and her in all sorts of compromising scenarios. The only difference is I’m actually in prime physical condition to do something about it.”

“Sure, you’re such a dreamboat.”

“I’ve been lifting. I’m getting solid pecs.”

“So what happens next? She fluffs his pillows, then lets him motorboat her lady pillows, as requested?”

“Pretty much. There’s lots of, ‘Dios mío, never before have I felt so much pleasure. Your tongue is like el diablo.’ Want to hear the rest?”

“As it is now, I don’t think I can make eye contact with Angie for a few days.”

“Tell me about it. Mr. Klein—you know, the bowlegged guy with the colostomy bag? He’s wicked into food. He’ll call up girls and be like, ‘I am gonna make me an ice-cream sundae on your beautiful body, with macadamia nuts, chocolate syrup, and a cherry on top of your clit.’ A few days ago, he told a woman he wanted to eat an open-faced turkey sandwich from her open-faced butt crack. I saw him the following afternoon getting some chicken nuggets in the cafeteria, and I had to look away. He was staring at those chicken nuggets like he was going to do terrible things with them. I can’t change his bag anymore without getting the heebie-jeebies.”

“Why are you immortalizing this for posterity?”

“Are you kidding? You should get in on it with me. I’m thinking social media, dramatic rights, book deal, the works.”

Soon enough, more of the staff found out about Wally’s secret project. He would gather anyone who was around for coffee breaks in order to listen to the recent recordings. While he kept trying to convince the rest of us to assist in the taping process, no one took to the idea. Once he managed to set up digital conversions, he privately told me about their online existence in his cloud account. I’d download and queue up one of his audio files in the car during my commute—the hushed voices oddly soothing, like listening to some kind of perverted ocean. On occasion, I would even have them going while cooking a meal or lying on the couch, awash in the nimbus of muted television documentaries on cults.