The Ringing

The story of a man who just wanted someone to talk to.

            No.  For the last time, I am not crazy.  I never intended for the situation to end the way it did.  All I wanted was someone to talk to.  That’s all.  I thought I had everything under control but apparently, I didn’t.  Something unforeseen occurred that put me into the position I am in now.

            This all started when I began working nights.  Where I worked and why I worked so late into the night doesn’t matter now.  I just did my job quietly and didn’t bother myself with trying to get chummy with the simpletons who also worked my shift.

Every night (or very early morning, I guess, would be more accurate), I’d leave my building and catch the same bus at the same time with the same pudgy, mustachioed driver behind the wheel.

            For a while, it was just the two of us on the bus at that hour.  I always sat in the back, alone, with just my thoughts to keep me company.  Most of the time, I was fine with that, but every now and then, I’d get that feeling like I really wanted someone to talk to, commiserate with, b***h about the state of the world or our favorite sports team or some broad who hates the hours we work.

At one time, I considered chatting up the bus driver, but he didn’t seem very friendly, so I spent the ride in silent solitude, much like how I spent my mornings, afternoons, and nights.  Yeah, you could say I was a loner, but I preferred it that way most of the time.  I had no family or friends so I had to learn to be all the company I’d ever need.  Yet, every now and then, the desire for a conversational partner would gnaw at me and become a nearly overwhelming obsession.

            Then, a few weeks ago, a new guy started coming onto the bus only a stop after mine.  He was a tall drink of water and dressed well"not overly nice; just not in the ragged, seen-better-days clothes that I wore.  He was a bit scruffy but that only added to his allure.

            He always sat across the aisle a few seats ahead of me.  He seemed like a smart, affable sort of fellow, and on a number of nights, I meant to say something to him.  However, I’ve never been comfortable trying to engage someone I don’t know in conversation.  I mean, you just don’t know how some people will respond to unsolicited discussions.

            That first set of nights, I didn’t say anything.  We got off at the same stop but we never looked at each other.  He went off through a park toward the nicer end of town, while I walked on toward my apartment project in the not-so-nice end of town.

            Eventually, I worked up enough courage to say something to him.  He came on the bus one stop after mine, as always, and took his usual seat.  I had planned to sit across from him and break the ice with something like, “Say, this bites, don’t it?”  You know, the sort of thing that people who ride the bus late at night would say to one another.

            I waited a minute or two before standing up and taking two steps forward.  Then, a ringing sound broke through the silence.  It was muffled at first, but it got louder when the guy pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.  It was one of those flip-top devices and its screen flickered as it rang.  In one swift motion, the guy flipped it open and started talking into it.  I sat back down, defeated, as I watched the guy carry on his conversation.  He wasn’t loud or obnoxious but I was still annoyed.  When our stop came, he got up, exited the bus, and walked his usual route home, all while continuing his conversation on his cell phone.

            The same thing happened over the next few nights, and my annoyance over this only grew with each passing night.  However, the more I pondered the situation, the more I realized that I didn’t really hate the guy.  How could I?  I didn’t know him.  He could have been Charles Lindbergh or Charles Manson for all I knew.

            No, I didn’t hate him.  I hated his cell phone.

            I’m really not a fan of technology.  Sure, I like TV and cars and ATM machines, but I don’t like much else.  I hate computers, I hate anything inanimate that speaks, and I especially hate cell phones and refuse to own one.

            As I watched him night after night talking into his device, I began to view his phone as an insane piece of devilry that needed to be destroyed.

            I stopped myself there.  I told myself to calm down and let it go.  Maybe someone else will start coming onto the bus and I can chat them up instead of this guy.  But the days went on and no one else joined us on that late, late ride.  And every time the phone rang, I hated the object more and more. 

Slowly, I began to plot the phone’s demise.

            I figured that simplicity would be key, so I decided on a fake mugging.  I’d get a gun (not a real one, but real enough to fool him), point it at him and demand that he hand over his wallet and phone.  I’d need non-descript clothing, which I had in abundance.  A simple sweatshirt-sweatpants combo would do.  I’d also need something to conceal my face, and I had a Guy Fawkes mask (like the one from V for Vendetta) in my closet that I had found discarded on the street one day.  I’d also need gloves so that I wouldn’t leave any fingerprints behind.

            Lastly, I just needed the motivation, which came every night when that damned cell phone started ringing.

            I spent a week devising my plan and then came the big night.  I had everything I needed stashed in the duffel bag that I carried with me every night on the bus.  Usually, it just had old newspapers and some food inside.  Just before leaving for work that night, I cleaned it out and put everything I needed inside.

            The man got on at his usual stop and sat down on his usual seat.  A minute later, his phone rang and he answered it.  I seethed at the sight of the phone.  What an impersonal and"dare I say it?"blasphemous piece of technology, something that’s meant to connect people but ultimately just drives them apart.  I hated it and couldn’t wait to get my hands on it.

            Then, at long last, came our stop.  He got off and started on his way home.  I started on my way home as well but quickly ducked down a dark alley and made a quick change.  I put on my sweatshirt, donned my mask, and pulled up my hood.  I pulled my sweatpants over my regular pants.  I had a cap gun tucked in the front pocket of my sweatshirt.  In daylight, it wouldn’t work, but under a dark night sky, it could pass as a lethal weapon instead of a harmless toy.

            I checked the street.  No one around.  I proceeded.

            I walked as fast as I could, though I made sure I moved quietly and stayed in the shadows.

            When he reached the middle of the park, I made my move.  I jumped out in front of him and thrust the gun in his face.  He closed his phone and looked at me.  He seemed thoroughly shocked and surprised.  I demanded his phone and his wallet.  Slowly, he reached into his pocket for his wallet, but just before he pulled it out, he charged forward and shoulder-blocked me to the ground.  I went down hard and he started running away.  He flipped the top on his cell phone and started dialing 911.

“Hey, pal,” the guy called to me, “next time, don’t use such a fake looking gun!”

            I got back up as fast as I could and chased after him.  I tackled him from behind and both of us went down, toppling a metal trashcan in the process.  I also lost my cap gun but I wasn’t worried about that at the moment.

            The guy and I struggled, grabbing at each other, throwing punches and spouting curses.  A kick to his gut made him curl up.  It also made him drop his phone.  I picked it up as fast as I could and started running but the guy reached out and grabbed my ankle.  I tripped and fell to the ground.  He got on top of me and started pounding me with his fists.  He tried prying the phone out of my hand but had no success.  His focus on the hand that held his cell phone meant that he didn’t see my other hand ball up into a fist and cut a fast, solid arc up to the side of his head.  After the impact, he suddenly slumped and fell on his back.

            He twitched, dazed but not totally out of it.  I stood up, brushing dirt and grass off of my body.  I gave a quick look around.  The park was still deserted.  I put his cell phone in my pocket.

            The guy groaned something at me and I knew I couldn’t leave him like that.  I looked at the trashcan we’d toppled in our skirmish.  I picked it up and dumped out its contents.  Then I approached the guy and started beating him with the trashcan.  My intention was to incapacitate him, so I hit him until he stopped moving.  I tossed the trashcan away.  I retrieved my cap gun.  Then I fled.

            Back on the street, I looked around and saw no one, not a person walking or a car riding by.  That late at night, the city looked abandoned.  I found my duffel bag and pulled out a trash bag.  I took off all of my incriminating clothes, put them in the bag, and tied the bag up.  I tossed the cell phone in the duffel bag and zipped it up.  I walked a few blocks with both bags until I found a dumpster and tossed the trash bag into it.  Only a few minutes later, I was in my apartment.

            I placed the phone on a well-used chopping block in my tiny kitchen.  Then I took out a ball peen hammer.  I gave that damned cell phone a long look.

            I started with two love taps.

WHACK!

            Some cracks appeared.

            WHACK!

            A piece or two came off.

Then I brought the pain:

WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!  WHACK!

            Pulverized.

            It was no longer a phone; it was a pile of plastic parts.  It was wires and circuitry that no longer worked.

            I stared at it with a smile.  I got a bag and shoveled all the dead phone parts into it.  I put it with my duffel bag next to the main door to remind myself to dispose of it on my way to work the next day.

            The sun had started rising.  It was time for me to go to sleep.  As I lay down on my bed, I began thinking about the next time I’d see that guy.  He’d be battered and bruised and have no phone.  I could walk up to him and ask him what happened and he could tell me and maybe we’d get off the bus together and find some all-night bar and I’d buy him a beer and we’d talk like two longtime buddies.

            I slept soundly for a few hours.  Then came a pounding at my door.  I never had visitors so I figured it could only be the landlord looking for rent.

            I opened the door and saw two tall drinks of water in suits standing in the hallway.  They flashed badges at me, said they were detectives and wanted to ask me a few questions.  I let them in.

            They told me about some poor guy who got beat up pretty badly in the park.  So badly, in fact, that he died from his injuries.  A slight shudder passed through me when I heard this but I let it go quickly and didn’t think the detectives noticed.  They retraced his steps and found out that he had stepped off a bus not long before his beating.  They found the bus driver and he told them that I was the only other person on the bus.  He also told them where he picked me up at and the detectives figured out that I must work nearby and, sure enough, they located my place of business and my bosses told them where to find me.

            None of this surprised me, not even that the guy had died.  I had prepared for that possibility.  I just told them that they had woken me from a sound sleep and that, from what I could recall, I didn’t see anyone suspicious-looking going in or coming out of the park.  I didn’t even know the guy who’d died.

            I thought that’d be enough for the detectives and they’d go home.

            But they just kept talking.

            And then…came the ringing…

            I had noticed some dull ringing when the detectives first entered but I brushed it off, thinking it might have been noise from one of the apartments on either side of mine.  But as I talked with the detectives, the ringing only got louder, to the point that I knew it wasn’t just coming from another apartment but from inside my apartment, specifically from the bag next to the door that had the pulverized cell phone in it.  The detectives carried on as if they didn’t hear anything, but I heard it.  Oh, did I hear it.  I tried to ignore it, telling myself that there was no way that phone could still be working after what I did to it.  Yet the ringing continued incessantly.  The detectives stayed and wouldn’t leave and I grew all the antsier the longer they lingered.  A cold sweat broke out on my forehead and my hands shook.  I wanted them gone as soon as possible.  I started insisting that they leave my apartment so that they could check other areas where they may have more luck finding clues, but they stayed. 

And the ringing…

Got louder…

And LOUDER…

AND LOUDER…

And the detectives just would not leave…

And then…

I suddenly lost my composure!

            “No, gentlemen, you don’t need to go any place else!” I cried.  “I admit it!  I did it!  I killed the man!  Look over there in that bag and you’ll find his cell phone!  Look in the dumpster a few blocks away and you’ll find the bag of clothes I wore to do the deed!  I tell you, I had nothing against him!  It was his phone, his damned phone!  It robbed me of the chance to start a relationship with him and end the loneliness of my existence!  Don’t look at me like that!  No!  I am not crazy!  I never intended for this to end the way it did!  All I wanted was someone to talk to!”