Operator
008
Today’s not any different from yesterday. I wish it was, but again... it isn’t. There's nothing on the T.V. and I’m sitting here, wallowing in my self pity and chewing whitening gum at twelve forty four in the morning.
I’m supposed to be doing some work right now, but seeing as the phone’s currently smashed beyond fucking pieces on my kitchen floor, I guess that's not a problem. I’ll just say that I dropped it on the street and it got run over by a semi. I’ll just get Gordon to buy me a new one, anyway.
I’m watching an infomercial right now and it's asking me something. Which of the following batteries is connected to a voltmeter in a way that will provide a proper measurement of voltage?
Fuck, who the hell asks that kind of question? Who even knows the answer? I squint, glaring at the man in a brown suit, talk-talk-talking about something that no one but old grannies will buy for their grandsons who live in their mother’s basements or something.
I hear a phone ringing and my entire body tenses up, left eye twitching at the constant sound going through my flat. I look up and it's coming from upstairs. I get up off the couch and get the broom out of the tiny little storage closet and I start poking it roughly against the ceiling so it makes that ‘thwump thwump’ sound against the floor upstairs. It stops and I sigh thankfully before I go back to my spot on the couch, while the cat waddles over and jumps up beside me.
I think I like him. I’ve recently figured out that it’s a boy, when it took a piss all over my clean clothes that I brought back in an old rucksack from the laundromat. I name him Squirt, because he’s too skinny to be called Cat, which was my first choice.
It’s after two pointless hours of watching the television when I start to get bored. Squirt has fallen asleep, his head on one of my thighs and the nails on his left paw currently wedged underneath the skin of my knee. I flick off the TV and lay backwards, closing my eyes and enjoying the rare and unusual silence before my eyes snap open as I get the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. I get up and go to the calendar, which tells me nothing but a messy scrawl written out with someone’s birthday and a shit excuse for a cake next to it.
“Well that’s helpful,” I mutter to myself, before I put a finger underneath my chin and tap it in some sort of smart way. “Who’s birthday?”
I turn back to the calendar and I lean in real close to it, almost squinting as my nose presses up against the chalk white paper. I can make out two vague e's in my crap penmanship, but nothing else. I furrow both my shapely brows, leaning against the wall in thought.
I almost expect to hear the phone ring, but I’m met with the unfamiliar silence that makes me wanna gouge out my eyeballs and stuff them in my ears. I almost wish that I hadn’t thrown the phone out the window, but I figure it’s too late for that now. I almost miss his voice--
“Oh shit!” I curse, curling my lip backwards and throwing a palm to my forehead as I suddenly realize who I've forgotten, “shit, shit, shit!”
I quickly run to my closet, rip out an old Nike jacket and slip it on before wrenching open the door and clumsily bounding down the steps in my bare feet because the elevators are broken again. I go into the lobby and run outside to the nearest pay phone, which is two blocks away from my apartment. I make it into the little fiberglass cubicle and look through my jacket, hoping to find a quarter to pay for.
I shout out in success as I felt one jumble around in my frantic search and I stuff it into the little slot for change and I pick up the receiver, only to come to the horrible conclusion that I have no idea what his number is. My shoulders slump and I scowl, running a nervous hand through my hair. I rack my brain for the eight digit number and I can make out the first three.
“Five, five... two,” I mutter to myself as I pick up the phone again and place it to my ear, “six... uh, six, nine...” fuck, I don't know the last number. I press the ‘redial” button and try again.
“Five, five, two, six, six, nine...” I bit my lip, “...four! That's it!”
I hear the phone ring and I lean all my weight on my left foot as I wait for him to hurry the fuck up. I hear the phone click and someone’s voice on the other line--
“Hello?”
--and it’s not his.
“Um… er, hi.”
“…yes?”
“Is uh,” I pause to swallow, “is Gerard there?”
“Oh. Yeah, one sec.”
I hear a bloodcurdling scream of his name on the other line and I cringe, before the sound of sock clad feet against hardwood floors bound in the background.
“Yeah, hi,” his voice gasps in the background. I'm too surprised to hear his voice to say shit. “Hello?” he repeats again.
I clear my throat. “Gerard?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s um, it’s Frank.”
His tone just goes from breathy and gaspy to surprised and cheerful, “oh hey!”
“Yeah, hi.”
“What brings you… calling… here?”
The awkwardness of me contacting him is already in the air.
“Um, well. I remembered you telling me that your birthday was today, so I thought I’d be nice and—“
“Wish me a happy birthday?” he squeals on the other line. I can almost imagine him clapping his hands in enjoyment. “Aw Frankie, you shouldn't have!”
Yes, I realize that now.
“Yeah well, don’t get your hopes up or anything,” I say to him, “and I—“
“Wanna meet up tomorrow to take me out for a belated birthday lunch?”
“Um, that’s not what I had in mind—“
“Okay, great! Pick me up at twelve then!”
“Gerard—“
“Love ya, see you then!”
“But Gerard—“ I’m cut off by a click and the dial tone. I blink and stare back at the phone.
“Shit.”
I’m supposed to be doing some work right now, but seeing as the phone’s currently smashed beyond fucking pieces on my kitchen floor, I guess that's not a problem. I’ll just say that I dropped it on the street and it got run over by a semi. I’ll just get Gordon to buy me a new one, anyway.
I’m watching an infomercial right now and it's asking me something. Which of the following batteries is connected to a voltmeter in a way that will provide a proper measurement of voltage?
Fuck, who the hell asks that kind of question? Who even knows the answer? I squint, glaring at the man in a brown suit, talk-talk-talking about something that no one but old grannies will buy for their grandsons who live in their mother’s basements or something.
I hear a phone ringing and my entire body tenses up, left eye twitching at the constant sound going through my flat. I look up and it's coming from upstairs. I get up off the couch and get the broom out of the tiny little storage closet and I start poking it roughly against the ceiling so it makes that ‘thwump thwump’ sound against the floor upstairs. It stops and I sigh thankfully before I go back to my spot on the couch, while the cat waddles over and jumps up beside me.
I think I like him. I’ve recently figured out that it’s a boy, when it took a piss all over my clean clothes that I brought back in an old rucksack from the laundromat. I name him Squirt, because he’s too skinny to be called Cat, which was my first choice.
It’s after two pointless hours of watching the television when I start to get bored. Squirt has fallen asleep, his head on one of my thighs and the nails on his left paw currently wedged underneath the skin of my knee. I flick off the TV and lay backwards, closing my eyes and enjoying the rare and unusual silence before my eyes snap open as I get the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. I get up and go to the calendar, which tells me nothing but a messy scrawl written out with someone’s birthday and a shit excuse for a cake next to it.
“Well that’s helpful,” I mutter to myself, before I put a finger underneath my chin and tap it in some sort of smart way. “Who’s birthday?”
I turn back to the calendar and I lean in real close to it, almost squinting as my nose presses up against the chalk white paper. I can make out two vague e's in my crap penmanship, but nothing else. I furrow both my shapely brows, leaning against the wall in thought.
I almost expect to hear the phone ring, but I’m met with the unfamiliar silence that makes me wanna gouge out my eyeballs and stuff them in my ears. I almost wish that I hadn’t thrown the phone out the window, but I figure it’s too late for that now. I almost miss his voice--
“Oh shit!” I curse, curling my lip backwards and throwing a palm to my forehead as I suddenly realize who I've forgotten, “shit, shit, shit!”
I quickly run to my closet, rip out an old Nike jacket and slip it on before wrenching open the door and clumsily bounding down the steps in my bare feet because the elevators are broken again. I go into the lobby and run outside to the nearest pay phone, which is two blocks away from my apartment. I make it into the little fiberglass cubicle and look through my jacket, hoping to find a quarter to pay for.
I shout out in success as I felt one jumble around in my frantic search and I stuff it into the little slot for change and I pick up the receiver, only to come to the horrible conclusion that I have no idea what his number is. My shoulders slump and I scowl, running a nervous hand through my hair. I rack my brain for the eight digit number and I can make out the first three.
“Five, five... two,” I mutter to myself as I pick up the phone again and place it to my ear, “six... uh, six, nine...” fuck, I don't know the last number. I press the ‘redial” button and try again.
“Five, five, two, six, six, nine...” I bit my lip, “...four! That's it!”
I hear the phone ring and I lean all my weight on my left foot as I wait for him to hurry the fuck up. I hear the phone click and someone’s voice on the other line--
“Hello?”
--and it’s not his.
“Um… er, hi.”
“…yes?”
“Is uh,” I pause to swallow, “is Gerard there?”
“Oh. Yeah, one sec.”
I hear a bloodcurdling scream of his name on the other line and I cringe, before the sound of sock clad feet against hardwood floors bound in the background.
“Yeah, hi,” his voice gasps in the background. I'm too surprised to hear his voice to say shit. “Hello?” he repeats again.
I clear my throat. “Gerard?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s um, it’s Frank.”
His tone just goes from breathy and gaspy to surprised and cheerful, “oh hey!”
“Yeah, hi.”
“What brings you… calling… here?”
The awkwardness of me contacting him is already in the air.
“Um, well. I remembered you telling me that your birthday was today, so I thought I’d be nice and—“
“Wish me a happy birthday?” he squeals on the other line. I can almost imagine him clapping his hands in enjoyment. “Aw Frankie, you shouldn't have!”
Yes, I realize that now.
“Yeah well, don’t get your hopes up or anything,” I say to him, “and I—“
“Wanna meet up tomorrow to take me out for a belated birthday lunch?”
“Um, that’s not what I had in mind—“
“Okay, great! Pick me up at twelve then!”
“Gerard—“
“Love ya, see you then!”
“But Gerard—“ I’m cut off by a click and the dial tone. I blink and stare back at the phone.
“Shit.”