The Phone Call
The phone on the antique desk rang. It was next to the bar. He looked at it and for a moment didn’t register the sound or the small light which flashed.
He had put it there years ago. When he had a lot more hair. And a lot more hope.
And before he was someone.
Every time a new accountant came in, they would ask about that line, its cost, what it was for. He, or she, would get a stern look from and receiv a mystery. It wasn’t much of an expense, but it could be called anywhere in the world, for free.
And it had been their phone number.
And, of course, the office cleaning staff never cleaned it, never lifted the older heavy receiver which disconnected it for a second or two. In case of a call. Only his personal assistant was allowed to touch it.
For ten years he had a recording machine connected to it, then that was gone. Then, an automatic recording connected to a computer somewhere. Then, that was stopped.
He spent most evenings alone with a drink in its presence and then its presence grew dimmer and dimmer.
But tonight, it rang. A strange, old-fashioned ring, startling him and almost causing him to spill that drink he held in his hand while he sat on the couch of his office. He froze and then got up stiffly and walked to the desk. The phone kept ringing. The little light glowing off and on.
He cleared his throat. He looked in the huge mirror above the bar and saw the Manhattan lights reflected.
“Hello,” he said, “hello.” There was no answer but he thought he heard breathing. In a rare moment of self-critique, he worried that he didn’t sound himself, available, open. He tried to sound more-
“Hello, are you there?”
Then-“Is who there?” he heard back. A youngish voice.
“Who is this?” he asked, putting on his usual voice.
“Who is this,” the youngish voice challenged back.
Sensing an impasse, he countered-“I think you may have…how did you get this number…line?”
“You answered it,” the voice responded reasonably.
“Ok. That is true. What is your name?”
“What is your name?” This surely isn’t going anywhere. He took the phone from the desk and walked carefully back to the couch. Its old-fashioned cord efficiently unraveled in coils. He would thank his PA.
“Well, my name is Schuster. Schuster Doyle. Schuster Doyle the Third.” Did he hear laughter? “What is yours?”
“Billy.” He waited for more. “Billy. What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. He would play this out. He was always good at the longer, longish, but not too long game. And there was always a chance that, that the call was somehow…
“Hello?” the voice asked.
“Well. It is nine-fourteen pm,” he thought he would try something-“East coast time.”
“Oh. What are you doing?” The man shook his head. No one asked him anything like that in years. In fact, no one asked him anything. No one had asked him anything for a long time. Even at his favorite restaurants, everything just appeared. The right meals, newspapers open to Business, the right cigars clipped correctly. Even friends had given up on trying to engage with him. Everything went through others to others and then not even to him.
“What am I doing? I suppose I am listening to you?”
“Who else is there with you?”
“You ask a lot of questions. And this is a very special phone.”
“Why?”
“That would take a while to…Billy….?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?” He almost put the receiver down but midway stopped. He noticed colors outside his glass wall on The Empire State Building. Christmas. It was the last time he had seen her…
“Eighty-four.”
“Wow. You should be in bed.” He almost laughed.
“Ah. Well. I don’t really sleep…”
“You don’t sleep?”
“I don’t sleep a lot. I don’t need it.”
He stood up. And stood with the phone facing the wall of glass. He imagined her next to him. He could almost smell her.
“Weird. I sleep… enough. I guess.”
“Yes, good. That’s good…”
“Where are you?”
“Where am I?” Swiffs of snow swirled by the windows. Her dress had been dark green. “I am in New York City. Where are you? Who are you?”
“I am in Bayiew. Billy- I thought I told you.”
“Ah, yes, you did tell me your name. And…”
“I am looking for my mom. She said she’d be home. “
“Oh. So, you dialed this number.” No response. He could feel the frustration. Then-
“You’re kinda old. Is she there? This is Tilly’s right?”
“Tillys. No this is…my office.”
“Is she with you?”
“No, I think…” He didn’t want to say it but-“You rang a wrong number.”
“Hum…It’s on the wall here. “Seven-one-eight-four-three-nine-oh-two-oh-seven.” He felt a sadness hit him, almost like a punch.
“Well, Billy, that is not the right number. You…” Billy hung up.
He walked the phone over to the desk and coiled the cable as best he could. He traced the cable to a plug in the wall and knelt down and unplugged it.
Outside the winter wind pushed against his overcoat and bit his face. The doorman looked at him strangely as he walked away from the limousines. He walked four blocks East and two South.
Inside Dukes he passed the Hostess who had spotted him and was about to walk him to his solo table. The Manager noticed and walked up to him and smiled.
“The boys in the back?” he asked the manager who was startled and just nodded. He walked past the bar and then through some curtains and around a pile of stacked chairs.
The boys were there.
“It’s about time,” one of them said.
“Yeah, we been playing for twenty-five years and just about ran out of money.”
“I missed you, too,” he said taking off his coat and suit jacket. He thought he caught her reflection in the misty glass walls. “Where is Al?” No one answered. There were two empty chairs. He sat in his.
“And what do we owe this...change to Mister Doyle?” one of the boys asked.
He took his cards-“Ah, you can thank a young man named Billy.”
“To Billy,” they toasted.
“To Billy.”
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