Operator

I hang up. Because it seems like only the smart thing to do.

And mostly ‘cause I’ve never had to deal with nosey relatives wondering what the hell the person I’m phone fucking is doing naked.

But then I find out it’s Jerry... Jared—Gerard. And that just adds the fruity icing to the fucking gay cake.

I begin to wonder if he’s messed up in the head. I mean like, he's got no one to talk to, so he calls a phone sex line to find a poor fella to sit his ass down and listen.

The poor fella is obviously me, seeing as he calls every fucking minute of every single fucking day to dial my work phone, bitch about his gruesome past years, get drunk while bitching about his gruesome past years and then get his listener busted by his crack ass boss.

I can’t say I’d wanna be in his position. He’s probably schizo. But then again, I’m probably wrong.

There’s gotta someone else out there in his god forsaken city that think they’ve got a ghost in their closet… and keeps their clothes clipped on wires hanging criss cross over the ceiling of their room. Right?

He called again.

I can tell because I decided to get caller ID four score and seven years ago, when I finally got tired of picking up the phone to find some dick ass crackhead, asking me if I've got the good stuff.

Of course, I tell ‘em that there's no more, sober up and get a fuckin’ decent life where he doesn't call wrong numbers. All while taking a nice, long piss.

But yeah, he called again.

I didn’t answer ‘cause it was that time of month where I looked in the fridge for some food, only to find a loaf of stale bread, a block of old cheese and a sort of dip with some weird green stuff sticking out of it. I decide to go grocery shopping.

I bought a loaf of bread, cheese and a sort of dip.

He left me a message. I know this because I accidentally pressed for voicemail when I was actually trying to reach the Web, just to piss off Gordon by raising up the phone bill.

It says something along the lines of himyelling asking why I hung up and didn’t say goodbye to wish him a goodnight. He tells me it’s his birthday next week.

I think it's his time of month. I think I’ll get him some tampons.

The phone is ringing. Or maybe it’s just me.

I’ve already taken my pills; one red and the other white.

I saw my doctor the other day. He thinks that I work at a bookstore. ‘Cause that's what I told him. He tells me to look up some medical journals and gives me a slip of paper with a recommendation on it. It’s sitting in between the pages of a bible, given to me by my mother, during her post-divorce/mourning/insane Catholic days.

The bible’s locked up in my drawer. ‘Cause, the way I figure, if there really was a God, the world would be a happier place. But when I look outside my hole sized window, it’s gone to shit.

The phone is still ringing. And my stomach’s churning. I get up for some antacid to relieve it.

While I’m in the kitchen, I flip open the phone and press the speaker button.

“Hey,” I say, while rummaging through the rickety cabinet.

“Hi.”

“What’cha wearing?”

“It’s Gerard.”

“Oh.”

Where the fuck is that Asilone?

“Yeah,” he tells me. “Are um… are you busy?”

No.

“Yeah, actually.”

“Oh…” he trails off, before completely disregarding my false statements, “do you mind if I talk?”

Yes.

“Nah, it’s fine,” I say. “G’head.”

The other line stays silent before I smack myself upside the head, realizing that he won’t say anything without me asking a question first.

“How was your day?”

“Okay, I guess,” he shrugs non chalantly. “My brother heard me masturbating last night.”

Shit, my stomach really hurts. I think it’s eating itself.

“Uh huh…”

I faintly recall him saying that his brother had shown up out of the blue, at his doorstep with a duffel bag on his shoulder and a fleabag of a dog in his arms.

“He didn't know who, though.”

I find my antacid and grasp the bottle around its plastic neck. I twist the cap off and chug it, the neutralizing liquid going down my throat.

“Mm hm,” I say, my voice echo-y from the object inside my mouth.

“Do you wanna know?”

I furrow my eyebrows. “Know what?”

He doesn't hear what I say, “huh?”

I remove the bottle from my mouth. “Know what?”

He's clearing his throat now, “do you wanna know who I was masturbating to last night?”

I quirk an eyebrow at this, a snort coming from my nose and mouth. I decide on my answer.

“No... not really.”

“Oh,” he says, as if hurt. I don’t feel sorry this time. He decides to tell me anyway.

“Well, just to let you know… it was you.”

Fuck. I hate the world.