Two phone calls
I called you as soon as I got back to my apartment. You picked up. My living room was hot. I couldn’t breath. You didn’t say anything. The silence was like dark blotches of ink. The phone line crackled.
“I’m coming back down.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. Will you be there.”
“You don’t have to come back down.”
The words got hung up between us and I don’t know what I heard, the phone buzz made my eyes cloud over, and I wanted to rock out a roar that would bring the whole artifice down and melt us together as tight as two pans stored in the cabinet of a burned-down house.
“Just wait there.”
I pounded down the stairs and ran into the street. It was two in the morning. I saw a cab on Broadway and raced to it yelling at the top of my lungs even though I didn’t have a cent in my pocket.
When I picked up the phone to dial I heard voices. This is what I thought I heard.
“I’ll tell him to come over at 10, that we’ll do something.”
“You think he’ll come over?”
“Yeah, you come then too and you can take care of him.”
“He’ll know something is wrong.”
“No, I’ve been saying that we should do something. He doesn’t know I’m talking to you.”
“I can get him out of there?”
“Thursday night then.”
I put the phone down, scared. I wrote down the things I thought I heard. I called the police.
An officer took the information, but told me they couldn’t do anything.
On Thursday evening I didn’t go out. I sat in my living room and looked out over Broadway. I could see down to 184th Street, the big lights of Port Authority, the reflection of the George Washington Bridge against the night clouds. Something was happening out there that didn’t sound good and I wasn’t ever going to know.