Telephone avoidance

Posted: September 13, 2010 in Uncategorized
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1888 German map of Buenos Aires

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she didn’t know for how long she had been sitting out on the porch. the heat inside had pushed her to that particular spot, because of a hint of a breeze. Gathering her skirts and making a ball under her leg made her feel better too.  The hope was that she wouldn’t hear the phone if it rang.  It is bound to, though. People have all kinds of reasons to ring others. None of which sits very high on her list. The phone company had insisted that she take all 3 extensions – one for each floor and it was difficult to argue with someone who looks so fucking capable and in charge of her own briefcase.  She could swear she saw lights blinking inside the briefcase, more really like a suitcase with wheels. The rep had parked it between the two of them pulling out this really sleek laptop. more like a composition book, really. the company pays for it, might as well use it. She couldn’t see the logic of such dumb thing. So she had been force-fed 3 fucking extensions. Each one, glossy grey, two of them resting in undersized nests with very thin cords, one of them with regal airs, orange night lights, looking like a real fucking telephone of any age prior.  She had put the main one with the orange lights at the bottom floor for a good reason: if you had the other two, which were really cordless, you COULD, not saying you would,m but you could be distracted in your mind, and walk right out to the porch with it in your hand or even in a big pocket.  Well then, should this happen, you would be absolutely forced to answer the phone when and if it rang. Even outside on the porch.  Because from where she stood or rather sat, right now, right with this light warm breeze on the skin of her thighs, she couldn’t find one single reason in the world to say she had to answer the phone. The main one that sat tattered to the Queen Anne second or third hand side table where Bob left his fucking martini round stains, one over the other, until you could not see where the first martini had started. Maybe that his liver would look something like that too and he would be sick sometime in the future from all of those martinis that he had ingested for good reasons, or bad reasons, or no reasons at all, or just because it was really cheap in Buenos Aires, even for the best of brands, what he didn’t know was that it was all fake shit made right there in the micro-industries of good solid Argentinian citizens and what was the difference, right? So she closes her eyes and everything would be completely peaceful if it weren’t for the wait: will it ring?  It wasnt even that she didn’t want to talk to the people. It didn’t get that far. Like tonight when she saw the voice message file in her email – oh yeah – she could use this shit well, having the phone ring on king street and go all the way to Givahns to be confronted with the greatest of all questions: check or not check the message?  So she would stand uncomfortable in front of the screen, too much white, too many tidbits of information that she didn’t care to have, ever really, and there it is THE MESSAGE, it is a wav file of sorts. she knows that all she has to do is click on it and provided that the sound is on, the damned thing will play itself. without regards to her being away   office. without regards for her having this one fucking sneeze stuck in her left nostril. without regard to the fact that Ben the geriatric canine has just farted and me her want to vomit, without regards to the fact that she could almost get a headache, like that, just at the thought, mind you, at the though of having to hear the message.  Definitely, messages are the shit of all shits and she knows it. So she asks herself softly: are you afraid of it? NO are you afraid it will bad news? NO are you afraid it will be someone wanting you to do something? NO is it anything at all?  I don’t think so. Well the simplicity of her dialogue which exposes the extent of her condition of abnormal-sea, makes her stop. Quieting herself to take in this thing, which is the abnormal-sea. It is big. It is not controllable. It has its own power. Its own dynamics. It is contained inside her chest and her head. She does not believe it is in her arms or legs. So she sits there with the abnormal-sea. And she starts thinking about seashells, conchs that make you hear something like a wind, fiddler crabs, shoe crab left overs, sea oats, pebbles, seagull voices, flapping of wings, the dive of a pelican that never seems to come up for air soon enough, footprints, partially washed and filled with sand, the desire to bend down and play. Holding the sand in her hand she can pour it back onto the ground forming these round mounds, endlessly, until her nose starts running in the wind and she does not want to lose sight of it, and the crashing of the waves that she could never stand when she was trying to sleep, out here the fill up the whole picture with goodness. for this whole moment she didn’t think about the phone. So the clicked on the file and after a few satellite volleying, she heard the distinct voice of that asshole, William Jones, call me at xxx xxxx, xxx xxxx call me, someone, he repeated it about 4 times, just that, called me someone and the number. She noticed that the number did not match the recorded number from where he had placed the call. She muttered fucker under her breath and wrote herself a note to call the asshole in the morning.


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