How to Disappear By Eduard
The phone rang from across the room, 15 — no 1500 — yards away. It was vibrating off the hook, shaking the house. I could feel it in my throat. I could feel it in my heart.
“Hello?” you said, as though you were the one that answered.
It’s been years since I left New York. The intensity of the city just grew too much for me. Maybe it was the sleepless nights, the early mornings. Or maybe it was people — how many there were, how crass they were, how ruthless they were. As though I’m any better. I’ve become just like them over the years. The city changes you. I can’t quite put my finger on when, but it did. My father warned me before I left, tried to stop me when I told him. He said I’d hate it, that it’s not my kind of place, that I wouldn’t find anyone there like me. He was right about one thing.
“I’m sorry, do I have the right number?” You sounded just like you did the first time you called; somber, telling me you needed to drive to LA, that you needed to see me. What about? You didn’t say. You never say.
The second ring was even louder than the first. It echoed down the street and through my neighbourhood. I used to get vertigo from the skyscrapers — being inside them, looking down, and being below them, looking up. It was dizzying, New York. I never quite felt connected to the earth below me, because it wasn’t there. It was nothing but concrete or stone or carpet or tile. I could’ve gone months without feeling dirt beneath my feet or seeing greenery in the trees above me. But one thing made it better. The third and fourth rings bled together. I’d almost tuned them out. I stood up to answer before it stopped. Because I knew it was you and I couldn’t not pick up. When I picked the phone up off the hook, I had to hold it with both hands to keep it up. Had it always weighed a tonne, or was I just getting weaker? I heard a car go by on the other end.
6
Tatomir
I cleared my throat away from the receiver, “Hello.”
“Yes, it’s me, John. Where are you now?” “Riverside. I pulled into a truck stop to dial.” “That’s not too far,” my fingers slipped through the coiled wire. “That’s not too far at all. When can I expect you?” Silence, but the call didn’t disconnect. I heard another car going by on the wet road. You sniffled away from the phone, a deep breath. “An hour at the most,” you said. My ring tapped the receiver. “Everything all right, John?” “Oh absolutely, Lana. Absolutely. I’ll see you soon.” You didn’t sound the same. I heard it. The neighbours heard it. The cats in the yard heard it. Something’s changed with you. I thought perhaps I was imagining things from our first call — I chalked it up to you being tired from the stockyards. Now it’s undeniable. I hope everything’s okay, John. I’ll only know when you arrive, so please hurry.
