Stupid Dialing

I’m sure you’ve heard of the clever phrase “drunk dialing.”  

I have absolutely no such excuse for a phone call I made.

It was the middle of the day. I’d had lunch and a bottle of water.

I thought that talking with a certain individual, an individual with whom I had agreed never to speak again, might make me feel better. Why? Because that individual had made me feel good in the past and I was feeling very bad indeed.

I had no agenda. I was not (at least not consciously, but I can’t speak for Miss Id) seeking contact. 

I just wanted to hear a kind male voice. I’d been fighting the urge for days.

I did not want a record of the call on my cell records, and he most definitely did not want my cell number anywhere on his records. So I’d been looking for pay phones, specifically pay phones in a different area code. Surprisingly, they no longer sit on every corner or at every gas station. I’d identified a likely candidate. Every time I drove past, I thought, “There it is. I can always go there if the pain gets to be too much.”

You’d think I was talking about a heroin dealer or something.

It’s not a bad analogy.

Yesterday was the tipping point. I’d been driving in a daze for about an hour, thinking about this and that and this again. Comparing the now and the then. Aware, in my intellect, that nothing was ever as good as it seems in memory and knowing somehow, in my viscera, that nothing will ever be as good as that was. 

And there was a phone.

And here’s where – for a very brief time – this story becomes really funny.

The universe did everything it could to prevent me from connecting. 

1. First, it didn’t take one of my quarters.

2. Then it told me I didn’t need to dial a “1.”

3. Then it told me I didn’t need to make a “coin deposit.”

4. Then it told me I did.

Finally, the call went through.

He said his name. I said mine.

Pause.

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I hate these cell phones.”

“No, X. I’m calling from a pay phone.”

“You’re not coming through at all. I hate these cell phones.”

“I’ll try again.”

More quarters.

“Hello.”

“Can you hear me any better?

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying. This is a really bad connection.”

“I can hear you perfectly. I just wanted to know that you’re okay.”

“I hate these cell phones. Let me call you back.”

Pay phone rings.

“Hello? Is this any better?”

“I still can’t hear you. Sorry.”

“I really hate to do this, but I’ll call you on my cell.”

And here is where it all goes to hell.

Ring.

“Hello,” in a very tight voice.

“Hi. I’m so sorry to call from my cell. I hope it won’t cause you problems.”

“Well, actually, it will cause me huge problems. Are you okay?”

“More or less,” as tears begin to creep into my voice. I keep them at bay. “And you?”

“Fine.” With finality.

“Sorry to have bothered you. Best of luck.”

“Bye.”

I return to my car, crumple into the driver’s seat, burst into tears and say to the universe, “That was the biggest mistake I’ve ever, ever made.”

 

After another 20 minutes of aimless driving, I realize I may need to do some damage control for his sake. My stupidity should not damage another’s life. So I find yet another phone and leave this message.

“I am so sorry to have called your cell by mistake when we agreed to have no further contact. You were still on my cell, and I hit your name instead of XX. Again, this was an error and I hope it doesn’t cause you problems; it will not happen again.”

I figure that gives him an out if his wife notices my number – the forbidden number – on his records.

 

Two hours later, when I have my children in the vehicle and I’m driving home, my phone rings.  I pick it up and this is what I hear:

“Don’t ever call me again. I told you not to. If you do, I swear I will cut your heart out with a knife and feed it to my wife. I won’t hesitate. Do you hear me?”

And then he hands the phone to her. I can’t even begin to recount the horrors and threats that follow.

The morals of this immoral story?

1. When things end, they end.

2. Seek comfort within.

3. It’s never just sex.

4. Uhmmm. Maybe some things are wrong, after all.

5. If a woman decides to make her husband “pay,” the cost will get spread around.

6. TAKE THE FUCKING HINT. It might be the universe preventing you from completing the call, or it might be an old lover telling you NOT ONCE BUT TWICE that the connection is bad and he can’t hear a thing…either way DON’T MAKE THE CALL, YOU MORON.

A foul stinging nettle by any other name…

The stories you are about to read are true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Don’t you hate it when a name is forever after ruined for you?

Take, hmmmmm, let’s say “Yaldo.” I’ve had four partners named Yaldo in my life, two in college and two, well, later. The first was just kind of weird, and our thing didn’t last long. The second was not as smart as he should have been and was once (and only once, let me tell you!) mildly abusive. The third was my Older Man, way too tightly wound and, had I stayed in the relationship, likely to have become abusive as well. The fourth and final Yaldo was married. So was I. That was long long long ago. But one great hot nasty night does not break the Yaldo curse.  

And who doesn’t remember (hopefully fondly; I know I do, although I realize this is not always the case) his or her “first?”  That would be Xaldo, and I was 18 (surprised? You shouldn’t be. I waited on purpose, not out of any real sense of piety but because I wanted to choose and not be coerced).  About three years later the name reappeared on a man who haunts me to this day. I don’t think I can ever fuck another Yaldo as long as I live.

But Zaldo? You stand alone.