It Goes Both Ways

Burned bridges and phone booth ponderings.

"Your mother's dead." I could hear him breathing on the other end of the phone, as if he had ran halfway across Manhattan just to tell me this. He hadn't. It happened four days ago; I read about it in the newspaper long before my family saw fit to tell me.

 

"Why did you call me this morning?" I said, chipping at the plum polish on my nail. I never answer my cell phone.

 

"Your mother is dead," he said. Each word was pronounced with more space between than was necessary, like I wouldn't understand it otherwise. At least he wasn't screaming.

 

"I know."

 

There was a pause. He was piecing something together, like the puzzles he had loved to assemble when I was young. He would scatter the pieces on the dining room table according to size, shape and color, slowly working his way from the outside, in. I stole one once, knowing with pleasure that his puzzle would never be complete without it. "The funeral is tomorrow at seven."

 

"In the morning?"

 

"Don't f**k with me!" His voice rose and just as quickly shrunk back. He hissed through his teeth and I pulled the phone away from my ear to dull the noise. It was an innocent enough question, wasn't it? "You just…" he sighed. " 72 East 1st Street. She would have wanted you to come." The last sentence was muffled and rushed and I still don't know if he actually said it but I would like to believe so. Everytime I replay it in my mind, the more I'm convinced it is what he said.

 

He was scrambling to hang the phone up. "Hey dad." I didn't even know what I was going to say, but I didn't want him to hang up just yet. "Hey dad," I said again.

 

"What?"

 

"Trevor died. Two months ago."

 

More heavy breathing on his side of the line. Now I was starting to wonder if it was interference from his or the pay phone rather than his breathing. I had never known him to be a heavy breather.

 

The receiver clicked and the sound of static silence rippled from the earpiece. I hung the pay phone up and wiped my fingers on my pants, still unsure if the funeral was in the morning or the evening. Seven o'clock is uncommitted. It goes both ways.

 

I hate phone booths. This one was like every other one I had been in: it was clammy inside and an uneven layer of condensation clung to the walls. Each side of glass was riddled with amateur graffiti and crude drawings: a penis, random names looping in bastardized cursive, 'Mike wuz here.' Mike is everywhere. In the corner, the words 'F**k me,' were written in bold black marker, with the latter word crossed out and replaced with 'you,' which was also crossed out and replaced with 'God.'

 

I shrugged the accordion door to the side and stepped out, pulling fingerless gloves from my coat pocket and thrusting them on in a single, practiced motion. The cold was getting to me, but then again, my fingers and toes are always cold no matter what the season. Bad circulation. It's in my genes.

 

Washington Square Park wasn't too far from there. I used to go there with Trevor on the weekends when he didn't have class and I wasn't working. I could see the Hangman's Elm from the phone booth. It stood naked, lesser trees covering their master with barren, empty embraces. Decaying and ripped leaves lined the ice-ridden pathway. It had been too long. I looked both ways down the street like my mom used to tell me and then crossed into the park, head bowed from the cold. The worn tread of my shoes scraped against the concrete as I walked, rivaling the ravens' cackles from the branches. Otherwise it was quiet.

 

There were dead people beneath my feet; at least, that is what Trevor had told me once as he concealed a grin. He knew I loved macabre and horror s**t.

 

"You're kidding?" I said, kicking at the ground with the tip of my shoe in fascination.

 

"Dead serious." He was.  

 

Author's Note

As of now, this is stand alone. It is possible that I will add on to this to create a complete short story/novel(a), but as for now, this is all I have. :) Interpretations welcome!

Reviews

[L.]

I remember you showing me this a while ago. I still have my own interpretation... it's probably not right, but I'm going to tell you anyways because that's how I roll.

I think that the narrator has obviously done something which his parents (or at least dad) have disowned him for... and I'm thinking this has to do with Trevor. Trevor is obviously not related to the narrator, since he had to tell his father he died, so I'm thinking he was a partner which the family did not approve of, for whatever reason. Either because the narrator is also male or he was someone his parents didn't like. Also seems like the narrator maybe doesn't want to get involved with his family again or feels like he can't, because even though Trevor died several months ago, he didn't inform his family or try to repair the relationship between them. Though he might not have felt he wanted to...

Anyways, I really liked this and I hope to find out more about what's going on!

[Raef C. Boylan]

Dear narrator,

If your fingers get cold, try wearing gloves that aren't fingerless.

Yours faithfully,

C. Boylan


Good write.
I think I echo L's interpretation: the narrator is male, Trevor was his partner and the family aren't close, perhaps because the parents disowned their son for being gay.
But I honestly don't know, and don't mind that I don't know because the journey via reading was enough, if that makes sense? Usually curiosity gets the better of us, but sometimes we enjoy an ambiguous situation.
You conveyed the distanced atmosphere well.

Thanks for sharing this with me.

[Hannah Jane]

Wow. You are talented. That story was amazing.

[Angel's Lady]

My interpretation: The narrator is a girl, Trevor had AIDS, family disowned because of their relationship. But then again, that's just me. Now, the story itself: I like it. Believable, not the usual bill of fare one sees in here, and with 'real' characters...a slice of life, so to speak. Very visual in detail. Totally a great write. Good job! If there does become more of this story, please send me a read request, as I would be delighted to read more!

[Gale J. Kendrick]

I remember this. Haha, You wrote this when I was writing my Creative Class final.. : ) I remember freaking out when you sent it to me because I didn't want my mom to read it. X_X I need my own computer.

I've always like this story..Just cause the way you explained it to me. How you got the character's story down I mean. Wish I could give you a better review ^^;.

[Hedra Helix]

my idea , hunch, is the same thing that L said,
and it is in the way that i roll that ill point to L's paragraph rather than write it out again myself.

over all same nice clean language/storytelling. A joy to read, I like that you intersperse little details like the crossed out f**k me, you, god.

good read;)

[Chistie]

i liked it! you did a really good job with the descriptions of the cold and feelings that the narratior was having. God Job!!