The Wrong Number

Mystagogical.

The internal mechanisms of a coffee pot.

Lord. Yes. Right in there. Unworldly.

Okay.

...

Been collecting sounds again.

Bought myself one of those fancy microphones.

Don’t know why.

Truth is...

the phone in my pocket does a remarkable job.

Still...

every now and then you hear a proper microphone catch the room breathing and...

Well.

Somebody earned their paycheck.

Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III

Been making little recordings all evening.

Kitchen clock.

Rocky snoring.

Cabinet door.

Kettle.

You’d be surprised how different a kettle sounds when you stop trying to boil water and start trying to listen.

Radio people know that.

Everybody else thinks you’ve gone peculiar.

They’re probably right.

...

Fred was supposed to call.

Said he had something important.

Which usually means a new blood pressure cuff...

or civilization has finally collapsed.

Hard to tell with Fred.

That’ll be him.

—Fred?

—

—you there?

—

—well I can hear somebody.

—

—no ma’am, I think you’ve got the wrong fellow.

—

—not a bit.

—happens all the time.

—you have yourself a—

—

—what?

—

—Mojave.

—yes.

—raised here.

—

—people tell me that once in a while.

—yes. that my voice reminds them of somebody.

—

—no.

—can’t say I’ve ever sounded like myself.

—

—three-oh-seven already?

—

—well...

—i’m sure not in the middle of anything. Just checking out a new purchase.

—

—it's a Sennheiser.

—

—you know microphones?

—

—you did?

—

—public radio.

—well now.

—that explains why you knew what this thing was.

—most folks call it a “shotgun.”

—

—no.

—never been on the radio.

—closest I came was winning twenty-three dollars calling bingo.

—career ended right there.

—

—well, thank you.

—

—you almost hung up?

—

—can I ask why you didn’t?

—

—i see.

—

—that’s about the nicest thing anybody’s said to me all week.

—

—hold on a second.

—

—there.

—that’s better.

—i'm listening.

—

—no rush.

—

—sixty-eight.

—

—no.

—i don’t know what sixty-eight’s supposed to sound like either.

—

—hmm.

—

—that’s an interesting way to put it.

—

—it’s becoming more important that somebody knows.

—

—right.

—

—i think there comes a time we all start looking around the room wondering who’s carrying which pieces of us.

—

—fourteen years old.

—

—my goodness.

—

—no.

—take your time.

—

—the desert.

—well...

—i've learned not to argue with stories that begin there.

—

—what?

—

—is that right?

—

—hmmm.

—

—no.

—i hadn't thought of it that way.

—

—that's...

—some story.

—

—your brother...

—he doesn't remember any of it?

—that's the part I'd have the hardest time living with.

—

—not even the drive home.

—

—lord.

—

—your mother did...

—for a while.

—

—what do you mean she just...

—didn't?

—

—interesting.

—

—families can get mighty talented at forgetting.

Not lying.

Something different.

Sometimes they remember the version they can survive.

...

—you're the only one left.

—

—fifty years.

—that's a long time to be alone with anything.

—

—you've probably thought about writing it.

—

—no...

—i don't think that sounds foolish.

—

—no. you wanted one other person to know.

—

—happy to.

—

—i understand.

—

—dosed? can you explain.

—

—Jesus.

...

You know...

I've been sitting here watching the kitchen window while you've been talking.

At some point it got dark enough that all I could see was my own reflection.

Kept forgetting which side of the glass I was looking at.

...

Go on.

—

—well now...

—

—you think whatever happened afterward...

—worked on everybody else.

—except you.

—

—hmmm. if you remember...

—and they don't...

—i suppose that's exactly what it'd look like.

—

—no.

—i can't tell you what happened.

—

—it's unsettling to say the least.

—

—i can tell you this.

—you don't sound like somebody trying to change my mind.

—

—you sound like somebody who's been alone with this too long.

—

—hang on.

There.

...

No sense recording what isn't mine to keep.

Lisa used to say people don't hand you their secrets because you're clever.

They hand them to you because they think you'll leave them where they placed them.

...

—mm-hmm.

—

—i think she was right.

—

—no.

—that part can stay with me.

—

—

—yes.

—

—thank you.

—

—goodnight, Mae.

...

Goodnight.

...

Funny thing.

I spent all evening trying to capture sound.

Turns out the most important thing I heard wasn't supposed to be.

...

Makes you wonder how many stories spend their whole lives dialing the wrong number.

Hold on.

Where's that pencil...

Seven-six-zero...

Two-five-two...

...

There.

Stick that on the refrigerator.

Don't imagine I'll ever call.

Don't imagine she expects me to.

Still...

for one night...

there were two people in the world who remembered.