Left No Forwarding Address

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Left No Forwarding Address Page 16

by Gerald J. Davis


  It didn’t seem like much of a chore to me. “How lucrative would this bonus be?” I asked him.

  “In the neighborhood of two hundred dollars.”

  “Pretty lucrative neighborhood,” I said. “And all I would have to do is look?”

  “That’s correct. Look and drive.”

  “Where do I sign up?” I said.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  I had no phone. Malkie had a phone but, since she couldn’t hear, it was hooked up to a device called a TTY. That was a teletypewriter which allowed her to communicate with another person who also had a TTY. But you couldn’t communicate with her if she didn’t want to communicate with you.

  Malkie didn’t want to communicate with me.

  Ever since our little encounter, Malkie had been cool and detached. We had gone out two times since then but nothing had happened. Our conversation had been strained. The evenings had passed with difficulty.

  I had no computer so I couldn’t e-mail her and she had no computer so she couldn’t have received my e-mail. Besides, neither one of us had an e-mail address. We were primitives in a wireless age. So I wrote a letter to her and slipped it under the door of her apartment in a pathetic attempt at instantaneous communications, but there was no reply. I was deeply afraid she would be lost to me. Being a lone outrider was no longer of paramount importance in my hierarchy of desires.

  In desperation, I turned to AT&T for help.

  “How do I communicate with someone who has a TTY?” I asked the operator, when I was finally able to speak to a live being after many frustrating attempts to negotiate my way through the touch-tone maze.

  “You have your TTY communicate with their TTY,” he replied in a voice which was just a shade more masculine than feminine.

  “Thanks very much for that useless piece of information,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for calling AT&T.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Don’t hang up. I’m calling from a pay phone and it took me the better part of an hour to reach you. I don’t have a TTY. How do I speak to someone who has a TTY if I don’t have one?”

  “May I put you on hold for a minute?”

  “What choice do I have?” I asked.

  The music on hold was a Mozart concerto. K 313, I believe it was. The music was tinny but, thank goodness, at least it wasn’t Celine Dion.

  The AT&T operator came back on the line just as the concerto was reaching a crescendo. “You can use AT&T Relay Service,” he said.

  “How much does that cost?” I was becoming even more cost-conscious now that I was working.

  He seemed to puff up his chest with pride. “AT&T Relay Service is a benefit provided without charge to those with disabilities.”

  I didn’t see the need to point out that I wasn’t disabled. How would AT&T know that I wasn’t blind or in a wheelchair? It never occurred to me that Malkie might be the one who was disabled. “Outstanding,” I said. “How do I avail myself of this service?”

  “You have to make an appointment.”

  “Like in a doctor’s office?”

  “Not quite,” said the operator. “You set up a time for us to call you and then the Relay operator takes over.”

  “But you can’t call me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have a phone.” It was as if I had said, “I eat my young.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then the operator said tentatively, “You don’t have a phone?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a cellular phone?”

  Was it unchristian not to have a phone? “I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “But I don’t have a phone, not even a cell phone.”

  There was a note of desperation in the operator’s voice. “But how can we reach you?”

  “I don’t know. Certainly not telephonically. Would it be possible for me to reach you?”

  “This is very unusual. I don’t know if it’s ever been done before.”

  “Could we be pioneering groundbreakers and try to do it for the first time?” I said.

  “May I put you on hold?”

  I sighed. The world on hold. It was a good metaphor. “Please,” I said. “Do put me on hold.”

  Mozart again. Then the operator came back, this time breathless with excitement. “Yes, we can do it. It’s highly unusual, but we can do it.”

  “Marvelous, AT&T can do it. Life is not so forlorn after all.”

  We set up an appointment and, the next afternoon, I went to a pay phone and called the number.

  “Hello, this is the AT&T Relay Operator,” said an elderly, not unkind, female voice.

  “Hello, AT&T Relay Operator,” I said. “I have an appointment to do a Relay call.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What is the procedure?” I asked.

  “You stay on the line and I will place the call to the TTY.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  I listened as the phone rang at the other end and then sang with a rhythmic series of beeps. Then the beeps stopped. The operator said to me, “Go ahead.”

  “Go ahead and do what?”

  “Go ahead and speak your message.”

  I took a deep breath. “Hello, Malkie,” I said. “This is Tony. How are you?”

  My words were transformed into another series of beeps. There was a moment of silence, then the reply came back as beeps.

  “I’m fine,” the operator said. But, of course, it wasn’t the operator who was fine, it was Malkie.

  I was uncertain as to how to proceed. Should I completely abase myself and throw myself on her mercy? I was tempted to ask the operator what to do. She sounded old and experienced enough to have passed through some of life’s travails. But I was sure such advice-giving was outside the purview of her job description at AT&T. I felt the urgent need for a gypsy soothsayer.

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally.

  Beep tones on the line. Followed by another series of beeps.

  “What are you sorry about?” came the reply from the operator. For a moment, I thought the operator was asking me the question.

  How to respond? I felt embarrassment that my words were being forwarded by a stranger and, at the same time, joy at speaking to Malkie. What should I say? I couldn’t hold back. It was time for honesty.

  “I’m sorry we made love,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  I could sense the operator tensing up by the momentary delay on the line. Then a rapid series of beeps, a short pause, and more beeps.

  “You didn’t hurt me,” the operator said. She was doing her best to maintain her professional dignity.

  “Then why are you so distant?”

  Beeps. Pause. Beeps.

  “It’s hard to explain,” the operator said. “I just felt that you weren’t really with me when we made love. That you were someone else.”

  The operator was partly right. Or, better said, Malkie was partly right. I used to be someone else. But now I’m not. I tried to frame an answer. “I don’t want to stop seeing you,” I said. “I think you need me and I know I need you.”

  Beeps. Pause. Beeps.

  “I don’t think I want to go out with you anymore,” the operator said. The words ripped my heart out of my chest.

  “Please,” I said. “Please don’t say that.”

  I started to cry. Jesus Christ, I swear to God, I started to cry.

  Beeps. Pause. Beeps.

  “That’s the way I feel,” the operator said.

  I couldn’t reply.

  Beeps.

  “Why don’t you answer me?” the operator said.

  I tried to pull myself together. But I couldn’t speak. There were more beeps on the line. Then the operator stepped out of character. “I told her you were crying,” the operator said to me.

  “Are you supposed to do that?”

  The operator started to type and then stopped. “Are you talking to me?” she asked.

&nbs
p; “Well, yes. Are you supposed to interject stage directions or are you just supposed to type my words?”

  The operator hesitated. “Oh dear. I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve worked as a Relay operator. But I thought she should know that you were crying. It might help your case.”

  “God bless you, operator,” I said.

  There were some more beeps on the line. “Your girlfriend wants to know what’s going on,” the operator said. “She wants to know why the silence. She feels left out.”

  “What do you think I should do?” I said.

  “Do you want me to relay that or are you talking to me?”

  “I’m asking you,” I said to the operator.

  “Oh, my. Well, I think you should stop crying and tell her you love her.”

  “But I’m not sure I love her.”

  Beeps on the line. “She’s getting impatient. What should I tell her?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Listen, sonny. If you’re really afraid of losing her, tell her you love her. She’s ready to hang up and I don’t believe she’s going to take another call from you.”

  “OK. Tell her I love her.”

  Beeps. Pause. Beeps.

  “She sounds insecure…uncertain. You better say something to reassure her.”

  “What should I say?” I asked.

  “Oh dear, let me figure something out.”

  “OK, whatever you say.”

  There was a long pause, followed by beeps on the line. Then the Relay operator said, “She sounds better. I hope this will work out.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I told her that you loved her and that you would prove it to her by not having any more sex.”

  “You did what?” I said. Was this the proper function of a salaried AT&T employee? Or was this simply women united in sisterhood? What the hell was going on?

  “I told her you wouldn’t have sex. Believe me, it’s better for both of you to abstain.”

  “But isn’t AT&T carrying this a little too far?”

  “Well, it’s not really AT&T’s policy,” the Relay operator said. “I mean I don’t know if it’s AT&T’s policy or not. I really don’t know what AT&T’s policy on the matter is.”

  There were some more beeps on the line. “Your girlfriend said it would be all right if you wanted to come over to her apartment now. She said she would cook you dinner.”

  “But no sex?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” the Relay operator said. (And if you could tell that someone was smiling over the phone, I was sure the Relay operator was smiling.) “No sex.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  “Good evening, Tony,” Mister Forsyth said. “Ready for our little ride?”

  “Good evening, Mister Forsyth. Good evening, Dolly,” I replied. “Everything is ready.”

  It was eleven at night. Max, the dispatcher, had given me the assignment in his usual courtly and sophisticated manner. “You go New Canaan, Mister Forsyth’s house. Pick him up. Take him city. He ask for you only. Go right now.” The weather was raw and rainy. Mister Forsyth stood in the porte-cochere of his house wearing a tuxedo, but no overcoat. Dolly was wearing a long black sable coat which she hugged tightly around herself. The coat looked very expensive. I couldn’t see what she was wearing underneath the fur coat.

  Dolly winked at me. “Hello, Tony,” she said. “How do I look?” She squared her shoulders in anticipation of my compliment.

  I felt the urge to tell her she looked like a porno star, but that wouldn’t have been appropriate. Actually, she did look stunning. Her hair was bigger and blonder than ever. Her makeup was well-applied. There was a strong sensual glow to her face. She had an aura of procreation about her. The human race had no cause for concern, regardless of the threat of low sperm counts in first-world countries.

  “You look gorgeous, Dolly,” I said. “There’s not a man who could draw a breath that would turn you down.”

  Dolly spoke to Mister Forsyth. “That’s a compliment, isn’t it?” she asked him.

  He patted her on the hand. “It’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever heard,” he told her.

  She turned brightly back to me. “Tony, did Mister Forsyth explain what’s going on tonight? You know, what we’re going to do?”

  I nodded. “You bet. In explicit detail. You can count on me to carry out my part.”

  Dolly squealed in delight and clapped her hands. “This is going to be awesome.”

  I didn’t want to point out to her that awesome meant inspiring fear or wonder or reverence. Not under the present circumstances. I was sure it would have deflated the exuberant mood of the moment. I opened the door of the limousine for them to enter.

  Dolly climbed in, followed by Mister Forsyth. We drove down the Merritt Parkway toward New York without exchanging the usual pleasantries. It was obvious this was going to be a serious ride, one that would go down in the annals of history along the lines of Louis XVI’s last ride to Varennes.

  There wasn’t much traffic heading toward the city at this time of night. I wasn’t certain of the exact protocol involved in this type of procedure, having never before participated in a multi-party sex event, so I determined to give the other participants their heads and simply follow along. I adjusted the rear view mirror so I could see Mister Forsyth and Dolly in the back seat. They noticed what I was doing and gave me big smiles and animated waves of their hands.

  As we drove down the highway, their heads disappeared from sight. I supposed they were engaged in step one of the protocol which probably involved sniffing or snorting cocaine, or whatever it was one did with the drug. Their heads were out of view for a long time.

  Then Dolly’s head reappeared. She lay back slowly against the head rest. Her eyes were half-closed, her hair spread out. I was suddenly very aware of the feel of the steering wheel in my hand and the accelerator pedal under my foot. The only sounds were the rhythmic slapping of the tires as they went over the seams in the road and the back and forth whack of the windshield wipers.

  I could see the back of Mister Forsyth’s head. He had a full head of blow-dried blond hair. Then Mister Forsyth moved his head so it was next to Dolly’s. They were cheek to cheek. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. That is, nothing I could see. Then Dolly’s eyes widened. Something had obviously entered her, from her reaction. Her mouth opened in a half grimace. Her face was flushed.

  Then Dolly’s eyes caught mine. Caught them and held them. I knew I had to look at the road. That would have been wise. So I glanced at the road and then back at her eyes. They were blazing. Mister Forsyth’s head was rocking against Dolly’s and her eyes were blazing.

  I looked at the road again. Then I looked into her eyes again. And then Dolly smiled slowly.

  “Is he watching?” Mister Forsyth asked Dolly as he rocked back and forth. He sounded winded.

  Dolly could hardly speak. “Yeah, he’s watching, all right.” She was out of breath also. “Tony’s watching,” she managed to say. “Tony’s watching us while we do it.”

  I was familiar with the crime of “lascivious carriage” but I never expected it to be carried out quite so literally. Was this what the lawgivers had in mind when they framed the statutes against lascivious carriage? Somehow I pictured a magnificent gilded horse-drawn carriage with footmen rather than a mud-spattered Lincoln Town Car.

  Mister Forsyth and Dolly continued to rock on with their drug-enhanced Sex Olympics Pronging Event as a spectator sport for what seemed like a long time, but probably wasn’t.

  Their activity was having the expected effect on me and so I was totally unprepared for the blowout. I believe, however, that their scheduled event came to an end at approximately the same time as the sudden unpleasant sound. There was a loud noise followed by my heightened inability to steer the car.

  “Jesus Christ, what was that?” Mister Forsyth said. He was still out of breath.

  “Forgive me,
but I thought that was your consummation,” I said. By now it was impossible to keep the car in its lane. I slowed down and pulled off the road onto the shoulder and hit the emergency flasher.

  Mister Forsyth didn’t think that was funny. “Don’t kid around, Tony. That could have been serious,” he said as he attempted to arrange his linens. He had obviously entered the stage of post-coital lassitude and had lost any trace of his sense of humor. You could see that all he wanted to do right now was to curl up in a warm cozy bed and go to sleep. Dolly, on the other hand, was fully awake and animated.

  “What are we going to do, Tony?” she asked me, little furrows of concern wrinkling her brow. “I don’t want to get this sable wet. It could get ruined.” As if to demonstrate her fear, she wrapped the fur coat about her so I had no chance to get a glimpse of those luscious breasts.

  “Don’t you worry, Dolly. I’ll keep you dry and safe. We have worldStar.” I felt like Batman about to rescue the damsel in distress.

  “What’s worldStar?” Dolly asked.

  Mister Forsyth wasn’t about to be outdone. “It’s a GPS system for calling help,” he said.

  “What’s GPS?” Dolly asked.

  “It stands for Global Positioning System,” Mister Forsyth said. “Tony’s going to press a button and the service is going to come and help us. Right, Tony?”

  “That’s right, Mister Forsyth.” Max had made this safety feature his Unique Selling Proposition. He constantly drummed it into his drivers at every opportunity that we were a quality limousine company with the latest technological advances. And we were supposed to inform the customers at every opportunity of our latest safety and service features. But I wasn’t a team player. I had forgotten to tell any of our riders about our impressive strides down the highway of technology, perhaps because of my distrust of what was called progress.

  I pressed the button.

  A reassuring female voice came out of nowhere and filled the interior of the limousine. “This is worldStar. Is this an emergency?”

  It sounded like a computer voice but I wasn’t sure, so I responded as you would to a real person.

  “Well, not exactly,” I said to no one in particular. “It’s just that our event was interrupted.”

 

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