Broken Telephone

just like in the movies : a lone battered telephone booth within the bastard amber glow of a Cellophane moon : it is dark & it is light & it is neither : we hear the coins drop in the slot : extreme close-up shot of dark deep-set eyes brooding beneath a felt hat brim, shot of knife scar on cheek, shot of aquiline nose, shot of pale lips almost touching the black receiver mouthpiece : “hello, it’s me . . .” (the voice is tentative, slightly shaky) : “yeah, so?” “so . . .” “so, you don’t call then you call, what?” “I’m calling . . . I’m calling now . . .” “yeah, you don’t call then you call, besides . . .” “is this not a good time?” (he takes a long draw on an unfiltered cigarette, coughs, winces, exhales, the smoke halos the man’s head : type of guy who uses gasoline & a match to scrape the ashes from his teeth, who parts his hair with an axe, who carries his legs around in a suitcase, a tough guy : who is she? (we don’t know, though we can guess) : “it’s never a good time,” she says, “not with you . . .” : whoever she is, femme fatale or whatever, she’s murder on the guy, it’s obvious, no holds barred : “what I mean, is . . .” “I know what you mean, I’m not . . .” “I never said . . .” “you didn’t have to . . . I’m wise to you, see? you don’t call then you call, well, well . . .” she snaps her fingers “bingo! Robert’s your dad’s brother!” : why say that, he wonders, how know? : dogs bark in the distance, sounds of traffic, low moan of sirens & . . . something else over the airwaves : “what do you have on?” he asks (no offence meant, none taken) : “nothing : the radio . . . ,” she replies & laughs like it’s a joke, & maybe it is, he’s unsure : drift of words through the wires from a song he recalls yet can’t entirely place : “so long as you’re here . . . ,” she purrs . . . : is that a line, he thinks, a line from the song? he tries to hum the line in his head: so long as you’re here . . . no dice : “so long as you’re here, anyway . . .” she goes on . . . : “what?” “talk dirty to me . . .” (the man immediately breaks out in a cold sweat; on the spot, there’s a funeral—his—it’s pretty nice, it kind of blows & whistles in the breeze, people gather & say things, there are flowers, words) : “what? but I…?” : air charges amid the gnash & snarl : “pleasure me with your mouth . . . ,” she says (with enough sexual frankness to funk any deadbeat heart) “. . . pretend I’m the voice on the other end of the suicide help line . . . I’ll tell you how deep to stick the knife . . .” : Bob’s your uncle, the man thinks; the more the focus the more the melody breaks : unexamined verbal impulses, uncensored social bits of loose language—who’s in charge? there’s nobody at the controls!—fantasy & fact intermingle in the heat : camera pans down to where a hand presses against the lower ribs, blood leaking between the fingers : “beg me,” she says, “I’ll tell you where to stick it & how deep . . .” she continues : the man is speechless, a pinkie length of cigarette ash crumbles onto the broad lapel of his trench coat : “you don’t call then you call . . . ,” she quips, “so . . . what do you . . . ?” : “I . . . ,” says the man, “I . . .” : “cut!” shouts the director, suddenly, “cut, cut!” : a pool of light expands to include the crew and equipment : “it was . . .” “yes, yes . . .” (everyone agrees as they wait for the shoe to fall) : an attractive woman wearing a red tight-fitting dress sashays onto the set—the woman on the phone, or what?—prepared for her own close-up, or what? : “what we need . . .” “sure, I could . . . we could, that is . . . maybe . . .” “yes, though . . . it’s . . .” “. . . of course, I was only . . .” “. . . thinking more the . . .” “. . . right, right . . .” “that line, the one that . . .” “yes, certainly, I can . . . that is, we can . . .” “& fog . . . I think . . . in the background . . . creeping . . . the dogs louder . . . & more blood . . . definitely more blood . . .” (everyone stands motionless expecting further instructions) : the director utters the name of someone, barely audible, & runs a finger down a page : it’s hot under the lights, unbearably almost, everyone pulls at collars & waistbands, they dab flesh with tissues (some, careful of makeup) : the script girl folds her fan & turns on the a.c. : someone announces (in a rush), “take five, everyone, smoke ’em if you got ’em” : voices trail mumblemumblemumble out various exit doors, into the sunlight : “talk dirty to me . . .” says the script girl, to no one in particular, anyone nearby, anyone within earshot, anyone interested or even uninterested, doesn’t matter : “pleasure me with your mouth . . .” she furls her lips & snorts a snorty laugh, “good God, I ask you, who writes this shit, anyway? I mean, how can anyone be expected to take it serious or even half serious, y’know? I mean, what does it even mean? the guy’s bleeding for chrissake, what? & now fog & louder dogs & more blood, I mean, how cheesy can you get? It’s not as if it’s Hound of the bloody Baskervilles for crying out loud” : “I know, I know . . . ,” someone replies & nods, uncaring, lights up a smoke, ambles away : “yeah, it is . . . it is . . . even more so . . . like . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t . . . I . . . really . . . give my head a shake, it’s, like, really, I mean, so . . . whatever, I guess, (no one’s listening, but) we all get paid in the end, right?.. . . . which is what matters, yeah? so, what the fuck? fuck it, I mean, just . . .” (she goes on…)