The Phone Call

The phone rang but the caller ID failed me. I took a chance and answered. This level of extreme bravery should not be attempted unless you already have an exit strategy. I didn’t and paid for it later.

Sometimes I enjoy these calls. Often it’s some poor schmuck chained to a chair in Bangladesh enduring dog cussing and insults about his mother, all the while getting a continuing-ed degree in American street slang. I pretend to be the idiot housekeeper. It opens up creative possibilities.

“Hello,” the voice slurs. “Is Mr. or Mrs. Gharn available?” (double-vowels are difficult!) They live elsewhere, I answer. The voice asks if there’s another number. I tell the voice their ashes currently reside in a bronze urn which has an unlisted number. The voice asks if it could speak to the urn. I respond that the urn sometimes grunts and groans, but it has not yet spoken. It’s expected to, however, I say. I ask the voice if it wants to leave a message in case. It hangs up. I convulse with laughter.

Back to the phone call. An old friend was calling. All our friends are old now. Her nasal voice says, “Let’s have dinner.” I delay answering. She takes my silence as a yes. She hears things unsaid, always has. Women are like this. She’s married to a golfer who is basically a deaf mute except when the subject of golf is discussed. Most golfers have this trait. They’re boring and the cause of boredom in others. So a date was set and we met at a mutual spot. Mutual spots are preferred. It’s easier for salmonella attacks if things get out of hand.

The appointed night arrived. Table conversations usually begin with ‘do you remember,’ or ‘did you hear about.’ You know. It morphs to ailments. She’s a living ailment. Only miracles allow her to live and tell. Her husband sits there, mute with his martini. We ignore him and golf. I may yet survive this, I thought.

The conversation exhumes a certain old friend. Anything, even golf, I plead. But not her. But no, we have to go there. Her name hits the table and my mind swoons. She once called before the marvelous invention of caller ID. I shouldn’t have answered. “Come to my home tomorrow for a surprise,” she said. I’m no fool, so I went. Mistake.

I arrived. She came to the door. Candlelight flickered. Shadows danced on the walls of the darkened house. Wow, I thought. What’s this? Candlelight? A surprise? Not what I expected.

Seems she and her accomplice had recently been certified by some off-brand Pentecostal congregation to perform rituals of casting out demons. My name came to mind first, she said. Nice to be thought of first, I thought, so I played along, expecting a joke.

I sat in a chair and they laid hands upon me. Unsettling. They squeezed my head while incoherent gibberish spewed from their lips. They jumped on the demons, commanding, “Depart from him, be cast into the Chattahoochee River!” This went on for some time. They began to sweat and became more urgent in their petitions. My head ached. I gotta get outta here, I kept thinking. My body shook, my knees oscillated wildly. To top it off I shout, “Hallelujah, free at last, free at last.” I fall to the floor, writhing in a hallucinogenic state. I once saw this trick on a TV healing show. A command performance. I fled from that house.

I return to our table conversation in time to hear her say, “I have auras, I can read minds. I know who’s dark and whom to avoid.” I asked if I were dark, hoping to get the same avoidance. She promised to let me know when the spirits spoke. The golfer had yet to speak, though his lips did move silently. He smiled at odd times, but I think it was gas, for he looked relieved each time. I felt sorry for him, but not enough to mention golf.

Suddenly I commanded the salmonella bug to attack. I fled from the table. My wife recognized the clue and left them sitting there, she, calling on the spirits, and he, discussing every game he ever played.

The next day we changed our phone number and had it de-listed. I didn’t want to know if I had a dark aura or more demons. Life has been good since then, and the housekeeping idiot has bought more National Inquirers for new stories for telephone solicitations. Call me, and I’ll try ‘em on you.

Bud Hearn
October 21, 2010