It just wasn't my kind of place. I mean, you got to feel right about where you are for things to happen, if you
know what I mean. I don't even know what that place's jukebox has on it– probably Bananarama and select
soul tunes thrown in for flavor. I don’t even know if it has a jukebox. What's a guy to do?
A couple of days later I call her back. I get the machine. I freeze up. I get paranoid. I start thinking she has
caller ID and is avoiding me. But I think, hey, she gave me her number. She wrote it down on a something
or other. Does it get more official than that? Wasn't a drunken ink bleeding scrawl on some cheap dive's
sorry ass excuse of a napkin the classic intro? Or maybe I’m dreaming this. Maybe she wrote it down on a
bus ticket. A matchbook, a movie stub, an invitation to a party she never went to.
Maybe she was being polite. Democratic and all. Maybe she collects phone messages. Oh what I wouldn't
do for her machine's secret code. So in the privacy of my own mental womb, I could dial her up, plug in that
number, and surf through her other messages.
beep
"Yes, hullo, this is Dale the plumber. Can you call me back so I know when's the best time I can drop by to
check out your pipes? Thank ya."
beep
"Hi honey, this is Mom. Was returning your call of, oh let's see, Thursday evening. Hope everything's all
right. Love you."
beep
"Hey baby, it's Charles. Last night was out of sight. Did I leave my belt there? Call me."
beep
" Girl this is Rosalee. Did that guy ever get back to you? How was he? He isn't gay. I mean, he seemed so
nice and all. You never know. Calling to let you know that if you aren't interested in him, I might be. Talk to
me."
Nah, it couldn't be like that. She doesn't seem like that kind. I mean, she wears braids. She uses clear nail
polish. Am I getting my signals crossed, or what?
I dial her up again. I know she must know that it is me calling and hanging up but I'm hoping that her
machine doesn't record me hanging up (it's not like I'm breathing hard) and I do, can time my click with
quartz-like precision.
beep
"Me again. Hoping you know me now by voice. We got to get together soon. You must be busy working, or
I hope nothing's come up. Give me a call. I should be around most of today and tomorrow. Number is 321-
8868. Bye."
Couldn't be more straightforward than that. What I will do is wait. I won't hang out. I'll stay home. She'll call.
We'll go out. I'll see where she's coming from. We'll go out for a bite. We'll get a drink. She will see that I'm
more than a nasally voice badly taped. She'll hear that my voice is song. She'll get addicted to that tune.
We will get it on. When other men call her number in the future, they'll get me on the message machine.
beep
"Hi, we're out right now. We'll get back to you. Message us."
But it never happens this way, does it? Never except in lame movies.
She calls me back. She gets my message. This is how it happens.
beep
"Hey, it's me. So what is your problem? Are you afraid of me? Of yourself? You need to lighten up. I'm real
busy that's all. I work my ass off. I'm trying to make my job a better one, or quit. I don't know what I'm doing.
I take whatever as it comes. I hate schedules. I can't organize anything, least of all my life. I'm sorry we
can't hook up. But you need to hang loose. Not be so anal. Here's something for you. To think about.
BRRAAPPPPPPP click."
I couldn't believe it. I was astounded. She ripped one. One the phone. She farted on my machine! I have it
taped! I play it back to my friends! It's great! God, does she have guts! She does have guts. And I've
heard them!
The funny thing is is that I'm the one who's too embarrassed to call her back. Usually, people are together
for years before they can share such moments. I know married couples who can't even after years. And
she rips one on my phone. What the hell does it mean?
I call her back. I get her machine. I don't have to fart. I have ten seconds. I don't know what to say. I am
disgusted. I am enthralled. There's no time to think.
beep
What is up with that? More subtle ways to make a point. You did, didn't you. Listen, I'll call you back. Or I'll
pick you up after work. Call me, tell me the address. Friday night. We'll do happy hour. Bye."
After hanging up, I wondered what phone sex with her might be like.
Days go by. I do nothing. I check my messages endlessly. Always some idiot calling to sell me something
like life insurance, magazines, crap no one ever buys on the phone, more credit cards. I'm too afraid to call
her. Ball's in her court. Or the balls.
I watch a lot of tv. I begin drinking by myself while watching a lot of tv. I listen to music. I drink. If I had any
drugs, I'd do them. I begin cooking for myself. I invent sandwiches. Bologna and friend onions with Dijon
mustard. A fried ham/hamburger and bacon bits steak platter. I eat these things. I wait by the phone.
RRRRRRRRRIIIINNNNGG. She calls. It must be her. It's Sunday night. I put my hand on the receiver. My
machine picks up before I have the will to. It's her. There's something wrong. She's not saying anything.
She's crying. She's trying to cry. She's trying to say something.
I hear heavy breathing. I hear what sounds like pain. I hear seriousness made into sound. She's struggling.
She's fighting to hold something off. She's breathing, breathing harder. I recognize her breath. It's getting
more difficult. She's saying something like "ooooooooooooooooo". She screams as the phone cuts off,
hangs up.
I'm sweaty.
I go get the bottle.
I drink.
I don't know what else to do.
I stare at the tv screen. There are people talking. Whatever they have to say is pointless.
A woman has phoned me.
A woman has phoned me and a woman has orgasmed on my answering machine.
And if I had picked it up?
I drink.
I drink some more.
The rationality alcohol brings makes me wonder. I'm putting two and two together. Did she have someone
with her? Would she do that to me? Why would she do that to me? I don't even hardly know her. What
does she want with me? Could it have been me? What should I do.
I wait five minutes. I hold the phone in my hand. I don't want her calling back. I don't want her smoking a
cigarette on my machine. My machine is my machine. We share secrets. My machine knows everything
thing about me. Now my machine knows her. She does not know me. I do not know her. But she knows
something I don't.
She knows my machine.
know what I mean. I don't even know what that place's jukebox has on it– probably Bananarama and select
soul tunes thrown in for flavor. I don’t even know if it has a jukebox. What's a guy to do?
A couple of days later I call her back. I get the machine. I freeze up. I get paranoid. I start thinking she has
caller ID and is avoiding me. But I think, hey, she gave me her number. She wrote it down on a something
or other. Does it get more official than that? Wasn't a drunken ink bleeding scrawl on some cheap dive's
sorry ass excuse of a napkin the classic intro? Or maybe I’m dreaming this. Maybe she wrote it down on a
bus ticket. A matchbook, a movie stub, an invitation to a party she never went to.
Maybe she was being polite. Democratic and all. Maybe she collects phone messages. Oh what I wouldn't
do for her machine's secret code. So in the privacy of my own mental womb, I could dial her up, plug in that
number, and surf through her other messages.
beep
"Yes, hullo, this is Dale the plumber. Can you call me back so I know when's the best time I can drop by to
check out your pipes? Thank ya."
beep
"Hi honey, this is Mom. Was returning your call of, oh let's see, Thursday evening. Hope everything's all
right. Love you."
beep
"Hey baby, it's Charles. Last night was out of sight. Did I leave my belt there? Call me."
beep
" Girl this is Rosalee. Did that guy ever get back to you? How was he? He isn't gay. I mean, he seemed so
nice and all. You never know. Calling to let you know that if you aren't interested in him, I might be. Talk to
me."
Nah, it couldn't be like that. She doesn't seem like that kind. I mean, she wears braids. She uses clear nail
polish. Am I getting my signals crossed, or what?
I dial her up again. I know she must know that it is me calling and hanging up but I'm hoping that her
machine doesn't record me hanging up (it's not like I'm breathing hard) and I do, can time my click with
quartz-like precision.
beep
"Me again. Hoping you know me now by voice. We got to get together soon. You must be busy working, or
I hope nothing's come up. Give me a call. I should be around most of today and tomorrow. Number is 321-
8868. Bye."
Couldn't be more straightforward than that. What I will do is wait. I won't hang out. I'll stay home. She'll call.
We'll go out. I'll see where she's coming from. We'll go out for a bite. We'll get a drink. She will see that I'm
more than a nasally voice badly taped. She'll hear that my voice is song. She'll get addicted to that tune.
We will get it on. When other men call her number in the future, they'll get me on the message machine.
beep
"Hi, we're out right now. We'll get back to you. Message us."
But it never happens this way, does it? Never except in lame movies.
She calls me back. She gets my message. This is how it happens.
beep
"Hey, it's me. So what is your problem? Are you afraid of me? Of yourself? You need to lighten up. I'm real
busy that's all. I work my ass off. I'm trying to make my job a better one, or quit. I don't know what I'm doing.
I take whatever as it comes. I hate schedules. I can't organize anything, least of all my life. I'm sorry we
can't hook up. But you need to hang loose. Not be so anal. Here's something for you. To think about.
BRRAAPPPPPPP click."
I couldn't believe it. I was astounded. She ripped one. One the phone. She farted on my machine! I have it
taped! I play it back to my friends! It's great! God, does she have guts! She does have guts. And I've
heard them!
The funny thing is is that I'm the one who's too embarrassed to call her back. Usually, people are together
for years before they can share such moments. I know married couples who can't even after years. And
she rips one on my phone. What the hell does it mean?
I call her back. I get her machine. I don't have to fart. I have ten seconds. I don't know what to say. I am
disgusted. I am enthralled. There's no time to think.
beep
What is up with that? More subtle ways to make a point. You did, didn't you. Listen, I'll call you back. Or I'll
pick you up after work. Call me, tell me the address. Friday night. We'll do happy hour. Bye."
After hanging up, I wondered what phone sex with her might be like.
Days go by. I do nothing. I check my messages endlessly. Always some idiot calling to sell me something
like life insurance, magazines, crap no one ever buys on the phone, more credit cards. I'm too afraid to call
her. Ball's in her court. Or the balls.
I watch a lot of tv. I begin drinking by myself while watching a lot of tv. I listen to music. I drink. If I had any
drugs, I'd do them. I begin cooking for myself. I invent sandwiches. Bologna and friend onions with Dijon
mustard. A fried ham/hamburger and bacon bits steak platter. I eat these things. I wait by the phone.
RRRRRRRRRIIIINNNNGG. She calls. It must be her. It's Sunday night. I put my hand on the receiver. My
machine picks up before I have the will to. It's her. There's something wrong. She's not saying anything.
She's crying. She's trying to cry. She's trying to say something.
I hear heavy breathing. I hear what sounds like pain. I hear seriousness made into sound. She's struggling.
She's fighting to hold something off. She's breathing, breathing harder. I recognize her breath. It's getting
more difficult. She's saying something like "ooooooooooooooooo". She screams as the phone cuts off,
hangs up.
I'm sweaty.
I go get the bottle.
I drink.
I don't know what else to do.
I stare at the tv screen. There are people talking. Whatever they have to say is pointless.
A woman has phoned me.
A woman has phoned me and a woman has orgasmed on my answering machine.
And if I had picked it up?
I drink.
I drink some more.
The rationality alcohol brings makes me wonder. I'm putting two and two together. Did she have someone
with her? Would she do that to me? Why would she do that to me? I don't even hardly know her. What
does she want with me? Could it have been me? What should I do.
I wait five minutes. I hold the phone in my hand. I don't want her calling back. I don't want her smoking a
cigarette on my machine. My machine is my machine. We share secrets. My machine knows everything
thing about me. Now my machine knows her. She does not know me. I do not know her. But she knows
something I don't.
She knows my machine.
kobylarz fiction page two
r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
fall 2006
r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
fall 2006