phone a friend

Although a familiar face and often seen in the city of Oxford, I had no idea as to his name. Adopting the style of an over-fed 11th century Anglo-Saxon peasant, he wore the same brown rags and moss-green holed jumper every day. A length of thick rope tied around an expansive waist, held up his trousers. For a hat, he had chosen an aviator’s leather helmet, complete with goggles parked up onto his forehead. A red and blotchy face suggested poor health, while a bushy grey coloured beard grew out in all directions from his chin, cheeks and jowels. As a cyclist, his proclivity for carrying a roughly-hewn wooden stick, along with an armful of plastic bags weighing him down, seemed ill-conceived. Put altogether, he brought to mind the caricature of a rather plain-looking jouster. How did I ever get talking with him? Unusually, the initiation of conversation had been by me. Earlier, having grown bored of waiting for a bus, I’d set off for the next stop on the main road heading out south from the city. As is often the way with these things, I could only watch as two empty buses sailed past at the halfway point of my journey. A few moments later, as another bus stop came into view, I saw him standing motionless on the brow of an arched road bridge, with the bike leaning against his hip the stick held upright and his gaze apparently transfixed, on what I knew not.
I can’t remember why the decision to chat with him came about. I recall anticipating a considerable wait for the next bus and felt emboldened, following the consumption of a double espresso coffee an hour beforehand. With the caffeine coursing through my veins, the option to engage in light conversation with the fellow presented no difficulty.
“You sir!” I called out, as I doffed and re-donned my cap in his direction. “I wish to enquire of your position and the circumstances leading to where you find yourself now.” Eyes widening and then quickly narrowing, his expression flickered from surprise to suspicion, as he processed the greeting I’d extended to him. “I want to know,” I said, seeing further explanation as necessary, “how did you get to be like this?” It was an upfront, honest question delivered with eye-contact for additional impact.
He stared at me blankly, while a spasmodic facial tic underneath his left eye contracted and expanded in rapid succession. I could hear his breath wheezing and whistling out of his lungs and noticed mint green coloured nasal mucus pulsating at the entrance to both nostrils. Preparing himself to reply, he’d wiped his nose with a dirty sleeve and drew in a lungful of air.
“I was once like you, not so long ago. I had what you had.” Hearing this, I suppressed the urge to inform him of how unlikely I felt this to be the case. Instead, I smiled kindly and nodded my head sympathetically. “I once had a life,” he continued, “but I made some errors, wandered from the path of righteousness. Just a few small mistakes is all it takes for you to wind-up like me.”
“There but for the grace of God go I.” My reply sounded wistful, yet lacking in conviction.
“Everything I once owned,” he continued, oblivious to my unconvincing interjection, “I threw away, gave away or had it taken from me.”
At this, there followed a moment of  funereal silence, as we both cast our stares out across the canal waterway. Watching the pinkish light of the sunset play amongst the ripples of the water, I suddenly came over all queer and reached out with my hand to the cast-iron guard rail for support. From the corner of my eye, I saw the fellow repeatedly pushing his bottom lip outwards, then drawing it back over his top lip. The act appeared much exaggerated, because of the wiry beard sprouting from his face. The image of an exotic sea anemone came to mind, convulsing its body, unfurling tentacles, sensing food nearby.
The lip movement had been a precursor to the resumption of our conversation.
“It was addiction that done it for me.” He said, without turning his head. I believed it had ‘done it’ for his powers of observation, also. The man appeared unaware of the state of unsteadiness in composure befallen to me. Nor did he notice my frantic hand fanning, directed toward my face. Right then, I wished for the existence of a portable air pumping device designed specifically for such situations, where revival of the senses is urgently required. Through short gasps of breath, I managed an utterance to maintain the rhythm our exchanges were beginning to develop.
“What was your poison, dare I ask? Several flutters too many on the horses, the cursed drink or perhaps the smoking of opium?”
“Friendship. I was addicted to friendship, due to an overwhelming sense of loneliness.” Reluctant to countenance the idea of friendship as a cause for addiction, I implored – nay demanded the man to explain.
“How could this possibly be so?” I asked, my face frozen in an expression of dramatic disbelief. The very concept of having friends is akin to the air I breathe, both necessary and something I had taken for granted up to now. Decades of therapy had taught me, the world was brimming full of strangers yearning to be friends. How could this transmogrify into a negative, such as an addiction?
“Do you have a phone?”
“Yes I do.” I replied, “A so-called smart-phone, the very latest, swankiest model.” I wished not to rub his nose in my good fortune and yet, a fact is a fact!
“My downfall.”
“How, on this world,” I spluttered, “could a handheld telecommunication device possibly serve towards your downfall?” I gasped at what I perceived as his growing incredulousness.
“I made calls with it. Calls to people I didn’t know, made up numbers, random-like.”
“For what purpose?” I enquired.
“To talk to people, to create a chance to make a friend. It had started off with three or four calls in the first hour, but by the end of the day, I’d racked up thirty calls and conversations with complete strangers. It developed from there.” Turning from a notably taciturn disposition, the man’s explanation of himself began expanding rapidly. “Each morning, I had my own routine, one I rarely strayed from. Once sat with a coffee, an open packet of biscuits, pen and pad of paper on my lap, I began dialling. Beyond a legitimate telephone code, I randomly selected the sequence and numbers. Occasionally, I’d get a continuous tone indicating a dead line, but on most occasions, I got through.”
“Complete strangers! Random numbers!”
“That’s right. Although I kept most of my dialling to landline numbers, rather than mobile phones. With the privacy settings on my phone as they were, it quickly became obvious that most people refused to accept calls from a withheld number.”
“A shrewd observation, may I say.”
“Shrewd and observation are my two middle names. I worked out a reasonably reliable system, based upon the number of rings. Once seventeen rings were reached, it was unlikely the call would be answered and I’d hang up. There wasn’t any point waiting for an eighteenth ring, as this would likely trigger an automated message service, requesting that I please leave a message, after the tone.”
“You would hold on, for seventeen rings?” It had been a rhetorical question. I held my hand up in a vertical position, palm facing outwards at chest height to stifle his response. Repositioning the goggles on his forehead by several sixteenths of an inch, he appeared simultaneously hesitant and unsure of what to do next. During this moment of confusion, I withdrew a phone from the inside pocket of my plaid patterned jacket and proceeded to mime the act of making a call. Pretending to dial a number, I then pressed the handset to my ear and imagined the pulse of a ringing tone. By nine make-believe rings, I gave up, concluding with certainty I would not hold on for more than this number.
My antics had been observed, shrewdly no doubt and the cause of some amusement to my conversationally skilled companion. After he’d finished chuckling, I noticed his confidence had returned.
“You didn’t get past nine, did you?” Rolling eyes upwards and from side to side, I scrunched both my lips together allowing them to come to rest in the lower-left quadrant of my face. As I wrestled myself free from a vague feeling of discomfort, he continued. “An answer at seventeen rings suggests an array of possibilities. A chance the person is busy at the bottom of the garden, upstairs asleep or involved in an intimate moment. Perhaps they are frantically fumbling with their keys outside the front door, balancing overflowing bags of food shopping in their arms.”
I assumed a quizzical pose, right hand supporting left elbow, while bent index finger gently rubbed against the vestigial medial depression between my nose and upper lip.
“Surely,” I proposed, “an extended number of rings would influence the way a person accepted a call. The sleeper, bather or lover would certainly be annoyed at the interruption. Whereas I would consider the gardener and returning shopper more likely to answer with a tremor of anxiety, having rushed to reach the phone.”
“Let me show you how a typical conversation goes.” He said. “I’ll be me and you can be you.” His logic appeared obvious, but then he changed his mind. “No. You be a woman answering.” With this, he formed his hand into a position to suggest a telephone handset. Three fingers curled into his palm, while his thumb and pinkie extended outwards. Using his thumb with unusual dexterity, he typed out an imaginary telephone number, before placing the ‘phone’ to the side of his face. Next, a sound designed to imitate the British style of a ringing tone, emitted from his lips. “Broobe-broobe, broobe-broobe, broobe-broobe…” Whilst doing so, he motioned for me to answer. I scrambled for my phone once more, but he flapped his fingers at me in an annoyed fashion, jabbing a stubby index finger at my hand. I deduced he wished for me to create my own ‘hand phone’. In compliance with this demand, hand to ear, I answered his call.
“Hello?” I said, slightly hesitantly. He looked at me and sighed.
“You’re a woman.” He said as his hand slid off the side of his face revealing an expression of mild exasperation. With an air of frustration, he motioned for me to answer again. Self-consciously, stood there on a bridge and busy pavement, I raised the pitch of my voice an octave.
“Hel-lo?” I said, clearing my throat awkwardly. Thankfully, his face relaxed as he grinned, satisfied with my second attempt.
“Hello, may I speak with Caroline please?”
I didn’t mean to play hardball with him, but the chances must be stacked against dialling a random number and getting the name right.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here called Caroline,  you have the wrong number.”
“Oh, I am sorry, I was sure I had the correct number.”
“What number did you dial?”

“In the early days I got caught out by this question.” He told me, dropping the pretence momentarily. “I couldn’t actually remember what sequence of numbers I’d dialled, so I learnt to scribble them down. With one digit changed, I could confidently answer this query.” Moving back into character, he reeled off a telephone number.
“Ah, I see what you’ve done.” I said, playing my part loyally. “You are one digit out, the last number here ends in a seven, not six, it’s an easy mistake.”
“I can’t believe I did that, how clumsy am I?”
Wanting to return to normal speech, I decided to curtail the conversation without further delay. 
“Well, a simple mistake really, never mind, goodbye!”
Undeniably, he appeared disappointed.
“This is how many a phone call would unfold.” He said, looking down at his unlaced, scuffed leather boots. “But I didn’t get upset, no reason to, just because a call didn’t work out, life is too short.

The prize of one meaningful conversation in a day out of fifty or so attempts, made for a good return.”
“Fifty calls, every day?”
“At least. You know how some people say their name when they answer the phone?” As a customary practice I indulged in myself, I nodded my head in acknowledgement. “Well when this happens, it provides a whole new opportunity. I’ll give you an example.” With his hand at the ready to symbolise a telephone handset, once again he made a noise similar to the electronic pulse of a ring tone. Quickly, I composed myself and formed my hand in the same way. Seeing this, he furiously waved an out-stretched hand and shook his head. At seventeen rings, he switched hands.
“Hello, Marcus speaking.”
As I realised his commitment to play both parties in the conversation, a wave of disappointment washed through me. Yes, I had been uncomfortable before, but this had been because of the requirement to maintain a squeaky feminine voice in an exposed public space. For the character of Marcus, the man used a masculine, well-spoken and educated tone. The image of a stylish gentleman answering the telephone in the entrance hall to an impressive Victorian mansion-house, possibly situated a short distance off the Holloway Road in Islington, sprung to mind.
“Hello Marcus, Graham here.”
“Graham?”
“Yes. Marcus, how are you fixed for the following weekend? I have two day-permits for Saturday and Sunday up at the old quarry carp lakes. People have been pulling out 50 lb. beauties since the season opened. What do you think?” He’d quickly found his stride during the re-enactment, switching smoothly between hands and characters.
“Old quarry what? Sorry, who is this please?”
“Marcus, it’s Graham. Look, it’s a while since we’ve got out together and when I bumped into Cheryl recently, she mentioned you feeling a little low-spirited and having not been yourself lately. So how about it chap?”
“Cheryl? Who’s Cheryl?”
“I’ve still got that little fold-away barbecue, I’ll pick up some sausages, some finger rolls, a crate of lager. Are you up for it?”
“Who’s Cheryl and what has she been telling you about me?”
“Who’s Cheryl? Marcus, Cheryl is your step-sister and my ex-wife.”
“Hold up, hold up, hold up, no no no no no.” Although tested, I guessed from the dialogue Marcus’ sense of reality had begun to return.
“Look I’m sorry friend, there’s been some kind of very odd mix-up here. I have two brothers and as I don’t have a step-sister, let alone know anyone called Cheryl, it follows that I don’t have an ex-brother-in-law called Graham. Contrary to whatever you have been told by whoever, I am feeling perfectly fine, thank you. And furthermore, I have never gone fishing in my life so why would I want to, next weekend? And last but not least, I am a vegetarian!”
“Veggie sausages?”
“What..?! Look, who do you think you are speaking to? Please tell me, then we can clear up this misunderstanding.”
“Marcus. You are Marcus, aren’t you?”
“I am Marcus, but Marcus who?”
“You don’t know?”
“I am asking you.”
“Well, Marcus Robertson of course.”
“My name is Marcus Richardson.”
“Oh, that’s quite similar, how curious!”
I could only agree, what were the chances of such a similarity of names when he’d simply plucked Robertson from thin air?
“Curious it maybe friend, but it’s not me. I am afraid you have the wrong Marcus.”
I clapped my hands together in delight at this point, bringing them to my chest and under my chin, as if I were in prayer. My storytelling acquaintance hung up both hand phones one after the other in a highly precise manner, suggesting a fair degree of self-satisfaction.
“The conversation finished shortly afterwards.” He said, returning to his natural voice. “But as an example, it serves as an insight into what rapidly became part of my day-to-day life. Some calls I made weren’t picked up, or ended abruptly. I can’t begin to imagine the number of times I heard the singular phrase ‘Sorry, wrong number’ said to me. On other occasions, I received rather colourful, two-worded closing statements.”
Really?” I replied, taken aback.
“Hmm, unpleasant and unnecessary. To be honest, in such instances I’d fire a salvo of expletives back at them.”
“Well, I wouldn’t condone such a response, but I can see why you felt the need to.”
Rudeness, I cannot abide, nor the simplistic approach of fighting fire with fire. Yet, I felt a twinge of genuine sympathy towards the man standing before me. Beyond instilling a sense of bemusement in the people he’d called, what harm had come about from his actions? I had one more pressing question for him.
“Still, I don’t quite understand, how you got from there, to here?”
“I exceeded my phone plan,” he replied. “Five hundred minutes per month as an allowance doesn’t go far when your making the number of calls I had come to make, especially as nearly all of them were to different networks. You pay full price on those babies.”
“Couldn’t you have opted for an alternative contract, or simply topped up? I know my network provider affords this option on data. I am often over my limit before the end of the month, due to the numerous videos I watch online with my phone.” As a solution, it had seemed the obvious answer to me.
“I tried, they weren’t interested, they correctly identified a problem with this. I exceeded my agreement with them more than ten times over. They could see, no plan they could offer, would cover my usage.”
“So they cancelled your contract with them?” Absorbing the inevitability of the situation, I pinched at the bony part of my nose. With the setting sun casting a long silhouette upon the pavement, this despairing gesture projected a shadow puppet rabbit kissing my forehead. Then sudden inspiration struck. “What about ‘Pay-As-You-Go’?” I spurted out. “You don’t have to have a phone contract.”
“That was when things got really bad. I found myself jogging along to the corner shop to buy credit vouchers, ten times a day at its peak. I lost a little weight for a while, but this coincided with the period when I turned to selling all my possessions.”
“Well, with every cloud…” I said, puffing out my cheeks and holding my hands at waist height, supporting a large, imaginary gut overhanging my trousers.
“Not for long.” He replied, as a shot of snot leapt from his left nostril. “Once I had sold the cooker, I ate take-away food only and soon discovered these meals are highly calorific. For every few ounces I burnt off journeying back and forth, my diet added three or four pounds more each day.”
“Escalation, in every part of your life!”
“You better believe it. My only relief came from receiving cold calls from companies selling things, generally regarded by most as a nuisance, but manna from heaven to me. I loved it, the challenge of moving the tele-sales person off script. It could take a while, but more times than not, I did it.”
I thought to offer him my handkerchief, but as my fingers closed around the fine silk fabric nestled in my pocket, I reconsidered. “I can remember reading an article in the FT,” I said, “about how less than 3% of cold calls lasted no more than five seconds in duration. The report stated this to be the case until a year ago, at which point the statistics suddenly spiked. Research had shown the average call time lengthening considerably and marketing companies around the world went into a frenzy. Claims about cold-calling as a valid and proven advertising tool abounded within the industry!”
“That was down to me.”
“Down to you?”
“Entirely, me.” He nodded his head, his expression deadly serious.
“Well, yes.” I blinked my eyes in momentary disbelief. “And, I suppose this would have cost you nothing!”
“Well, let’s say I viewed it as a bonus. It cost me nothing until I traced their numbers and phoned them back. Most of the calls emanated from India and Bangladesh. I was dialling on international rates and rapid consumption of the credit vouchers accelerated.”
“And did you make any friends?”
“Not really.” With the mournful expression of a Bassett Hound, he punctuated his answer with an abrupt bottom burp. “For a short while, I got to know a young chap named Anay from Dharavi, a locality in Mumbai. But as I probed more deeply, he became less willing to talk with me. Ultimately, after I’d begun asking to speak with him specifically, he started refusing to take my calls and the company blocked my number.”
“What confounded bad luck!” I exclaimed. “If I was you sir, I would most surely consider throwing myself off from this bridge!” He grinned back at me exposing gingivitis gums and yellowed teeth. At the exact same moment a double-decker bus roared past sending vibrations through my head and chest, expelling any remnants of the queerness I had felt earlier. At this, the man sprung into action and with surprising agility, swung his foot up and levered himself onto the top edge of the guard rail with his stick. Before I could gather my senses, he’d rolled over and dropped to the water below.
Wrong-footed by the spectacle and scarcely able to believe my own eyes, I hesitantly looked over the edge and scanned the brownish-green coloured water below. Mostly, the sound of the large splash had been drowned out by the passing bus. I could discern a few bubbles rising to the water surface, yet all immediate indications suggested he had sunk to the bottom like a stone. Only his poorly whittled stick lay floating on the surface, moving off downstream upon the gentle current. While faintly regretting the delivery of my advice, I abided by my unilateral pledge of conscientious non-interference. Straightening my back and adjusting the cuffs of my shirt, once again I doffed my cap.
“Adieu mon ami, and farewell.”
As luck would have it and aided by a long stride gifted to me by mother nature, I caught a ride on the very same catalyst bus which had passed moments earlier. I made no specific mention of the incident to the driver, who inexplicably appeared reluctant to engage in conversation. Perched in an uncomfortable and smelly seat on the top deck, gradually enveloped by the unpleasant odour one associates with an elderly widower, I gave consideration to recent events.
After musing on this for a short time, recalcitrant thoughts materialised in my wayward mind in the manner of undiluted thuggery. Mental memoranda, lists, questions and assertions all began competing for the same limited attention span available. As the neurons in my brain reached the febrile level of a stock exchange in meltdown, I experienced a severe caffeine crash and with great ease, slipped into the arms of Morpheus. There, rocking back and forth as the bus swung sharply around bends on the country roads, I slept as sound as a baby, until discourteously ejected by several irritable members of staff at the bus terminus.

A Lover’s Scar

Annie phones me in a froth, broken and emotional. “Annie!? Tell me what’s happened. Now listen to me, take some slo-w breathes in and out, and try to calm down.”

“I just can’t believe it. Just, can’t, believe it.” I hear the sound of rushing air mixed with telephonic white noise, while she fills and then empties her lungs. “I just, can’t believe it.” She repeats. I imagine her, head hung low, veiled in despondency, searching and unable to find new words to describe the same feelings.

“It’s okay, that’s better, take it e-asy,” I say, like I’m settling a twitchy horse spooked by a snake in the grass, “just calm right, on, down. It’s okay Annie.” It’s working, I hear the sound of a nose being blown hard into a paper tissue.

“He never noticed,” I just about make out, as Annie finishes dabbing at her nose, “in four and a half years, he never noticed.” Okay, this is about Jake, I conclude. Annie and Jake have not long broken up and Annie is finding it hard to come to terms with. Over the last eight and a half weeks I’ve received four or five calls from Annie in a similar vein.

“He never noticed what, Annie?”

“If I’d laid him on a sheet of paper and drawn around his whole body, twice – ”

“Twice? Why twice?” I’m asking, trying to fathom out where this is going.

“To represent both sides of his body, the outlines laid down next to each other.” Her tone tightens a little, “Beebie, could you just hear me out on this one?”

“Sure Annie, I just needed to get the image in my head right – you know?.”

“Okay, so I’ve got these two outlines, well you know what happens next?” I’m thinking this is a rhetorical question and remain silent. “Beebie! Are you listening to what I am saying?”

“Yes Annie, of course I am, please continue.”

“Well, it occurred to me recently, I could draw in each mole, every dark pigment, birth mark, blemish, contour and crease found in his skin. I could map out Jake’s body like the night sky and with the same degree of accuracy.” Although thinking it a weird idea, the words I chose said otherwise.

“Aww… that’s real sweet Annie.”

Don’t ‘aww that’s real sweet Annie’ me, Beebie!” You see? This is a clear demonstration of why I’m no good with women and long term, remain single: I just don’t have the skills to read them. “Do you know what he said to me shortly before we split up?” I plump for this as a question requiring a response, but keep it simple.

“What did he say, Annie?”

“We were cuddling in bed together on a bright, sunny morning and Jake’s holding my hand. Moving his fingers through mine, he suddenly says ‘I’ve never noticed this scar on your hand before‘. He sounded genuinely surprised, peered at it up close, turning around my hand in the sunlight to get a better look.”

“Okay, that sounds sweet Annie, so what’s up?” Instead of a prize of yellow cheese filled with holes, I get the unforgiving cold steel snap across my back as the high tensile spring of the mouse-trap is released.

What’s up with that?! What’s up?!” To ease the strain, Annie pushes up into fifth gear finding cruise-control, her voice takes on a calm-but-serious tone. “The scar is on the stop of my hand, it is white, two inches long and the original incision was held together by eight stitches, each having left their own, distinct perpendicular marks. And in four and a half years, he’d never noticed!”

“I’m sorry Annie, I don’t know what to say.” I genuinely didn’t.

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