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"1-800-ME"I was lonely so I got an 800 number. But nobody called me. Except wrong numbers. “Hello?” I’d answer. And they’d say, “Uh . . . . Is this Mac Technical Support?” or, “Uh . . . Is this the Sexuality Crisis Hotline?” or, “Uh . . . National Association of Catalog Showroom Merchandisers?” I’d say, “Yes,” and try to help them—troubleshoot their repeated system crashes (though I’ve never used a Mac), advise them on how to increase their sell-through (though I’m not sure what that is) of home furnishings, talk them through their feelings and develop a plan of action to clarify them (though I’ve never even been “bi-curious”). Anything to keep them on the line. And if we hit an impasse, I’d tell them I was transferring them over to Sanjay or Amber or Bob, press Hold (I got a free business phone with my number), and hang up. Once I even got a call for U.S. Airways, a woman wanting to buy a ticket. So I asked her, “Outbound from?” and “Inbound to?” and departure date and return date and so on, tapping on my keyboard all the while. Told her some available flights, and finally booked her one, with only a one-hour layover in Denver, for a mere $278. “Wow, that’s cheap!” she said. “Yeah,” I said, “we’re having a national sale. Today only.” I took her credit card number—I didn’t use it, of course; I mean, I’m not a crook—and email address and told her she’d receive confirmation of her E-ticket within 24 hours. That way, when she didn’t get it, she’d call U.S. Air again and find out she didn’t really have a ticket and still be able to get one. But for now she was grateful. As was I: I’d had someone to talk to for twenty-seven minutes. * * * One day a woman—younger, I could tell—called and asked, without hesitation, if I was Save the Manatees. “Yes,” I said, but then something—her voice, maybe, my mood—made me change my mind. “No.” “Oh. What organization is it, then?” I told her I’m not an organization. That I’m Gary. “Why do you have an 800 number, then, Gary?” There was none of the sarcasm I was used to. “I was lonely.” “Do people call?” “You did.” “Uh-huh.” There was a lull. “So what do you do, Gary, just sit around in your apartment all day waiting for wrong numbers?” There it was. “I’m a writer.” “Really?” That always got ’em. “Anything I’d have read?” “Highly doubtful.” “What do you write?” “Stories, mostly.” “What kind? Like mystery? Science fiction?” “Dramatic. Literary.” “How interesting. Maybe I could read one sometime?” “Maybe. I’d have to meet you first, see if you’re the right kind of person.” “And what kind is that?” “Intelligent, discerning. Literary.” “Uh-huh. Well, let’s meet for coffee then, and you can see for yourself.” I thought about it. “Okay. Where do you live?” “New York. City. You?” “Boston.” “Great, I’ll fly up!” * * * We met at Francesca’s, around the corner. She had coffee, I my African Nectar decaf tea. Her name was Ginger. She was actually pretty cute—short red hair, long legs. After we’d talked a while she said, “Has anyone ever told you you sort of look like Val Kilmer?” I stiffened, shook my head. “Who’s she?” For some reason this amused her. “Don’t you go to the movies?” “Movies and TV are death to the serious fiction writer. Why.” “Oh,” she nodded gravely. “Anyway, he’s an actor.” “I see.” “And a very handsome one.” She smiled. “I see.” “You’re an interesting guy, Gary.” “You too.” (I’m actually not the greatest conversationalist.) She snorted. Then added, as though I hadn’t gotten it, “And handsome.” “You too.” “So . . . do I pass the test? Can I read one of your stories now?” “If you sleep with me first.” A little trick I learned—and adapted—from Richard Feynman. This time she just smirked. * * * Afterward we sat next to each other on the bed propped up against pillows, she reading my story, me For Whom the Bell Tolls. When she was done, I told her to be honest. “It’s good,” she said. “But a little unbelievable. And I’m not sure I see the point.” “What?” I put my book down. “I’m sorry, but I mean, this guy goes to Mexico on vacation, and he sleeps with fifteen women in one week? And once with four at the same time?” “Your point being?” “Don’t you think that’s a bit many?” “It’s fiction.” “I know, but even if we can, what’s the phrase, ‘suspend our disbelief,’ I don’t really see what your point is, what it’s teaching us. Isn’t literature supposed to—” “Get out.” “What?” “No one criticizes my work like that.” “But you told me to be honest!” “Yes, but I didn’t say tear it to pieces.” “I didn’t ‘tear it to pieces’!” I just smiled sadly. Her eyes widened. “You were just using your writing to get me into bed!” “You were just using sex to get into my writing,” I responded. She was crying now. “I’m sorry, Gary. Really. I told you I liked it. But I promise, I’ll never criticize your work again.” “That’s right. Goodbye.” I began to hand her her clothes. “Gary, please.” She grabbed my arm. “I really like you. We can work this out. You’re really special!” I shook my head. “Sorry. It’s just too painful.” Somehow after this the 800 number wasn’t as much fun anymore. So I got rid of it. ©2005 Eric C. Grunwald. Published in Edit Red (fka Spoiled Ink) in September, 2005. |
