Do you ever miss a phone call, see the number on call display and not recognize it?
You check for a voicemail, nothing. You think to yourself, “maybe I should call It?” but you don’t really want to because first, it could be an auto-dial and you’d get nothing anyway, and second, maybe it’s someone that you don’t want to talk to and you don’t recognize the number because that person was a horse’s ass in the first place which is why you stopped calling them and forgot their number?
You put the phone down and walk to the fridge, mildly perplexed. You grab a cheese-string, for eating cheese always puts things into clear perspective.
But your brain will not be distracted by dairy today. No. You start thinking about the missed call. Could it have been for your husband? Is it another woman? Is he cheating? He wouldn’t be dumb enough to give her our number, would he? Did that bitch call in the middle of the day, just to torment you? Then you remember who you are married to. How, as good a guy as he is, he’s super lazy, never shaves, burps too much, only ever took you on two dates and you know him well enough to know that the effort to fuck around just isn’t in the old bastard. You put that thought out of your head. And chuckle. And then feel sort of sad for yourself. You need more cheese.
You frown at the phone while munching. What kind of person doesn’t leave a message? From what god-forsaken part of the world (with no manners) does an asshole that doesn’t leave a message come from? Do they not understand common politeness? Do they not understand the mores of society? You bet they’re from some strange small Ukrainian-like country where they don’t have phones and just yell out the window to each other “Dorka!!! You der? I’ssa has your hog butchera for you! Youa vanta the piggies ovaries for szoup?” You then realize you are sounding sort of racist to Ukrainians in your thoughts. But you think it’s okay because you and everyone else in your family is married to one. Then you start craving perogies.
You think about the fact that you are home alone. Could someone have possibly called you from their car? To see if you were out? To come and rob the place? What? Oh my god.That’s it! “Those sons-a-bitches“, you think, while madly running around the house, locking doors. It’s not enough that they are going to rob you, kill your pets and burn what’s left, Oh NO! The fuckers have to torture you with a warning hang up call!!!
You check out the windows, see no one. You realize you need to calm down. You look for a cigarette. You can’t find one, but you do find a half smoked cigar butt your hubby left outside on the ground. You smoke that. You almost fucking die from coughing. And you play “Name that Taste” while smoking it. Dog asshole mixed with rotten cabbage? After you’ve finished smoking it, you spit. A lot.
You enter the house, the frown so deep between your brow, it hurts. You glare at the phone. You realize how hardly anyone actually calls anymore. You get emails, texts and tweets but you don’t ever have phone conversations. You start to feel sadder. What has this life become? Do you live on the internet now? Can you find an apartment there? Will you never hear a phone voice again? Tears come to your eyes as you reach into the fridge. No cheese left. That makes you even more depressed, because all that’s in there is fruit and fruit is not a comfort food.
You look for something else to smoke and find nothing but a piece of old nylon rope. You smoke that.
When you come to and remember your name, you think, “Whatever can I do to prevent this from happening again? How can I make sure I will never, EVER have another terrible six minutes like this again? I know. I know! I’ll write about it! I’ll help everyone going through the same thing! And I’ll TEACH everybody that they must leave a message because if not, you may kill someone!!! From too much cheese and unsmokable things and TERROR!!!”
Save a life. Leave a message.