Phone |

I’m listening to the phone with my left ear when it whispers in my right ear.

Pssssssst.

That wet worst-kept secret we normally do in a toilet? There’s a guy doing it off a balcony. Just out of range, thank every god of every religion. I tell my phone companion; he isn’t offended: “Of course, I’ve done it before. Stroll to the edge, check for pedestrians, unzip the pants, look at the moon and take a leak.”

“I’ve never done it.”

I haven’t.

But I have pissed on a Staten Island street corner. It was 3am. No one was around. Urgent burn dissolving into dreamy relief.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” I ask.

“Oh, hmmm, well…” his voice sounds like a feather boa, coquettish, ticklish.

The cold makes my muscles marble, then makes them throb. I wish I was indoors, drinking with him. Or just indoors. Or just drinking. Alcohol is a good criminal defense lawyer that represents us to ourselves as misunderstood, well-intentioned, promising. We are just fine, we have always been fine, we will always be fine. It’s a life sentence.

“I worry about you,” I say.

“Don’t worry, pray.”

“All right.”

You always see movies with characters who grab someone’s ringing phone and throw it out the window. I’ve wanted to do it so many times. It starts ringing and he can no longer be expected to listen, no matter how important the subject or person is. He just has to answer for whatever schmuckety Joe Schmo’s fucking calling his phone. And then the sock puppet antics, “Hi buddy! Boy it’s a beautiful day isn’t it?” Blah-bippity-blah-blah. Blah blah.

We were talking of some eternal tripe. I can’t remember; I can’t understand why anybody tries to remember anything anyway. I can remember all of it, actually:

I flipped down the passenger side mirror, took out a brush, and started blending my makeup. He was quiet. Then:

“Do you do that during the day?” He asked.

“No. But I’m sure if I did, someone would be judging me. Whatever I do, there will always be someone judging me.”

“But, you know there are social norms.”

“I think adapting to social norms is detrimental to one’s health.”

“But if you miss out on an opportunity because of this – ”

“What opportunity? I’m not going to join the NRA, or a biker gang, or become a top athlete.”

I don’t expect him to like these potted flowers that line the street of my manhood. But I will not submit to anyone’s standards. I will not stretch and squint and smile and say, “oh yes I see.” No. No. Just as I am, without one plebeian compromise.

I cannot live for both of us, old man. Just myself. I swear to God. Just myself.

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