The Machine

I had to call back. I had to call back because I heard the buzzer, or well, I guess maybe it’s just a beep. Definitely not a bell, but somehow it feels like the kind in sports. Like, hello, you’re out. I don’t watch them. Any. Which is funny, ‘cause I pay for the cable and everything. Pay loads. Anyway, I got this feeling in my gut when I called you again, I thought maybe you’d pick up this time. I mean, I didn’t exactly know what I’d say. If that were the case, that is. I haven’t heard your voice since at least La Bonita next to that Shell off the interstate. Out of all the places to see you. I guess I didn’t know what to say then, either. Jessie though, he always knew what to say. With you, at least. Like a dialogue that runs in your head all day and never verbalizes. That perfect. “Wind in his sails,” so to speak. I don’t think he thought at all. Or any of us. Those were the best enchiladas I’ve ever had. At La Bonita. That’s the only reason I remember the name. It seems simple but I’d have never remembered it otherwise. Everything off the interstate gets a bad rap, though I’m not sure what location has to do with anything. The best Days Inn I ever went to was in a town full of nobody, a place near Nova Scotia. God, I have no idea. Isn’t that horrible? All I remember is sending you a postcard with some big peacock on it. I’m devoid of context. Maybe you could remind me where it was? Tucked in a drawer, maybe. The things I can and can’t remember scare me sometimes. Not to give you the third degree, but where are you? Some Days Inn? You were always a little better than that. I mean, you drank any coffee. Instant, lobby variety. But you just didn’t ride every dig, you know? I mean, I feel like I accommodated you. Before us and after. Like I would a kid or something. I never wanted you to see the appetizers at Jessie’s and my parties, I thought you might scoff. I still have too much contempt for derision. Don’t laugh when you listen to these, please. Call me back. It’s still the same number as it ever was. If you forget, maybe it’s all the same.

Last one, I swear. God, they sure are terse. Who’s billing by the minute anymore? Anyway, I doubt your inbox is full. Is that rude? I just mean it was always brisk until it was the real thing. I’m usually the same. I hate talking on the phone. At least with landlines I used to be able to strangle myself with the cord, now cellphones are just so bleak. Throw myself in the tub with it and nothing would happen. Does humour sit well with you? I can barely remember. I think you cracked a couple of good ones at La Bonita. And then you said you were going up to “Marnie’s ranch,” though you never told us who Marnie was. It was so colloquial; like, yeah, classic Marnie. You don’t know Marnie? Where’ve you been? It was someplace near Regina, that’s all I know. Hard to forget Regina. You mentioned sending us a photo of this bottle-dash stucco wall she had that just shone in the mornings like some big tanning reflector. That’s how you put it. Like you could feel the burn. And then you said that whenever you were there you had the urge to just dig your nails in and grab one of those sparkling pieces like they weren’t just the same as the ones trailing the highway. Like some Indiana Jones find, “Grab it just so, so the whole thing doesn’t topple like a house of cards.” Did you ever do it? Are you there now? Never got any photo, though I guess it’s all the same. Let me know, I guess. Last one. Promise.