Leave a Message at the Beep |
Jim Parisi
She hopes he’s not home, that instead of his chipper “hello” she’ll hear the hoarse, rushed instructions to leave a message. She remembers how he kept waving his hand at her to keep quiet for the fifteen takes he would need to record an outgoing message that didn't make him sound like a serial killer trying to entice his next victim into his lair. How, when she assured him that one of the early efforts sounded fine, he insisted on doing it over because her snorts and cackles could be heard in the background.
Breaking the news to his answering machine will be easier, if she can stanch the quaver in her voice that plagued all her practice attempts. She needs to go through with this, to move on, not just from him, but from everything that reminds her of him.
The latest in a string of one-night nobodies meant to get her over him—a project she pursued with the same diligence she applies to every task, even as she knew going in that her heart was not cut out for it—convinced her that she’s finally run out of options. Sitting at the dining room table this morning, across from the perfectly nice guy she met a mere ten hours earlier—a guy who didn’t honor the unspoken agreement to sneak out before she got up—she fumbled for the right words between sips of black coffee, the sour-smelling half-and-half in the fridge being the most recent casualty of her dereliction of the trappings of a normal life.
She forced herself to fixate on the bob of his Adam’s apple, not those puppy-dog eyes, when he said, “I don’t understand. I thought everything was going great.” Fiddling with the handle of her mug, she assured him it had nothing to do with him. She took care not to mention that she had decided, while scooping coffee into the filter, that she could no longer continue to pursue these pale imitations who only made her ache for the real thing. It’s too bad, she thought, as the front door closed behind the slumped figure trudging up the steps, that someone other than her also had to get hurt.
Waiting out the rings, she turns to take in the shabby length and breadth of her basement apartment. Next month will make it a full two years she has lived in this confined space. She'll be serving out the rest of her sentence in body only. Most of her stuff will go to Goodwill. There's no way she's going to pay for a U-Haul, not to lug that rickety table and lumpy futon halfway across the country.
One piece of furniture is still salvageable—the infamous loveseat with the cushions that still bear, she’s convinced herself, the faint imprint left by the guy who is not picking up his phone. She'd rather set that on fire in the middle of the street than have it staring at her wherever it is she ends up settling.
She almost drops the phone when, after the sixth ring, the bouncy voice of the new girlfriend lets the caller know that he is either not home or too busy to come to the phone, but she would make sure he got the message.
She hangs up before the beep, then takes her coffee to the infamous loveseat. Lying with her feet dangling over the arm, looking out the lone window at the gray December day, she plays that outgoing message over and over in her head. She wants to kick herself for getting sentimental for the old message and the memory of being next to him when he recorded it.
Feeling the need for a healthy dose of self-pity, she hits play on the mixtape he made for her months ago, the very same tape that ignited the flame that blew up in her face when she finally screwed up the courage to let him know how she felt. Her shoulder blades retract and jaw muscles clench when she hears the acoustic guitar intro, followed by a sultry slide guitar. Her nemesis, “Fade Into You.” The song that won’t leave her alone.
Before the seductive vocals can obliterate any ounce of resolve she has left, she hits rewind to get to the beginning of the song, then hits record, captures dead air for close to five excruciating minutes, hits play, stops when she hears the same song, rewinds a few seconds, hits record again, then repeats the process until she inches her way to the end.
“That felt good,” she says to her empty apartment. “Now comes the hard part.”
She holds the receiver at arm’s length until the beep cues her to get down to business. Fully aware that he’ll recognize that she’s bastardizing one of his favorite Replacements songs, she wails, her voice cracking, "How do you say you’re moving away to an answering machine?" She pauses, unsure about elaborating and equally unsure that she didn’t sound deranged, but hangs up before daring to vocalize the next sentiment that pops into her head, a thought too cruel to leave on a machine, especially when he might not be the only one listening. The fact that she’s still calling him and leaving a message like this should be enough of a clue. He’ll figure it out. The one who has moved on always does.
Jim Parisi lives in Occupied Washington, D.C., with his wife, Beth, and their dog, Dolce. His writing has appeared in a few journals, most of which don’t appear to regret their decision. He has somehow managed to be nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. Jim spends most of his free time coaching Little League softball and attempting to will his novel in progress to write itself.