The Phone Call

A literary challenge to myself.

So, since I wrote that angsty essay the other day about how phone stories are bad, and have no movement in them, I figured—with the slight urging of my friend Bryan—I would challenge myself to try and write a dynamic piece full of movement and humanity that all took place while on the phone. To further the idea, Bryan suggested a corded phone, which I loved and ran with.

Here is that story. Let me know what you think. Did I successfully write a dynamic “phone story,” or did I fail in my hubris? Either way, I hope you have fun reading this story I wrote today.

I have this whole kitchen set up in my untouched late mid-century modern house.

It all starts with a phone call. A phone call I’m hiddin’ in tha’ coat closet to take. A phone call I needed to get away from pryin’ ears wit’. Tha’ phone is taut against my ear, warm and sweaty against my face. I can smell my morning breath bouncing off it, tha’ phone that is, as a crackly, distant voice tells me what I gotta do next.

Tha’ cord to the phone itself, well, yeah, that, it spirals for a good thirty feet. First, under the closet door, flicking against the brown-green shag carpet. Down tha’ hallway, ticking family photos and these little faux-gold, plaster cherubs my Ma loves, that a’ hangin’ on tha’ wall. You can hear tha’ spiraling phone cord, ratchetin’ back and forth against tha’ hallway-kitchen door moldin’—wearin’ a nice groove in it too, no doubt—a groove ma fatha’ will have words with me about later—if we all live through this that is. Tha’ phone cord, well, it’s turning a sharp ninety degrees inta’ tha’ kitchen once it get past tha’ door jamb. Tha’ thing, tha’ phone cord against tha’ door jamb—against its tiered levels of faux wood paneling—well, it sound like a kitten purrin’, or’a series of semi-automatic gunshots, depending, of course, on what kinda guy or gal ya’ asking. Tha’ phone, tha’ phone I’m currently on, well, it’s almost brand new—Sears-avercado green—matches everything in tha’ dang house, and it plugged into tha’ main phone jack against tha’ wall where my Ma cooks eggs.

I can smell it, tha’ eggs and bacon, everything my Ma is makin’. I can smell tha’ toast with marmalade jam she always put on tha’ toast—even though me an’ Da’, we like peanna’ butta’on ahs—I can smell it all, even from inside tha’ coat closet, smell it even over tha’ mothballs and Ma’s lingering off-brand Chanel perfume. She, my Ma, yells, craning ‘er neck towards tha’ open divide of tha’ kitchen and hallway, saying, “’Ehy, Ricky, breakfast almost ready! Get off dat’ dang phone before yer’ fatha’ get down here!” Her, my ma’s screamin’, is muttled—inner mixed with a buncha’ screams tha’ pan is lettin’ out, tha’ one she, ma’ Ma, musta’ been cookin’ tha’ eggs in, and now tha dang pan in tha’ sink makin’ tha’ water screamin. Tha’ thing, tha’ pan, ma’ Ma put in tha’ sink, be evaporatin’ tha’ soapy water my Ma always keeps filled up in tha’ kitchen sink. Betta’ let ‘em soak, then try and scrape that stuff off later, that’s what my Ma always says.

“Jus’ a sec, ma!” I yell out, cracking tha’ closet door a pinch.

I hear my Fatha’ commin’ down tha’ stairs, it like a stampede of buffalo ‘er some shit. If I were some injin from one of those westerns always on TV, well I’d be shittin’ my fuckin’ pants right now—tellin’ tha’ boys in their little loin cloths ta’ git tha’ fire ready—soups on as soon as I get this fuckin’ buffalo fellas!

My fatha’ rounds tha’ corner, at tha’ bottom of tha’ stairs. I hear his hand squeak on tha’ banister as he does so. I hear him through tha’ coat closet door as his steel-toed mechanic’s boots jiggle tha’ red-candied-nuts, and pale, multicolored mints my Ma’s got in little glass dishes everywhere around tha’ living room. Then I feel him first, right before I hear ‘em. He, my fatha’ yelps out, “What tha’ fuck dis’ all bout Sharron?” he say as the phone, and tha’ cord with it, snap out of my hand and slam against tha’ inside of tha’ coat closet door.

“Nothin’ Pa’! just gotta call, that’s all!” I yell, then pick up the phone, put it back to my sweaty ear, and say, with my morning breath bouncing back at me, “Sorry, ya’ still there? My Da’ just nearly hung em’self on tha’ phone cord.”

The voice sputtas out something from tha’ otha’ side that sounds like “Choose which one lives,” right about tha’ time my Fatha’ opens tha’ coat closet door and snatches tha’ Sears-avercado green phone outta’ my hand.

“Who tha’ fuck is dis’?” My Fatha’ yells at tha’ phone.

“Da’, gimmie tha’ fuckin’ phone back! Ya’ don’t know what ya’ fuckin’ doin’!” I say. My Fatha’ cranks a fist back, looks like he might just throw it too, but then my Ma calls out, “I got coffee, Frank, leave tha’ boy be!” and he lets tha’ fist fall to his oil-slicked trousers, pinches his eyes at me, as if to say, that punch is commin’ yer’ way boy. One way er’ another. Later. And I nod my head, dip my body and tha’ phone back into tha’ coat closet, sayin’, “Sorry, ya’ still there?”

At this point ya’d think tha’ voice, if it were gonna’ do somethin’, it just do it. But it says again with its broken TV-shit-box voice, “Choose which one lives,” and I jus’ sit there, in tha’ stinkin’ coat closet—next ta’ ma’ Fatha’s spare boots and three pairs of sensible pumps my Ma’s got in here, just sittin, sittin and thinkin’ on tha’ question for a sec.

Who do ya’ pick? Toughy, fer’ sure. You pick tha’ guy, tha’ big lumberin’ oaf who likes ta’ belt ya’ with any little digression from his ever changin’ code of morals and world view? I reach down ma’ pants an’ touch tha’ scars on ma’ backside ain’t never goin’ nowhere, confirm I didn’ jus’ make tha’one up in’ma’ head one night. Do ya’ pick tha’ guy who pays all tha’ bills ‘round here, sure, but maybe drinks a few too many whiskeys and prolly fucks a’round ahn’ ya’ Ma with that little pecker of his? Same lil’ pecker as mine I seen walkin’ drunk round here, sure. Same pecker as mine, Da’ stand over me with, drippin’ wet afta’ tha’ showa’, as I’m drawin’ army guys on ma’ bedroom floor, an he ask me, “So, who got tha’ biggest dick in town now boy? You think you somethin’?”

Or, do ya’ pick the good, God-fearin’, loving, graceful woman who makes sure you got clean sheets on yer’ bed every week. Make sure ya’ baseball jockeys’ all scrubbed, and ready fer’ next week’s practice. Tha’ wholesome woman, who never say no two words sideways when she gotta’ spring yer’ ol’ paps outta tha’ slammer every so often fer’ solicitin’ fuckin’ pros down off Laramy. The beautiful woman I seen’t cryin’ in that kitchen floor with a black eye an’ knowin she ain’t got noway out. tha’ same woman who always tellin’ me, “Ya’ a good boy Ricky, I know it me. Don’ known it since you in ma’ belly. Ya’ got yer’ Fatha’s face sure, but ya’ got yer’ Mother’s heart. Ya’gonna be ok. Just be good, Ricky, just be good.”

God, what a fuckin’ choice!

A real humdinger!

“Gonna have’ta pick ma’ Ma, weird crackly voice guy,” I say in’ta Sears-avercado green phone receiver. And not nearly one second later, I hear some glass break, my father yell out “Oh, fuck!” and tha’ unmistakable sound of somebody’s loose body hittin’ tha’ kitchen tile floor.

I don’t really hear much’a nothin’ afta’ that, an’ I crack open tha’ door, let tha’ phone cord slide out from under it, keep the Sears-avercado green phone pressed against ma’ face as I walk down the hallway to the kitchen. I can’t help but feel a devilish smile creep across ma’ face as I slink down tha’ hallway, slow and cautious as can be, tha’ phone cord gettin’ slack against ma’ thigh. I watch as tha’ spirally phone cord tug and pull on family photos, Knockin’ down one’ah ma’ Fatha’ from when he played College football. I watch tha’ picture, ma’ dad innit crumple onto tha shag carpet, as I make my way down tha’ hall. I watch as the spirally phone cord nearly pull off one’a ma’ Ma’s faux-gold, plaster cherubs, off tha’ wall, and I make sure to catch it , and put it on tha’ floor safe an’ sound with the hand not holdin’ tha’ Sear-avercado green phone.

Tha’ phone cord unstretches, tightens back into itself down the faux wood paneled door jamb and hangs down onto the green an’ white laminate kitchen flooring. As I turn tha’ corner into the kitchen, I let the Sears-avercado green phone go slack against ma’ body. I can smell the eggs and bacon, stronger now, stabbin’ up my nose. I can see tha’ toast with tha’ marmalade jam spread thin as October ice across tha’ top of it sittin’ on the formica and chrome kitchen table. An’ then, there he is, on tha’ floor, ma’ Fatha’, he’s cryin’ surrounded by a quickly growing ocean of red ‘round him. He’s cryin’ an’ holdin’ my Ma’s face—or what’s left of it anyway—in his hands. He’s kissin’ her forehead, right next to where her eyes and nose used’ta be. Just kissin’ and tellin’ a big black and red gaping hole in ma Ma’s face, tellin’ it, her, how much he love her. Prayin’ to whatever god he think he still believe in to bring ‘er back.

Lifting the Sears-avercado green phone to ma’ face, I say into it, morning breath stink bouncing back at me as I do so, “What tha’ fuck ya do? Ya’ killed tha’ wrong one, ya’ numb nuts!”

My Fatha’s face look up to me, tears flowin’ down it like tha’ Mississippi, an’ he asks, “Who tha’ fuck ya’ talkin to boy, Satan em’self?” And tha’ crackly voice on tha’ other end of tha’ phone just start laughin’, and I start cryin’, sayin’, over and over again, “Ya’ shot tha’ wrong one! Ya’ shot tha’ wrong damn one, you fucker!” and my fatha’ stands up, cocks back that fist he promised me only moments ago, and tha’ phone drops out of ma’ hand. Tha’ crackly voice on’tha otha’ end of tha’ Sears-avercado green phone, is laughing, and laughing as ma’ Fatha’ digs to China through tha’ front side of ma’ head. Tha’ voice is still laughin’ and laughin’ as ma’ Ma’s not there anymore-face, and tha’ rest of tha’ world, tha’ eggs and bacon, tha’ toast with tha’ marmalade jam onnit, dims from Sears-avercado green all around me to tha’ color of ma’ Fatha’s fist, to nothin’.