Wired

Untitled

Untitled
By Tony Cohen

The following will consist of one general poem, followed by a more detailed recollection.

I

“‘Why didn’t you call me?’ the raspy voice
asks. I hear water running.
‘Why? I dunno,’ is all I care to say. The
water pours from a drain.”

My cell phone rings as I walk through my dark house. I was returning from a dinner party with a few friends and I had been in the house less than five seconds. Coincidence? I thought so. Everyone has had the experience where they walk in the house and the phone rings immediately, as if on cue. The strange thing was that I was expecting the call. I was even expecting that it would happen as soon as I entered the building.
Taking the cell phone from my pocket, I’m already saying, “Hello?”
The voice on the other end takes a deep breath and lets it out. My blood runs cold. “Who is this?” he says. I take in a breath to speak, but he beats me to it. “Why didn’t you call?”
Stay calm, I tell myself. Staying calm is the best possible solution. That’s when I hear something like a liquid in the background.
“Why?” I say. “Why didn’t I call? Gee, I dunno.”
Wrong answer. I know that as soon as the words are out of my mouth. There is an eerie pause that makes me want to hang up and run. That’s when I visualize a faucet pouring water. Pouring and pouring and pouring. It just never ends. Why was there water behind the voice? I still don’t know, but I think it could have been an intimidation factor. If that is true, it was working.

II

“I pull the cell phone away from my
ear. ‘PRIVATE NUMBER’, it reads.
‘What number is this” I ask. My
suspicions better be wrong.
‘You know,’ he says.  I don’t. At least…
I don’t think I do.
‘What number is this?’ I demand again.
An uncomfortable pause. A faucet pours.”

It was getting creepy by this point. I took the cell phone from my ear and looked at the caller ID. Unfortunately, not even Verizon carries every number. “Private Number” is what it says. The screen glows a ghostly blue color. I’ve been on the phone for thirty seconds now.
“What number is this? Who is this?” I said as my voice quivers. I’m afraid that this is who I suspect it is. I’m hoping against what I already know to be true that my hopes are right. Please don’t be him. Please.
Yeah, get real.
“You know,” is his reply. No. I will not admit it. It simply can’t be true. Unless…he’s messing with me. If he knows something about me, he could use that to his advantage and my disadvantage. There’s a line in there somewhere.
I take the phone away from my ear again. This was getting even more intimidating by this point, so I check again just to be safe. “Private Number.” I look on the kitchen counter behind me and notice a remote for my security system. There is a special phone remote that has a network of my landline and my cell phone. I push the button labeled “Trace” and hope that something comes up.
“What did you do?” he asks.
“What?”
“You did…pushed something.”
“Me? No!” I say with all the sincerity I can gather. It’s more difficult when you’re lying to someone who might be a criminal over the telephone.
“I think you want something from me,” the voice mumbles. I can still hear that water in the background.
“No,” I say, “but I would like to know what number this is. In fact, what number is this?”
The voice inhales deeply and exhales into the receiver. Chills. “Why do you want to know?” I can think of many reasons. Perhaps more than I should be able to name.
“Just curious,” I say, which is half-true.
The water continues to pour. I wonder if he’s inside or if he’s outside near a pool. It’s around seven o’clock at night, so I can only assume that it’s the former.
He still doesn’t answer me. I am now becoming more nervous than I thought possible. I try to calm myself using certain techniques. The man on the other end is quiet, but I know he’s there. He’s just waiting while he stalks his prey.

III

“‘555-3754,’ he says to me. 555-3754. I
know that number and I know how.
A public lavatory, I suddenly remember.
That’s where this all started. But why
me? How? How could they trace me?
Splash! Something falls into a pond. I
hear it over the phone. How could
they trace me? My phone?”

I can calm myself fairly easily. New Age comes through again. I’m still wondering how they found me. I know how I found them.
“What is the number?” I said angrily.
“555-3754,” he says. “Got it?”
Got it. I knew it would be familiar. I knew that it would be that number. It was very obvious that misfortune would find me. I know exactly where I found it and I’ll tell you how.
I was at a restaurant two nights before this incident. Yes, it was a dinner meeting at an Italian restaurant in downtown San Francisco. I had to take a bathroom break and happened to notice a telephone number scribbled on the wall. It looked relatively new. After all, it wasn’t scratched, worn, or faded. It looked like it could have been written ten minutes before I walked in. Now that I think of it, it may have been.
The number was 555-3754. Coincidence? No. Walking into the house while the phone rings is a coincidence. Taking a vacation during the “slow” season with no prior knowledge is a coincidence. But when someone calls you from a number you found at a random restaurant two days earlier, it is not a coincidence.
I did what most Americans would do. I took out a notepad and pen and wrote the phone number on a sheet of paper. What to do now? Do you call the number or leave it? My decision, which I wouldn’t change if I could, was to leave it. Take the money and walk. It could have been like the personal ads in the newspaper or it could have been a criminal. I guessed the correct answer.
Now here’s where it gets strange: I never wrote my phone number on a wall. I never wrote it on that pad of paper. In fact, I never took my phone from my pocket. I checked my outbox and it didn’t read any strange calls. No text messages. And no out-of-place reports. I’m not a teenager that enters his phone number on those online advertisements. I don’t use my cell phone for anything except business. I never use it for any sign-up information. How could this total stranger receive my private line? It would have been much easier—and possible—to look for my name in the phone book. I’m listed under the “N” section.
There’s a loud splash in the pond that has certainly formed by now. I hear the water land around the puddle.
The thoughts return to my mind after a brief distraction by the water. Even today I can’t determine how they found me. If they somehow noticed my phone call to another person, they could have recorded the number but I doubt that the timing would be easily attained. It would also be extremely coincidental.
“Who are you?” I ask with a slight air of annoyance in my voice.
The man breathes shallowly and quickly. I don’t receive an answer.

IV

“555-8735. That’s my number. They
didn’t—and shouldn’t—know that.
‘You should’ve called,’ the voice
continues. ‘That’s why I posted the
number. That’s why I called you…’
He’s got my attention. My undivided,
undisputed, unadulterated attention…
until I remember there’s pie in the refrigerator.”

His number is 555-3754. My number is 555-8735. I don’t know how they found that number, but they weren’t meant to. They shouldn’t know that and I don’t want them to. Of course, I can always request a new phone number from Verizon. But what if they find that? For all I know, that information is public record and can be viewed by anyone. Maybe Verizon has a complete phone book on their website. After all, I’ve never visited their site.
I have the right to remain silent. If I keep quiet and don’t admit anything, he won’t know anything and he won’t suspect anything.
“I think you have the wrong number,” I say while I try thinking of something else.
“No, I don’t. I’m sure of that. Besides, the number is—” he stops before he lends me anything I shouldn’t know about.
“You should’ve called,” he tells me.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“You understand everything, my friend. You should’ve called me. You know that. That’s why I posted the number. I wanted YOU to call ME. That is why I decided to call you…” he continues, but I don’t hear him. He has my attention now. It’s like those scary movies where the killer calls you over the phone line and threatens you. They always play out your death like a writer does to a director. Then they mumble on about how much they like you and why they like you…
This is not the case. He carries on about how important it is to do what you’re told. The problem is, it was just a number on the wall. There weren’t any instructions that said I should call or when to call. It just said “555-3754”.
I’m still trying to think of something else to calm my nerves when I remember I brought pie home from the Italian restaurant in San Francisco. That would be good after—or even during, for that matter—this peculiar phone call. The deep, raspy voice loses my attention and the pie wins it.
“Listen,” I say, interrupting his speech.
“No, you listen!” he hollers. “I have a question for you. If you answer correctly, you win. Now if you lose—”
I don’t have to hear the rest. It’s just Scream in real life. He’ll ask me a question about a horror movie and if I answer incorrectly I don’t make it through the night.
I never hear the question, though. He changes the subject before he completes the sentence. The security system box beeps at me one time, which causes the man on the phone to become silent. I still hear his loud breathing, but he doesn’t say a word. The security system reads “Call Trace Completed”. For the readers that think they have the ending figured out, it wasn’t coming from inside the house.

V

“‘It’s important to talk,’ he goes on.
‘It’s important we talk. It’s good that
I see you.’
That pie’s going to taste good, I’m
thinking. ‘Sorry, I’m too busy to see you.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ he says. ‘I see you
now.’”

The man on the other end of the phone is still quiet. I’m assuming that he heard the machine beep. Maybe he even deducted that the call was being traced. They say that a bug in a phone makes a noise. From what I heard, it’s like a ticking noise. So if you ever hear clicking or ticking during your phone call, you’ll know what it is.
Of course, this wasn’t a bug. So that idea was out the window. However, that doesn’t mean he didn’t suspect he was being traced.
“Talking,” he said. “Talking is important. It’s important that people talk. It spreads information. And with information is knowledge, with knowledge there is power, and with power there is change. And change is good.”
Blah, blah, blah.  I’ll wait for the movie.
“It’s important that we—you and I—talk. It’s also good that we meet. That I see you.”
Think of an excuse! I try to find something that I’m doing that can be used as being busy. My schedule flashes through my mind. Nothing on Monday. Tuesday I’m wide open. Wednesday is a thirty-minute meeting at noon. Thursday is television night and Friday…
“Sorry, can’t do it. I’m too busy this week—month,” I say.
There is a deep inhale followed by a loud exhale.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” he hisses. I hear water boiling in the background. “I see you right now.”
I pause for a moment.
“What was that?”
“You’re standing in the kitchen by the counter. There’s a picture from when ‘The Wedding Singer’ toured through the Orpheum Theatre on the wall. You’re wearing a—”
I stand still as he continues describing everything with surprisingly clear detail. There is no possible way he could be this up-to-date. Unless he saw me earlier in the day.
Now I thought I had exposed his plan.
“Okay, what am I doing now?” I ask as I turn on the television. I keep it on mute so he won’t hear it.
“Right now you have the television turned to Discovery Channel,” he says in a voice that seems too calm.
I’m being watched. Like a caged animal.

VI

“What? Double take. Soap opera
drama. Did NOT see that coming.
Someone crashes through a window,
on a course with me. His body hits
mine and he tackles me.
Honeywell alarms go off all around.
The police will be here soon, I tell myself.”

For some reason, I’m surprised he doesn’t say something like, “I know what you did last summer.” Not that I have anything to hide.
The phrase “paralyzed with fear” certainly holds true to this situation. You’re stranded in one position with a reality that you know exists, but you don’t want to exist.
Just seconds after that, someone crashes through a glass door that exits onto my porch. Broken glass falls everywhere as the man’s body flies through the air and collides with mine. I fall to the ground with the force of his body. My cell phone lands ten feet away from where I land and the central security system beeps again. My call is still traced.
Loud alarms go off all around me. The man on top of me is injured from the impact, so he lies still on the ground. I was in shock for a little while, so I wasn’t aware of what was happening. Then I hear him say something, which brings me back. I try standing, but it is of no use.
Honeywell is sending a signal to the police station regarding the situation. My landline rings and I know immediately that it’s Honeywell. They always call if they’ve been sent a signal. It reminds me of the credit card companies that make you verify your purchases over the phone. Flashing red and blue lights illuminate the room as the cops pull into the driveway. After that, I don’t remember anything.

VII

After the police arrested the man, I checked the central security system. The call was traced and the location was printed on a sheet of paper. The address was at the intersection of 45th Street and Fairview Avenue. I knew that address. It was a mental institution. A mental institution where the extremely dangerous criminals were sent.
So if you ever find a phone number scribbled on a bathroom wall, it’s up to you to decide. For me, I just stay away from public bathrooms. After all, no one likes them anyway.



Copyright © 2008 by Tony Cohen. All rights reserved.
MCN: CD002-0D46A-48E06