The Pay Phone
Ashleigh Phillips
Madre Mía, I’ve done this shit so many times I don’t have to think about it anymore. Lock the cash register. Turn off the lights. Lock the doors. And it’s the same as every other night. I stand on the sidewalk in front of the 7-Eleven with Al. Tonight we aren’t talking. We smoke our Marlboros and stare past the gas station. It’s quiet out here, only the buzz of the lights and the chirping of crickets. We’re just far enough outside the city to escape the noise, not far enough to escape the smog. In the dark, I can’t see the gray fog, and this weedy dump in the middle of nowhere could almost be pretty. But only because I can’t see it. I look right, down the highway that leads into Houston. For no fucking reason, I start thinking about the jogger.
I was sitting behind the counter watching the Astros get beat on the ten-inch security television. If I had been using the security camera, I would have seen him come up, but I wasn’t. So I turned when I heard the glass doors slide open. Dripping wet, he stood in the door for a minute and let the AC hit him, that broke-ass AC that floods the back room once a week. It works though. He bought a Gatorade for $1.12. I handed him back three quarters, a dime, and three pennies. In front of the counter, he ripped the plastic cap off. I grinned when he tried to drink from the bottle without taking off the foil seal underneath. Dumb fuck. Gatorade is supposed to be this drink for hard core athletes and that type, but who the hell wants to stop and mess with a little piece of foil when they’ve just played football or run a race? But I guess they can pay some fag to take the foil off for them. He was guzzling, and little dribbles of red liquid ran out the corners of his mouth and down his chin. When the bottle was empty, he stopped and gasped for air. Watching it all happen got me thirsty. He looked at me and wiped his forehead with one hand. “Hotter than balls out there, bro,” he said.
“No kidding, hombre,” I replied with half a smile. This kid was harmless, a college guy. His hair was trimmed perfectly and his teeth were braces straight. He looked at me and touched his cheek. “Nice tattoo, bro.”
I gave him a chin up; this mama’s boy couldn’t possibly know what my tat meant, but I thought maybe he’d read it somewhere or something.
“Thanks,” I replied. Why bother explaining? He just wanted to stay in the air conditioning as long as possible, didn’t give a fuck about my tattoo.
He turned with a wave. “See you later, dude,” he said casually.
The doors slid shut behind him. Turning back to the Astros, I found the antenna had fallen, and the screen was nothing more than gray and white static. Face to face with myself in the fuzz, I reached one finger up to touch the black tear on my cheekbone. I knew where it was without the reflection; I could still feel the glass cutting into my skin. They say prison never leaves a man, that you can tell by the set of a guy’s shoulders, the tension there. I didn’t have to worry about my shoulders relaxing, the tear said it all. I let my hand fall from my face and brought my fist down on top of the white TV. The Astros came back on, losing 3-0. Fuck. Jumping the counter, I walked outside, where it was so hot and humid I could hardly breathe, so bright I couldn’t see. Not like it mattered: I already knew what was out there. To the right lay the inner city, reduced to a smudged gray outline against a dirty sky, to the left, the highway stretched flat and endless, running through whatever sleepy Texas town it happened to find, towns with names like Lukenbachen, population three hundred. I didn’t know what town it came to first, didn’t care. On the other side of the road, a field of weeds and dirt met the horizon. And the 7-Eleven sat on that road, a catchall for whatever happened to come by. Al lay to the left of the entrance, head tilted against the wall, in the shade from the pay phone. He could have been dead, but he wasn’t. Hand shielding my eyes from the glare, I looked him over: thin as a rail, legs shoved inside tight skinny jeans, and skin dry and lined like the corn husk Abuela uses to wrap the tamales. Tamales. Unwrapping that shell and pouring cool salsa on the tender middle…ayé mamí. But the sweat beginning to form into little drops on my forehead reminded me that it was way too hot for tamales. Squatting by Al, I looked into the coffee cup he kept at his side. There was eighty-eight cents. I straightened up and patted the top of the pay phone.
“Oyé tío, eighty-eight cents today.” He nodded slowly and didn’t open his eyes. “From that kid?” I asked, even though I knew it was him. No one else had come by.
“Yup,” Al said without moving his lips. He didn’t want to talk right now. Fine by me. Al and I understand each other. There are times for talking and times for shutting up. Still, he had to be hungry.
“Listen, tío, I’ll put a cent in and you can get some Twinkies. Want some Twinkies, Al?”
“Huh,” he grunted slightly, and I guessed that meant yes. I patted the pay phone.
“Bueno,” I muttered and turned to go inside.
When the runner came back the next day, I had my feet propped up on the counter and was busy scratching off old lottery tickets. It was boring as shit in that store, and lottery tickets were pretty damn interesting. Looking up, I half grinned at the guy. What kind of lame idiot runs when it’s one hundred and ten degrees outside? His shirt clung all over as if to show me exactly what kind of lame idiot runs when it’s hot out: the kind of lame idiot who’s cut like a mother fucking knife. He drained the Gatorade as I rung him up. Catching his breath he asked, “How’s it going, bro?” Ha. This punk kept calling me bro. I thought about throwing him a hang loose sign and saying, Righteous, Dude! But what if he thought I was trying to be funny?
“Como va. It’s going,” I replied.
“Yea. It’s going,” he said to me, more to himself. He stretched his neck from side to side and nodded at me. “Well, I’ll see ya.”
I shook my head as he left, qué más? Picking up the stale lottery cards again, I found they no longer held my attention. As I twisted back and forth in the rolling chair, I noticed the jogger in the window. What the hell? He had his back to me, but his head nodded slightly as though he was talking to someone. Then he turned and I saw the black phone receiver he held between his shoulder and his ear. He saw me looking and smiled. I didn’t want him to think I was interested or anything; I hate it when people get the wrong idea. If I wasn’t careful, I knew he’d be all up in my grill asking me if I had kids and shit like that. So I turned around and checked the ketchup container to make sure it was full. I refilled the straws and the napkins and mopped under the Slurpee machine. When I turned back, he was gone.
I went out to Al. He sat like normal, soaking up the heat, eighty-eight cents in his coffee cup. I leaned on the wall with one hand and said, “Oyé vato, what did he do?”
“Huh?” Al shrugged.
“Qué paso? What happened?” I waited for the answer I knew would come eventually.
When Al responded, his voice was dry and rattled in his chest. “Talked on the phone, Paco. Just talked on the phone.”
“On the pay phone? Y qué dice? What did he say, tío?” Anything was more interesting than the empty 7-Eleven.
“Just talked, Paco. To a girl.” I laughed sharply then because I knew Al wanted me to keep asking questions. I was even more certain when I saw him smile slowly. Then he cracked one eye open and looked up at me, rubbing his gray stubble with one hand. He huffed slightly, “College kid, left some girl his parents hate back home.”
“Why’d he call her from way out here, tío?” Asking questions wasn’t really my style, so I made sure I asked slowly, not wanting to get ahead of myself.
“Don’t rightly know, son,” Al drawled.
“Second day he’s been here, Al.” I said it more to the air than to him. Al and I do that a lot. I’m pretty sure neither of us hears much of what we talk about; we talk a lot but don’t say much at all.
“Huh,” Al responded. Leaning his head against the wall again, he closed his eyes. Al ended conversations that way, if he even had them to begin with. I reached down and poured the change from the cup into my palm.
“How about some Twinkies, tío?” And I turned to go inside.
I breathed deeply in the silence. Al was sitting with his back against the wall behind me. Turning my head to look at him, I caught a glimpse of myself in the darkened window. It was so quiet and still that I could be alone. I could have been anywhere. But the security lights shined harshly across the empty gas lanes, and they were reflected behind me. And I knew exactly where I was. I looked down at Al, who was still looking out at nothing. On a normal night, I wouldn’t have said anything. Didn’t want him thinking I gave a shit. It was a normal night. But I needed to hear something. Fuck. I drew in deeply from my cigarette and breathed out slowly. “Al.” There was a question in the name that I didn’t mean to put there.
“Yup.” He met my eyes, and in that lighting that makes everyone look busted, I saw every wrinkle on his corn husk face, every scar, and every spot from years of sun.
“Nothing, tío.” It wasn’t a lie. I had nothing to say.
“Huh.” And he turned away again and left me alone with the jogger.
He came back the third day, and the fourth, and the fifth. I didn’t really pay attention to him, but everyday he bought a Gatorade, gave the change to Al, and called some girl from that pay phone. Al and I watched him come and go. Usually we talked about him, not because he was important or anything, but because we had nothing better to say. Then one day he was late.
“He’s late, Al.” I looked down the road and saw nothing.
“Huh.” Al shrugged his shoulders slightly. Sitting on the curb, I flipped my pocketknife between my thumb and forefinger. Usually that calms me down. But the sun glinted off the knife and got in my eyes, and a feeling that was becoming all too familiar started in my stomach. I felt restless and wanted to move around. I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with me. Sweat started at the roots of my hair, but I was too hot to get up and go inside. Then I heard feet. I saw him running down the road. His hair had gotten longer in the past few weeks and it fell into his eyes with every step. I felt half a smile coming on, but I looked down at the knife. Not like I give a fuck. He gave a half wave at Al and me and went straight to the phone. Wiping his hand on his shorts, he dialed numbers that his fingers knew faster than his head. Al and I just stared. What about the Gatorade? He ran his free hand through his hair, letting it drop down to his side where it clenched and unclenched into a fist. A big fist. I could take him though. Then all the tension went out of him as he said with a sigh of relief, “You picked up.” I laughed at him silently. What kind of a man lets a girl affect him like that? He fell silent for a while, listening to her, and I noticed how calm he seemed.
“My parents are in town this weekend. Took me forever to get away.” Parents. I was right—he was a mama’s boy.
“Sure they’re happy,” he continued. “I’m right where they want me to be, Steele. But the thing I’ve realized is that I don’t really care if they’re happy anymore.” I looked at Al and knew he was listening closely, even though his eyes were closed.
“I’m tired of talking to you through a pay phone, damn it. Not being able to see you. I’m so fucking tired of being the person my parents want me to be.” He said it like an explosion at first, but by the time he finished, his voice was so low I could barely hear it. I finally caught Al’s eye and gave him a “this kid is an idiot” look, but he frowned slightly and then watched the guy.
“I know. I know, okay? I know… I just miss you.” He didn’t say anything for so long I thought maybe she hung up. Then he said, “I love you, too,” and replaced the phone with a clunk. Standing in front of the store, he stretched and breathed in and out slowly. Then he turned to Al and me.
“Hey, guys,” he said with an easy smile.” I nodded and Al grunted out his typical, “Huh.”
Shifting slightly so his head was in the shade again, Al said, “The girl?”
At first I didn’t think he said anything. Since when did Al ask questions? But then that kid responded, “Yea. The girl.”
“Huh.” Al thought it over and then asked another question. “Why aren’t you with her?”
“College,” the jogger responded. “You know, my parents think it’s best if I go to college and, well, getting an education is important, you know.” I turned my knife over in my palm. Al never asked me questions, the fucker.
“Why aren’t you with her?” Al repeated. What a lame conversation. I just wanted to sell this kid some Gatorade, damn it.
“College, it’s what I’m… I mean my parents…and it’s only four years…” Then we all three got real quiet and nothing happened for maybe a whole minute, which is a long time of quiet. When Al finally spoke, he never raised his voice above that low drawl of his. And I listened because maybe for the first time, Al wasn’t just talking; he was saying something.
“There’s a lot of stuff today making it easy for folks to move around. That’s why no one uses pay phones anymore; they don’t go anywhere. There are cell phones and tiny computers... And I reckon everybody wants to get somewhere. Get educated...Get rich.” Al stopped and looked at us, both of us. He looked us up and down and through before he continued, “Boys, at some point everybody has to choose between getting somewhere and going somewhere.” He stared out to the left, to empty Texas, and he sighed, “Huh.”
Well, that kid and I just sort of stood there and didn’t move at all until Al said, “Paco, get this kid some of that fancy lemonade.” So I got up and we went into the store.
A small wind rattles the plastic numbers showing the gas prices. There’s not much of a fall in Texas; summer just sort of goes and leaves the wind and the rain. Why anyone would choose to live in this shithole, I don’t know. In the summer it’s too hot, and in the winter it’s too cold. All the same, I thought the jogger would stay. He came on time every day after the time Al spoke to him. For about two months, he ran in and out of here like a rich guy with his whore. And today was just the same.
I was arranging the pumpkins around the corner of the building, and Al was watching me. I couldn’t get the fucking pumpkins to balance on top of one another. Finally, I leaned the smallest one against the building and it stayed in the corner between the pay phone and the wall. Fuck it. The jogger slowed to a stop and looked over the pathetic display. He looked at Al, and they both started laughing.
“Chingados!” I muttered at both of them. They just laughed. The jogger shook his head and said, “Happy Halloween, bro.”
I finally grinned. He stepped to the pay phone and dialed the numbers, fast as always. Al stood at the edge of the sidewalk with his arms folded easily over his chest. We stood like that, comfortable with each other. Then the jogger hung up the phone. I looked at him with a question, and he just sort of shrugged. She always picked up. While he tried again, Al and I looked away and pretended not to notice. A busted old Volkswagen pulled into the station. It was chugging and clanking, and I had no idea how it ran. It was an old one with the seats in the trunk facing out the back window.
A girl with long brown hair got out of the car. She had on one of those bohemian skirts with all the flippy stuff hanging off it. Damn. She was hot. No, not hot. She was beautiful—like a fucking fairy.
I heard the phone slam down behind me and turned to see the jogger staring at the phone box. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pumpkin teetering, teetering, and then it rolled off the other two and down the sidewalk. I moved to retrieve it and the phone rang. Scared the shit out of me, that phone sounding off like that. All three of us flinched, and Al and I looked at each other in amazement. The kid just sort of stared at the receiver, jangling around in its holder like it had never done before. Then he reached out and lifted it.
“Hello…what…” And as we watched, he dropped the phone and turned around. I looked where he looked and saw the girl, saw him see the girl. She leaned on the hood of her car and snapped her cell phone shut. That jogger walked toward her like he was asleep. And he stopped just to look at her. They didn’t even say anything to one another. He got in the car and she got in the car, and they pulled slowly out of the station. I stared in disbelief, and I looked to Al for a partner in my disbelief. But Al stood on the curb and watched the car pull left out of the driveway.
I looked at him and said, “Al, hey…Al.” When he turned toward me he was smiling and all he said was, “Huh.”
I went to get the pumpkin because I didn’t know what else to do. As I bent down, I saw the car driving off to God knows where. I set the pumpkin back up cautiously.
“Where do you think they’re going, Al? There’s nothing out there.” I felt that urgency again, like someone squeezing my chest with a cold hand. “Where are they going?”
“That’s not the point, son,” Al said with a grin. I hit the top of the pay phone and sighed. What was the point then? The phone receiver hung by my feet and I reached down and replaced it. Hearing the unused coins clatter into the hole at the bottom, I looked up at Al.
“Want a Twinkie?”
The jogger won’t come back tomorrow. Why come back to a place once you’ve left?
I’m looking left still standing next to Al when I see headlights appear in the night. A rattling ancient pickup turns into the lot, pulls up right in front of us, and stops. Maybe once it was bright red and shiny, but now the paint is flaking off and there are mud streaks all over it. A tired looking old guy climbs out of the driver’s seat and lifts down two children behind him. He’s wearing a checked flannel button-down shirt and blue jeans. There’s a little girl with chocolate smeared around her mouth and drip stains on her white blouse. She holds the hand of a diapered boy with fuzzy hair, who rubs his eyes with a tiny fist. I’m beyond reacting. What the fuck more could possibly happen today? The man shifts anxiously and says, “Um, we just moved here today, and there’s a tree down in front of the door. Wondering if one of y’all wouldn’t mind giving me a hand with it?”
I met Al’s eyes and stared at him for a long time. He nodded at me slowly and lifted his head toward the truck. Then he smiled and said, “The point, son, is that they went.” Then, turning, he walked around the corner of the 7-Eleven.
I nodded uncertainly at the man. He grinned in relief and said, “Thank you, sir.” Ha. He called me “sir.” He motioned toward the truck and I climbed in. Seconds later, the girl and boy were sitting tight beside me and we began to move out of the station. I flinched when I felt something touch my cheek. Looking down, the girl had her finger pointed straight at me. She turned her head to the side a little and said, “Mister, why are you crying?”
I saw the road begin to disappear under the tires of the old truck and I shook my head.
I’m not.
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