Ladies' Man

by Richard Price

  “Our number here at the Swapline is on your screen below me. Please limit yourself to three items you want to sell or swap—no mattresses, stocks, bonds or real estate—and give your phone number a little slower and louder than you usually would in a normal conversation, okay, people?”

  The phone on his switchboard started ringing. “Here we go. First call of the night. Hello, Swapline, you’re on the air.”

  “Hello? Am I on the air?” The voice sounded like a middle-aged lady; it was crackly and riddled with static like from a crystal radio. “Yes, Rod, I have a child’s rocking horse and a GI Joe doll with removable clothes and weapons. I’m asking ten dollars for the horse and three dollars for the doll. The horse is very sturdy, both Kenny and Larry played with it when they were younger. My name is Mrs. Moskowitz and I can be reached at TU two, nine-four-one-six.” Rod Ramada kept the phone pressed to his temple, his head down as though he was hearing heartbreaking news. “You know, Rod, the little cine, Kenny, just entered the Bronx High School of Science, so there’s really no need to keep their toys around.” She made a laughing noise and Ramada chuckled weakly. “Okay then.” He hung up on her as she was about to say something else.

  No good. No good. You don’t hang up on people like that. A little compassion and manners go a long way, and he could have talked to the old broad a little longer.

  He wasn’t network prime time. Things like that got people on my shit list fast. “Hello, Swapline, you’re on the air.”

  “How are you, Rod? I have six early issues of Crypt of Terror in mint condition that I would like very much to trade one for one for any Supermans from before nineteen forty-five or two for one for any Star-Spangled War comics from the Korean War. Also, Rod, if you or your listeners are interested I would like to start an old comic collecting club. My name is Aaron Gold and I can be reached at five-one-six, three-three-two, four-one-four-zero. That’s in Lake Success, Rod. I’m sorry to inconvenience any of your New York City-proper listeners, but I can’t accept any collect calls.”

  “Okay then.”

  The kid’s voice had that perfect, nervous nasal diction of a highly intelligent, totally fucked up mama’s boy. Sad case. But I was a freak for comics in my day, too. I even had some Crypt of Terrors myself. To be honest, I felt like being in. a comic book club with that creep would have been cozy in a rainy-day sort of way. Out of habit I poked my gut and it felt like Silly Putty. I shoved La Donna’s pillow under mine to prop up my head more. It was nice having a queen-size to yourself. “Hello, Swapline, you’re on the air.”

  “Good morning, Rod, my name is Mr. Rosenbusch, and I got a wife about fifty years old with a big mouth. I would like to swap her for a young broad with a nice body.”

  That had me sitting up. The guy sounded like my grandfather. I wanted to laugh, but it felt eerie laughing with no one around. Ramada was chuckling, his shoulders jiggling up and down. What a gentle phony son of a bitch.

  “Ha, ha, no seriously, Rod, I love my wife very much. We’ve been married thirty-one years and she’s asleep now.”

  “Have you got anything to swap?”

  “Hah? Ah, no, Rod, but I wanted to ask you, that last caller, Aaron Gold with the joke books? Didn’t that guy sound a little too old to be playing with joke books?”

  “Well, you know, different strokes for different folks.” Rod adjusted his glasses.

  Stroke this.

  “Yeah? Okay, goodnight, Rod.”

  “Thank you. Hello, Swapline, you’re on the air.”

  I turned myself around, cleared away the pillows, stuck my feet between the mattress and the headboard and did sit-ups.

  “Hello, Swapline, you’re on the air… Is anybody there?”

  All that could be heard was a tentative breathing, a shuddering, as if someone was either very cold or about to cry.

  “Hello, is anybody there?” he repeated, ducking as if to look under the screen.

  “So hang up, schmuck!” Oh good, I was yelling at the TV now.

  “Rod? Hey… Hey…” It sounded like a kid, a girl, sixteen maybe. “I’m sorry”—she started to cry—“I’m’s-so depressed, I don’t… I don’t…”

  Later for sit-ups.

  “I’m’s-sorry.” There was nothing after that other than some very disturbing snuffling and huh-huh breathing. Ramada straightened up and frowned for real.

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Nno-nno, I’m sorry.” Suddenly she belted out a moan like she was going through natural childbirth. “Oh God!” she gasped. “I’m gonna kill myself! Oh, yeah I am!”

  “Hey! Hey! Don’t hang up! Hey!”

  “No! I’m gonna! I’m gonna!”

  I was on my feet. I felt as if I’d been goosed with an icicle.

  “Hey look, whoever that was, don’t do anything. Call back! Please! Please call back!” Ramada pinched his temples. “Oh, Jesus.” The phone rang. “Yes!”

  “Listen!” The voice was young male PR. “Listen, ah would like to talk to that chick that just called you, man? The one who wants to kill herself? hey, listen, baby, don’t… do it! Ah wanna tell you, man, mah life was more bad than anybody’s, you know? Ah was on drugs? Ah got off it. Ah was in jail? Ah did mah time and now I’m free. Listen, sister, you don’t get no breaks in life, you gotta fight for everything, but you gotta fight, you gotta want to, you know? ‘Cause some-times I think that people are their own worse enemies, but they can be their own best friend too. And life can be beautiful, baby! See what I mean? Now, you feelin’ blue? You feelin’ lonely? Thas okay, we all been there. You feel like doin’ deep six? We all been there too. Okay, now, you need someone to talk to? Sit down have a, have coffee with? I was gonna say smoke but ah cut out cigarettes and reefer ‘cause that shit’ll kill you, man. Ah tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give out mah number on the air. I ain’t afraid and ah believe in people. Mah name is Little Flower and mah number is two-two-two, nine-six-two-six. Any a you people feelin’ that way you call Little Flower and I’ll rap to you ‘cause life… can… be… beautiful! And Rod?” Rod had been punctuating Little Flower’s rap the whole time with sage head nods. “Rod? I think you are a beautiful cat, man.”

  “Thank you,” he humble-ass mumbled.

  “So you call me, baby, any a you people, you call me, Little Flower, two-two-two, nine-six-two-six.”

  I wrote down the number on the corner of the TV Guide cover. I couldn’t help it; he made me feel positive. Maybe me, him and Aaron Gold could start a psycho comics club.

  “Hey, please, whoever that girl was, if you’re still listening please call back, please! People care, the number’s right on the screen.” Rod looked sincere. He was okay.” I was always quick to jump down people’s throats.

  “Hello, Swapline.”

  “Hello, Rod.” Some lady with a Bronx accent so thick I could have probably guessed not only what part of the Bronx but what building she was from. “If I can I would like to say something to that young lady.”

  “Please do.”

  “I just want to say, that, ah, I had a daughter who would be about your age now from your voice. We lost her two years ago, she had Lou Gehrig’s disease. It was a terrible blow. I don’t think my husband will ever be the same. But right up to the end, she was so full of life, full of love. She knew she was dying but you wouldn’t know it from her mood, her spirits. You would have thought she was in the hospital for a cold.” I sat back on the bed. “She would say, ‘Ma? I don’t want to see you cry.’” The lady started choking up. ” ‘Ma? You… You…‘“She hung up. That one had me under the blankets. I hadn’t called my mother in a month. I wrote down “Pistachio V-day” next to Little Flower’s number. Every Valentine’s Day when I was a kid I would buy the old lady a heart-shaped candy box, dump out the candy and load it up with red Zenobia pistachios. I was going to do it again this year and blow her out of her socks. “Swapline.”

  “Hey, Rod, knock-knock.”

  “This isn’t Dial-a-Joke.”

&
nbsp; “No, please… This is good. Just quick, knock-knock.” Unbelievable.

  Ramada sighed, “Who’s there?”

  “Allen Freed.” A chortle.

  “Allen Freed who?”

  “Allen Freed my people but Lincoln freed yours!” A high-pitched giggle and a click. I kicked off the blankets.

  Ramada muttered something like “Idiot” and apologized to all offended listeners. This show was the best. I ran into the John, pissed fast and scooted back in. The heat was off and my goosebumps gave my skin the texture of quilted Baggies.

  “… obviously on drugs, Rod, obviously just wants our attention, and I think people should stop calling trying to talk to her because she’s nothing but a goddamn spoiled brat and if her parents knew how to raise children to begin with she’d be home in bed fast asleep and everything else anybody has to say on the subject is crap. Goodnight.”

  “Says fuckin’ you!” I jumped up and shot out my jaw like motherfuckin’ Mussolini. I fucking hated scumbag people like that. They should have their fucking lungs boiled in oil. I punched the palm of my hand. And they rule the world, those people. I took a long walk around the room. Ramada shrugged. “Swapline.”

  “I’m a mother and I think what that lady who just called said was cruet and stupid. Honey, if you’re out there, don’t listen to that. We all wish you well and we all love you. And Rod? I think you’re doing a wonderful job and God bless you and she’s crap!”

  “Goddamn right!” I punched my palm again and got a terrific spasm at the base of my neck that fanned out in the shape of an inkblot down my spine and across my shoulders. I pretended my hands were someone else’s—not La Donna’s though. Then I felt this rush, this elation, this strength like something good was about to happen. I felt like something was rising in my mind. I was going to help that girl. The pain lifted from my neck like it had sprouted wings.

  “Swapline.” -

  “Hey…” It was the girl.

  “All right!” I was totally wired, ready to help. I was hunched over like a shortstop after the crack of the bat. Ramada sat up straight in his chair. Me and him. “Look, I’m okay now.” She sounded beat. “I’m okay now. I freaked but I’m okay now.”

  Still hunched over, my head cocked up, I listened to her carefully. Checked out the mood of her voice.

  Rod looked flushed and exhausted with relief like a cop who just delivered a baby in the back of a cab. “You sure?” He took the words right out of my mouth.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay now. It’s over…” She hung up.

  Rod collapsed backward in his chair, slid his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his face. The phone rang but he ignored it. I felt like a tire with a slow leak. I collapsed on my bed. I was depressed, not high like I expected to be. The fingers of pain crawled back into my neck. Maybe the next suicide call was going to be from me. But I wouldn’t be bullshitting.

  “Swapline.”

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Another middle-aged broad. “How’s that for gratitude? She didn’t even thank us for helping. Thank us for calling in, for worrying about her. I’m sick, just disgusted. Goodnight.”

  Ramada stared at his receiver in disbelief. I inflated to my feet. “You stupid…” My eyes were almost shut in hate, my chest felt sixty inches across. “Die!” I whispered.

  “Swapline.”

  It was the girl again. She was sobbing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean anything! I didn’t…”

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay! It’s okay!”

  “No no, oh God, I didn’t want to… I didn’t.”

  “Hey, don’t hang up! Don’t…” Click. Buzz of dial tone.

  “We had her!” I shook my fists at the TV, slapped my forehead. The noise that came from my throat was not of this planet. I was fucking out there. I sat on the floor in my underwear in front of the TV and dialed the number on the screen.

  Busy busy busy busy…

  “Please call back,” Ramada was pleading into the cameras. “You had one grouch; think of all the people who care.”

  I kept getting busies. I punched the phone, smacked the receiver against the wall and kept dialing.

  “Swapline.”

  A husky male voice. “Stop sucking up to her. She’s laughing at us all.”

  “Swapline.”

  “I got a pair of Nordica ski boots I want to swap or sell for cross-country skis. My name is Larry and I’m at KI seven, five-six-nine-nine.”

  “Swapline.”

  I jerked back. Ramada was talking in my ear. My heart felt like a bee in a bottle. “Hullo?” My voice came at me from the TV along with a barrage of sonic squawks and flutters.

  “Move back from your set.” Ramada was looking at me through the screen. I nodded okay to him and hopped backward into bed. “Hullo?” Still the interference.

  “Move back more.”

  “Sorry.” I dropped to my knees on the other side of the bed and knelt, elbows on the mattress. I felt like a radio advance man in a foxhole. “Hello, Rod?” I couldn’t get used to hearing my voice come at me from the television. Ramada wasn’t looking at me. All my anger drained out in my confusion. “Hey, you know people have been calling and saying she’s bad news, a junkie and such. Rod, could you look at me?” Ramada slowly looked up. “That’s not right, because maybe she isn’t gonna kill herself but she’s lonely, you know? I mean lonely enough to call up a TV swap show in the middle of the night and ask for help. It doesn’t mean dick if she’s actually gonna kill herself, okay? you know what I mean?”

  “That’s true,” Ramada in my ear. I could hear my breathing over the TV.

  “Yeah. That’s all.” Click. Yow. I was sweating. My hand was glued to the receiver. I gripped my chin with my thumb and forefinger. How did all those clowns sound so coherent? I started playing back every word I said.

  “Swapline.”

  “Yeah, Rod, you know that guy that just called?” My heart stopped. “It’s assholes like him that make people kill themselves. I have a right to my opinion and no moron is gonna tell me not to.”

  “That’s true.”

  -1 went into a numb stun. I gawked at the screen, my jaw on the floor. I felt betrayed, knifed. Then I shook the shit out of my head, grabbed the phone and dialed. Three busies, then:

  “Swapline.”

  “You tell that bitch she’s the goddamn moron and asshole, not me. She don’t give a flying fuck if that kid lives or dies. She probably hates her kids, you know what I mean?” My voice yelled at me from the box. I started butting my head into the air. “Whatever happened to human decency hah?” I slammed the phone down. My kneecaps were chattering with tension. I yawned nervously and my whole body shivered like a loose window in a windstorm.

  “Swapline.”

  “You tell that prick to go fuck himself!”

  “Swapline.”

  “Fuck you, you cancer cunt! Fuck you!”

  That was that The end. I vaulted over the bed and tried to turn off the TV, forgetting the remote control box on the night table. My fingers were too sweaty and I wound up pulling the plug by stomping on the wire. I walked around bumping into furniture, then I walked nose first into the edge of the bedroom door. I staggered back, whining in rage, grabbed a hammer over the bookcase and bashed the door like I was fucking Thor. My floor was littered with paint chips like confetti. I staggered into the living room. It was getting light out. “Goddamn fuckin’ dammit! You! You! How can…” I realized I was snarling and screaming at the swag lamp over the dinette table. It was six in the morning. I hadn’t slept, wasn’t even tired, just withered and blown away. When I went back into the bedroom, there was Little Flower’s number scribbled on the TV Guide. The phone receiver was still sweaty. My nose hurt like a bitch. What the hell. I dialed the number. It was busy. .

  WEDNESDAY

  The alarm went off and I jerked upright Seven-thirty. I had snagged ninety minutes’ sleep, but I didn’t even remember getting into bed. I wasn’t tired. La Donna’s absence
made the bed feel as springy as a diving board. I dropped my shorts and stretched. It was a nice, sunny blue day. I did a few toe touches, then my hundred and fifty, all the time fantasizing that La Donna was in bed watching with frustrated desire that rock-hard bitch of a washboard that some people might have confused for my stomach. No doubt about it, I felt energized, but I was pretty sure it was that speedy energy you get from being wired and sleepless. You could move like sixteen French acrobats but the minute you accidentally put your head on an even surface you would be gone for eight hours. I threw an Al Green jam on the stereo and pretended that that was me singing in some get-down club, shoulders hunched, face pinched, hittin’ high whining notes and La Donna would be sitting there with some big momo from Duluth front row center. Whenever I broke up with a woman, she turned into a phantom, admiring audience for all my fantasies about myself. It could go on for years. At this point I had an entire peanut gallery watching me. I jumped in the shower after turning up the volume, came out, dressed to kill, a chocolate gabardine three-piece suit over an eggshell shirt, a cocoa and tan silk tie, and I looked most bad, most bad. I had a bowl of Country Morning granola, a hit of coffee, grabbed my case and headed out the door. I left my keys in the bedroom and when I went back in for them I noticed Little Flower’s number. I felt like that was from two light-years ago, and I couldn’t even remember the headset I wore when I saw fit to Jot that down. It was a beautiful day, and if I twisted my body out the window I could catch a glimpse of the Hudson. It was a new day. I got one of my mystical rushes of elation like a gigantic good news! headline on a Watchtower flyer. Something was most definitely in the air.

  When I arrived at the diner, it was still early. Only Fat Al sat in back, smoking a cigarette and filling out his order sheet. Charlene sat at the counter reading the News and drinking coffee. I snagged the stool next to her.

  “How you doin’, kid?”

  “Hey, Kenny.” She didn’t look up as she clucked her tongue and shook her head grimly. “Isn’t that awful? Six kids.”