I found one, hidden in plain site on a street corner. Glass casing with a telephone inside. I must of walked passed it hundreds of times, looking down at my phone, scanning the road, then back down again. There’s gum stuck to the glass, and one of the lower panels is shattered, I don’t remember seeing glass around, but I don’t know who would have taken it.
Trying to find change was also tough. You’ve got to find an ATM, then take it to some dodge corner shop. They don’t let you just change it up, you’ve got to buy something small enough, grab whatever’s close at hand. I don’t smoke usually, I swear. Grab gum, grab some chocolate, just make sure you have some pennies because those dinosaurs don’t take plastic.
The handle was warn, I guess someone still uses them. I wonder how many others had to make this call, how often. This ain’t to be a repeat deal. I slipped in and the glass closed behind me, the concrete and colours greying through the windows. I’m watching the people walk by like a safari. Here’s the old perv, long trench coat with nothing underneath, here’s the bird that’d probably spray you with something if you said hi. It’s only harassment if you’re ugly.
My eyes catch all the bright colours of posters stuck to the inside. A granny shag is an easy shag, slip inside a granny’s muff, we’ll play with our feet for you. Dirty old birds with dirty young men, getting their rocks off inside glass cages. £1.29 a minute to talk to my grandma, I wonder if they can call by séance. There’s adverts for loan sharks too. Are you tired of getting fucked by lots of little dicks and want to take one big fuck up the arse? Have you been talking to too many elderly women over the phone? We can help you by helping us help us into your pocket. The old woman’s face looks faded and pale.
Then there’s the graffiti, the ones too cheap to pay for print. Biro or nail scratch. Promises of good times for all. Has anyone ever touched themselves in a phonebooth. Probably a white man in a phonebooth in Japan, Japanese school girls screaming and running away, it’s part of their culture, he’d swear. No self-advertised grannies, too classy for wall scratching.
I start to feel like the guy from that film, whatever it’s called. Colin Farrell is it? I see if I can find a gun tucked into the light overhead. Wait to see if the phone rings. A police car opposite opening a door and propping themselves in my direction. A masterful story but the strangers keep walking passed. Something’s going to happen in here, and they’ll record it with their phones, send it to a mate, maybe I’ll go viral, crying with laughter face, crying with laughter face, crying with laughter face, crying. Will it violate viewing terms and conditions? Will it violate viewers.
I put the pennies in and started to dial the number, copying the ink from my hand. Each button press felt like the moment they tell you everything is fine, that none of it was your fault, you couldn’t have done anything else. They crunch into the metal behind, the LCD showing the numbers, the amount of time I’ll have to say everything I need to say. Please insert more money for more time. 30p is 3 minutes, I don’t think I’ll need more time. Press hash to start call.
Then I spot it, marker pen at eye level. “DIAL 555 TO DIE INSTANTLY”. I laugh, how do you die instantly? I press the refund and hear metal hit metal. “DIAL 555 TO DIE INSTANTLY”. I put 10p in and hit the 3 digits, finger poised on the hash. It won’t do anything, it can’t. It can’t. My finger tip feels the ridges of the hash symbol, 4 lines between life and death. Sweet embrace or lone fear? I push hard, switch, and land on the refund button.
Nobody really wants to die, it’s just for attention on long ass social media pages. Babe message me, I’m here for you. You lovely. Someone else deserves to. I started on the number again, mostly from memory. The ink started to fade from sweat. 30p for 3 minutes. That’s it, a 3 minute phone call, then disappear. Become a glass case on a street corner. You said you’d make the call if it ever happened, even if it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. Sure, you were there, but it’s not your fault.
I feel the phone buzz in my pocket, 1, 2, 3, stop. They’re wondering where I am right now, meet me below the underpass, next to the turning onto Crinwall. Fuck ‘em. The change drops again and the dial tone goes flat in my ear. I put it down again and rub my eyes, the phone buzzes again. I had to look. Candy Crush Saga. Have you thought about buying some platforms on eBay? Call me, now. Yay, your parcel is on its way. I can’t right now. My fingers slipped over the coins in the machine.
Would they be listening to the phone call? Whoever they were that tap phones. Recorded and rerecorded over and over just in case. Is that just films? Be paranoid, we will find you, and we will fuck you up. I dial in 3 5s. How do you die instantly here? Are we talking act of God? Smote from above, a lightning bolt straight into the box. Is someone watching? 24/7 sniper, gun propped up on a windowsill across the road, metal on grey matter. Is it something more sinister? A gas from the phone, maybe some tentacles through the ear piece, latch into hair, into your ear. Growing larger and larger. Across your face, slipping under an eyeball. Across the back of the head, holding the receiver to your skin. 3 small strands working into your ear, past the small bones and into soft goo, connecting to every strand, and crush. I shiver. My crumpled remains in the corner, cleaners come on Monday.
The change drops again, those don’t happen in real life. I know the number off by heart at this point; but it doesn’t make it easier. My fingers wanted to buckle with each press, retract back into my hand. I pressed hash this time, hear the chirp, then slam the receiver.
Fuck, they’re gonna know now. Will they call back or think it’s a cold caller? Call them back to give them a bit of what they had coming. Those fucking corporations. 555 slipped into the keypad easy, and I felt a long tendril try and make its way into my throat. I coughed nothing out and watched the 555 blinking on the screen. Call, me, call, me, call, me. I can make you feel better, it won’t cost a lot. Call, me, call, me, call, me. The coins hit metal again and the screen goes grey.
I can’t tell how long I’ve been in here, if I’d breathed. My stomach gnaws itself, noises you make when you’re hungry or need a shit. I’m so tight I think I’m gonna seal up. Sounds gone too, the voices, even shouting, becoming muffled, tyres going static. My teeth feel to big for my mouth, like I’ve dropped something a bit too early in the night, like they’re gonna unattached and crawl down my throat. I blink, then blink harder. I hadn’t dialled anything yet, that wasn’t instant.
The noises come back, a man shouting cunt from a barber shop, the chugging of a bus across the street, a steam push as it moves off.
There’s someone outside now. Arms crossed and tapping her foot. I want to tap back, but I don’t know how long she’s been there, don’t want to look like some sort of phone booth loiterer. I hit the numbers in now, engrained for emergency as they should have always been. Pound the hash key.
It rings.
“Hello?” “Yeah, it’s me, it’s happened.”
AF Cowlin 