My father had an old pair of boots that I procured the summer after graduating from high school. I had a job at Sunset Lake, a SDA summer camp outside of Seattle, Washington, and needed a pair of boots for riding and such. The boots were old and worn and with my odd walk, the heels eventually worn down to reflect my rolling walk.
I still have them today in the closet and they still fit!
Anyway, I picked up a folder and found the following little story from my writing group (1993). Since it is Father's Day weekend, it felt like an appropriate nod to my dad. Thanks for the boots!
Happy Father's Day.
Of Friends and Phones
Alone, in my underwear and sitting at the kitchen table, I eye the lone Kraft spaghetti box laying face down on the counter, the used pan in the sink, and the torn Parmesan cheese package sitting half empty to the steaming plate of pasta and sauce. Picking up my fork, I swirl the noodles around and look at my watch calculating that I have eighteen minutes to eat, brush my teeth, and be punched in at work. Schedules. No time to wait for the spaghetti to cool, no time to enjoy it. Thank God it is Kraft's! Scooping up a forkful and shoving the strands in to my mouth, my head grimaces as the phone blares in my right ear; probably some idiot looking for an apartment.
Ring...Ring...chew...chew...Ring
"Hello, Johnson's."
"David?"
Great, it's some soft spoken man who can't fix his leaking sink and wants my dad to come to the rescue.
"No, this is his son, Daniel. May I take a message?"
"Are you a cowboy?"
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, do you have your boots on ready for a ride?"
"No, I'm eating supper." Sam. I bet it's Sam. He's talking quietly so I won't recognize his voice.
"Can you put them on?"
"I'm sorry, put what on?"
"The boots. I need to talk to you, do you have the time?"
"Is this about Puff Lane apartments?"
"...yes. Can we talk?" His voice sounds urgent.
"Sure, do you live there?" I hate apartment calls.
"Yes. Do you want to come over?" Definitely Sam. Time to find out what he wants.
"I don't know. Who is this?"
"Austin Roberts."
"Well Austin, I've got my boots on and..."
"Does my voice excite you?"
"No."
"Are you a big man?"
"Yes, about 6'3"."
"No, no. I don't mean like that. I mean below the waist."
"This isn't Sam is it?"
"Do you want it to be?" The voice continues in a whine, "You're not a cowboy."
"Who is this?"
Click.
"Hello? Hello? Damn."
The spaghetti is cool now. I grab the phone book. What an idiot! Let me see, Austin Roberts. Robbins. Robert. Roberts, Austin. I punch in the numbers. It's not busy. Good. I hope the little pervert is home. One ring. Two. Three.
"Hello?" The raspy voice is a woman's.
"Hi. I was wondering if I might speak with Austin Roberts?"
"Who may I say is calling?"
"David Johnson." Ok, I lied.
"Are you a friend of his?"
"Yes." Ok, I lied again.
"When is the last time you spoke with him?"
"I just spoke to him on the phone."
"Honey, I don't think you did. Austin's been dead fifteen years." Great! I'm getting phone calls from perverts in hell.
"I'm sorry, but I... I just received an obscene phone call from a man who said he was Austin Roberts. I'm sorry, really, I am."
"Well honey, you know someone called earlier today and I answered they just hung up. Maybe it is the same person. I hope they won't bother you again."
"Thanks for your time, sorry about your husband."
"It's OK. Goodbye."
Now I feel violated, stupid, and my spaghetti looks dead.
Ring ... Ring...
"Johnson's."
"Do you have any apartments?"
"No!"
Click. I hate apartment calls.
