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I was fast asleep when the phone rang. I stumbled into the living room and picked up my phone, which is cracked and makes a hideous, piercing noise that always sets the cats on edge (I had thrown it against a wall a few weeks back for reasons that aren’t entirely relevant to the story). When I answered, a young (and, I think, completely drunk) woman on the other end asked to speak with Flora. When I told her there was no one here by that name, she started yelling.
“Goddammit, Major, lemme talk to my sister!” She was slurring in a
way that was, well, kind of cute.
“There is no one here named Flora -- sorry, but you've got the wrong number.”
“Fuck you, Major -- I know she's there. Let me talk to my sister, or I'll come over there and fuck you up!”
Apparently, she was mistaking me for someone named “Major.” This was really funny for all sorts of reasons that I can't quite articulate.
“Sorry,” I told her, “but you've absolutely gotten the wrong number. I don't know anyone named 'Flora.'“
“PUT MY FUCKING SISTER ON THE PHONE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”
“Now listen here, you idiot -- I'm the only person who lives here, my name is not 'Major,' you just woke me up, and you've got the wrong number, so I want you to hang up the phone and not call back.”
“Look,” the woman sighed. “I just wanna talk to my sister. Put her on, asshole.”
“She's not here, you retarded twat -- you...have...the...wrong...number.”
We continued arguing. Honestly, I don't know why I stayed on the phone with this person -- but I was groggy with fatigue, and she sounded groggy with drink. Something in the conversation was obviously amusing me, but my unwillingness to simply hang up merely confirmed her suspicions that I was, indeed, hiding her sister from her. So we continued, and the mysterious caller soon mumbled something incoherent and vaguely intimidating.
“What did you say?” I asked. I was pretty sure she had threatened me with fire of some kind. I needed clarification.
“You fucking heard me, Major.”
“No, I didn't. What the fuck did you just say?”
“Yes you did, you stupid shithead -- let me talk to Flora! Please, just let me talk to her, it's important! Stop fucking with me, you asshole!”
“Look, if Flora were here, I'd let you talk to her -- but she's not, BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW ANYONE NAMED FLORA!”
“Fucking liar. Fuck you, Major.”
“No, fuck you. Look, I'm going to hang up this phone now, you dim-witted fuck. And if you call back . . . there's gonna be trouble.”
I have absolutely no idea what I meant by that. What kind of “trouble” could I possibly bring to this anonymous and confused caller? It felt good to say it, though, to engage in a volley of shrouded threats as I stood, half-blind and barefoot in the dim light of my apartment, my hair matted like a crushed squirrel, wearing an old Whitesnake t-shirt, bilious and drooling with the promise of harm. I imagined the two of us, loping towards each other in the night -- a can of kerosene in her sausage-like fingers, and a baseball bat dragging the ground behind me. There are probably worse ways to start a relationship.
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