She hated telephones

She hated telephones: absolutely couldn’t tolerate using them.  She couldn’t see the face of the person she was speaking with, wasn’t able to read any body language as there was no body, and the combination of absence and presence simultaneously confused her.  From this feeling she developed, to offset her frustration, a ‘Phone Voice’; one that was short, direct, and brief.  Looking at the receiver she tried to forget his number.  Her hand trembled over the buttons and she took a deep breath.  She’d managed to overcome far worse fears in her life but the telephone still disturbed, even unsettled her terribly.  They were nothing more than plastic bodies housing electrical wires that relied entirely on a trigger to be brought to life.  More than once she’d prematurely ended the existence of said devices.  They were thrown against walls, stomped on by a forceful foot, smashed by an angry hand, or simply dropped into the garbage.  Telephones had a limited life span around her.  She snarled at the receiver.  This call was a difficult task to perform.  She liked Stewart.  He evoked a new sensation in her: she wanted him to like her.  She didn’t want to sound like a b***h.  She didn’t want him to hear her ‘Phone Voice’.  The thought of pretending she was happy and upbeat when all she wanted to do was throw up incited a riot of inner conflict.  It went against her very nature.  Those who knew her well knew that.  Her ‘Phone Voice’ in no way accurately reflected the frame or scope of her mind.  It was an emotionless persona she called on to cope with her occasional compliance to wire based discourse.  He wouldn’t know that.  He’d misunderstand her awkwardness for disinterest and dismiss her painful offering as an electronic intrusion.  She hung up the phone and lit a cigarette.  There had to be an easier way.  There wasn’t.  The phone was the only way.  He’d seen to that.  She almost resented him for it.  Almost.  Anyone else who tried to force her to resort to the telephone would receive nothing more than a dial tone.  She didn’t return calls, messages on the machine-an appliance which she only got to end the ordeal of answering the incessant ringing in the first place-were rarely returned, and rarely allowed herself to be summoned to it.  There was no one turning point in her life that heralded the beginning of the near phobic state reached in association with Mr. Bell’s invention.  It had always been there for the most part but the resentment had definitely deepened over the years.  Nowadays it was only in agitation that she commanded her hands to depress the digits and invite an acute dialogue.  There was no other way.  Crushing out her cigarette she lifted the phone up again.  Seven digits.  She knew them by heart.  The dial tone irritated her immediately and she cringed with each numerical chime.  It rang twice. 

 

         “Hello.”

 

         She knew who it was.  It was his voice.  “Is Stewart available please?”  You see she asked for him, though she knew it was him, because this did two things: one, he would have enough time to recognize her voice, and two, he could say he wasn’t there if he didn’t want to talk to her.  Available was what she always said.  It was her word.  To ask if someone was in seemed intrusive and questioning a person’s whereabouts rude.  To be unavailable had many meanings: it could mean they were in but they were on the toilet, still in bed, picking their nose, in the shower, mowing the lawn, or just avoiding your call.  You could ask if the person was free but their response might imply they hadn’t any value.  To her, that was also egregious.  Available was neutral in most aspects.  Please was added simply to offset her ‘Phone Voice’ and as a formal courtesy. 

 

         “Carey,” there was a smile in his voice, “it’s me.  I was wondering when you’d phone.  Hey, how’ve ya been?”  There was a long silence.

 

         Her brain ran a dozen different responses before settling.  “Fine thank you.  And yourself?”

 

         “Good.  Good.  Thanks for calling but I’m on the other line right now.  Could you ring me back in five minutes?”

 

         Call back?  You want me to call back?  Like I’m not having enough fun right now.  You want me to repeat this?  Sure.  Oh sure.    I’m enjoying this conversation so much I’m in convulsions.  Can’t you see that?  Oh that’s right you can’t see a thing.  Well, allow me to fill in the blanks.  This is not a liberating, feminist, 90’s, kind of uplifting, light-hearted, breezy blow by.  I am in no way empowering any part of my person.  In fact panic comes quite quickly to mind and should replace any prowess you may perceive.  My heart is pounding so loud that I can hardly hear you.  There seems to be something lodged in my throat.  I’ve developed a startling case of the shakes.  Blown a blood vessel in my right eye.  And you want me to voluntarily endure this again?  Sure.  No problem.  Can I conquer the known world for you too?  Ease all your suffering and save every stray soul that happens along?  Travel back in time and undo countless wrongs that burden your being?  Count the stars in the night’s sky while I walk on water and carry your children?  See into the future and spare the innocent?  End disease and bring peace to the planet while you wait?  Just let me know.  Call back?  “Sure.”

 

         “Thanks.  It’s my mother and long distance.  Really just five minutes.  Thanks.  Talk to ya later.”  There was a click.

 

The phone went dead.  She bounced it off the ceramic tile floor then sat down and shook her head: “s**t.”

 

Reviews

[Danielle]

What a wonderful look into people with phone issues. Living with a person like that myself, I totally get this! I laughed so hard. You managed to capture Carey's character well but I ended up not having a clue how/why Stewart was so important? Great story. Thanks for sharing!

[Highfarms]

Thanks Danielle!