Real letters from real freaks

A friend of mine needs an old GSM phone for a trip, so I'm lending him my trusty old Nokia. I got it from a sketchy Russian dude, and I'm happy to see it make its way back to the Old Country. I found the phone lurking in the recesses of my closet and, wiping off two years of dust, I set out to delete all my old text messages and photos.

The most interesting thing I found however was a (rather long) voice recording. I recorded it back when I lived in the 'burbs, while driving home from some long-forgotten thing. For your entertainment, I've transcribed it.  I thought about editing it for length and clarity, but then it would be about two sentences long and articulate and readable.

It's a letter to Celica:

Well, here's another fantastic letter to yourself. Or, er, that is: you.

Most, you know, of my correspondence is wordy, highly obtuse stuff that doesn't really say anything (though it says it well).  It's usually meandering, there's no point, or story. It's all foreword in fact.

I've realized that this is my strength; I should be the writer of forewords. You know: that cordial part of a book that no one ever reads? You skip past it immediately?  But it says stuff.  I mean, I don't read them personally, but I've been told they do.  It sets up the story with an anecdote, or some origin story about the book, but is not an essential part of the story.  I think that's a good metaphor for the way I write.  A meandering anecdote about a story -- but isn't, er, important.  Like for example:

"I thought about my earlier travels when read..."

 Or,

 "This book is timely because..."

And so forth. Unless it's fiction and then you have prologues. Which I guess is a preamble to the story, I think.  Er, I don't know what the point is. I’m not really one for them. But the foreword, I can write.  Any unnecessary bulge that sounds sorta like this, you know, with some details of the story, tangentially related, but is nevertheless, uh, not interesting.  That’s me.

So, I'm driving my car now, and talking alone in a space like this I feel like I'm on CBC radio, er, your equivalent I guess would be National Public Radio; basically bland, banal voices in an empty studio, no sound effects, no, uh, you know, “KB and the weird guy” in the morning, it's just, you know, just plain jane, dull radio, not really about anything. Interviews with obscure guests like a horticulturist from Santa Ana... who's got something clever to say, or-not-even-clever, I don't know; I don't even listen to the radio that much. 

I was listening to CBC Radio today though. It was about a curator of a shoe museum. I think that's self explanatory.

I'm really enjoying the isolation of this Little Car Bubble Radio Studio. I spend a lot of my day surrounded by people and I might hate that.  A lot. I think that's what really bothers me. It's be nice to have some time alone or with people I actually enjoy spending time with, but people at work… well, I guess they're OK.  I don't mind the people at work.  It's the people I’m literally surrounded by that bother me.  The people on transit.

They are just the worse people ever.  People in transit… something about people on their way somewhere makes… it makes you insane… it makes you evil.  Makes you capable of violence you would not ordinarily be capable of, but because you're travelling it, well, it makes you crazy.

 It’s the uh, same phenomenon as, for example, if you're walking up the street or, no, if you’re driving in your car with a tape recorder to your mouth, you're, I don't know, you're more inclined to do it while the car is in motion, but somehow when I stop I feel self conscious.  Like it’s weird to be talking to myself.  But I’m doing 100 KPH right now so it’s fine.  I'm even willing to do crazy things like beat box.

I’m not going to beat box. 

But you see my point.  Motion makes people crazy. And this is such an important discovery, I’m surprised that most scientific research today isn't devoted strictly on advances in that area. That’s a stretch, I guess. Regardless, I’m in motion now, and I guess that makes me crazy, and that is why I am recording this. This preamble. This irrelevant foreword.

Anyway, long-story-short, that is why I didn't write my previous letter to you. Because I realised it would suck.

I was given another opportunity just last week when I heard that you had moved to Louisville, KY, and of course it makes me happy to know that you are feeding goats. I should have suspected as much, to be honest. 

How interesting that you've traveled so far, and come so close to goats, since we were last within spitting distance. Because what I've achieved is far (long pause) far less in comparison because... 

You see, I just stopped talking there, because I was at a red light. I was feeling a little self-conscious about taking into this thing. Strange though it may it seem I must re-state: motion makes you crazy. 

Anyway, I have had a lot of lofty goals. Namely moving out, and going back to school. Both of those are on the “backburner” as they say. And you know when somebody tells you that, it’s a cue to roll your eyes and just imagine that in 40 years they're doing the exact same thing as they're doing now but balder and fatter and much more miserable. At least that's what I do. Or at least, that is what I would recommend to you in this instance.

No, I think, er, they're just on the backburner because I'm just too busy being "fistfucked" at work. And... (pause) you know, which is awesome, because as odd as this will sound, I sort of like it. I do – fuck, I regret saying that. I really shouldn't have gone there, it's just terrible. Um.

No, it's good, I’m busy…. (pause) I’m stopped again, that's why I can't talk. I'm even sort of whispering which is ridiculous because there's no one else in the car here. Are you even... oh, never mind.

It seems that as you slow down, the insanity slows too, and you become normal, and become inclined to do normal things (like your taxes), and... I'm waiting for this cyclist who is going so slow. Why are you going so slow? And what is this clown doing? Just turn.

And now I’m in my driveway, and talking into my cell phone in the middle of the night -- to no one.  This is crazy talk. I guess that this car is idling makes it mildly acceptable, but once I turn this key it’s back to the real world.  Goodnight.

I wish I could say I was drunk when I recorded this, but I was clearly behind the wheel.  My favourite part of this mess is something I couldn't transcribe.  It's the futility and urgency in my voice when I ask, "Are you even... oh, never mind."  I'm pretty sure I was going to ask "are you even going to hear these words?" And I knew the answer before I even started the thought.

My least favourite part is the rest of it.  At least I successfully demonstrated the effects of high speeds on correspondence.  I'm sorry you experienced it.

The irony is, despite my thesis that motion makes you crazy, this was a time in my life when I felt I was going nowhere, and I think that was the true source of my insanity, my letters and night-time recordings.  Motion doesn't make you crazy: spinning your wheels does.  You might also say I was running backwards writing forewords, but perhaps that's a bit too pat.

At any rate it's now illegal to ramble incoherently into a cell phone while driving.  Thank God for that.

Ships, Passing

Palms flat on the front door of her apartment, her ear hovering close to the painted wood, her soft grey eyes--encircled with lines that crinkled when she was concerned or laughing--were unfixed and wandering.

From the opposite end of the long corridor, her across-the-hall neighbour, Harvey, approached. He smiled, inwardly; the sight of Celica was sweet recompense for a difficult day. He was fond of his neighbour -- too fond, in fact, but he hid it well.

They met on the first day of school, on exchange in Rotterdam. They both lived in the student apartments on campus -- a dormitory for grown-ups. Having only arrived the night before the first day of classes, Harvey had returned from his first day exhausted and loathe to begin unpacking. Celica returned to find the long-closed across-the-hall door finally opened, with the promise of life within. She walked into the apartment. Harvey heard her voice and turned around.

"Hi," she had said.

Harvey was on his knees surrounded with bric-a-brac, seemingly embarrassed for owning it.

"The mess..." he winced, "er, this stuff isn't really mine. I hate it all. I only bring it with me because I love luggage."

Celica laughed. She had settled in month ago and was an experienced veteran compared to Harvey. Though she was a complete stranger, she made him feel comfortable in his new surroundings. He remembered standing up to greet her, and offering his hand. But Celica had a warmth that made the gesture seem awkward and unnecessarily formal. They had clasped hands amused at the distinguished action.

Harvey was disgusted with his pile. "I hate all this stuff," he said. "the only thing I actually need is a stereo and that's the one thing I didn't have room for in my luggage.

And Celica's eyes ignited with inspiration. "I'll be right back".

Celica disappeared through the front door of Harvey's apartment. Before Harvey could process that she had left, she quickly reappeared with a large grey radio in her arms, its power cord dragging along the carpet behind her.

"Now, the CD player doesn't work. The tape player does, but I'm sure you don't have any. But you can use the radio. The radio stations here are pretty wild."

"Thanks," said Harvey taking the large radio from her arms. He placed it gingerly near his mountain of belongings. "I'm Harvey."

"Celica." The she heard someone call her name from outside the apartment.

"I'll talk to you later," she said, and flitted away.

Harvey continued down the Hall, still thinking about the day he met Celica. Celica stood in the hallway braced against her apartment door. Perhaps she had forgotten her keys. He tried again to catch her glance; to get her attention. He said her name,

"Celica,"

With a half-whispered shout down the hall. She didn't hear. He grasped for her wandering gaze, but she looked instead to the ceiling; her fingers tensed against the surface of her apartment door. Then strangely, she echoed dryly,

"Celica,"

Quite matter-of-fact. And Harvey, nearing, and confused, repeated,

"Celica?"

His voice inquisitive and softer. He slowed his advance, slightly, as if to elongate the corridor along which he walked.

Celica leaned her head against the door, as though trying to hear inside. While she listened, at last, her eyes met Harvey's. She smiled.

It would turn out that Celica and Harvey would have a few classes together. She was a year older than Harvey and hailed from Indiana. She thought Harvey's Canadian accent was intriguing and was forever exhorting him to say "about". He certainly hated this, but liked just about everything else about Celica. She was blond, and wise, and warm.

Back in the hallway, she spoke again,

"Celica!"

Loudly. Harvey's confusion further slowed his pace. She pronounced again,

"Celica!"

Even louder. And her eyes rolled to the door, anticipating. As Harvey neared, he spoke in a normal voice. He began to ask,

"Isn't that your name?"

But Celica, startled, moved a step back from the opening door. A tall and drowsy man swayed in the doorway. Frank looked down at Celica with a blurry gaze.

"Hey, you," and after pausing to rub his half-closed eyes, "I was sleeping."

He yawned for a long time. And in the time it took for Frank to exhale, Harvey had traversed the remainder of the long corridor. Harvey found himself standing across from Celica and Frank, fumbling with the keys to his flat.

Celica sighed and chuckled slightly at the oafish Frank drowsily teetering in her threshold. "Go back to bed," she said with a sigh, and gave his big chest a gentle push. Frank retreated into the darkened apartment. Celica turned around to face Harvey, and smiled at him in the afternoon light.

And Harvey, with his keys in his lock, smiled back sheepishly. He was fond of Celica, though he hid it well.

* * *

I got a postcard from her about a year after that. She and Frank were teaching in a village of about 1 000 people. I wrote back. And so did she. And thus began a correspondence that would pull me between the wings of a plane, into the jaws of Texas, through the arms of Celica and on to my legs in retreat.

It seems the power of correspondence is also its fatal flaw: the interlocking of dialogue and ideas, like the teeth of a zipper, is nothing but the blueprint of a beautiful ship. It's ether. In reality, when all is said and built, we suffer the creaking hull and frown at the sails sagging in the weak wind, and wonder what the hell happened.

It turned out we were on different ships altogether. And when they passed, they passed closely, the hulls nudging gently with a dull watery thud that cracked every surface of my vessel. She waved goodbye as her ship shrunk in the horizon, but I stood arms-folded, my legs growing cold with the rising water.

A long overdue phone call

In my apartment, the buzzer to let people in has to be connected to a phone line. There is no intercom panel near our apartment's front door, no buttons to hold down, or awkward radio-switching from "listen" to "talk" while shouting into a wall-mounted piece of plastic. I'm not bragging mind you; it sometimes blows. For the first few weeks after we moved in we had to physically attend to our visitors five floors down — like fucking slaves.

My roommate and I (yes, I have a roommate, and no, he is not a emotionally volatile misanthrope like me, and yes, we are related, and yes, he has a high paying job, and no, I don't know what I am doing with my life yet, enough of the questions, would you please?) having fully embraced the future, do not have a land line. (That's phone-you-can't-fit-in-your-pocket for the Luddites reading.) We are both encumbered with BlackBerrys that allow (nay, force) us to prattle on like douche bags in silk suits about short selling, or convoluted legal doctrine, or how hard it is to find good help. Well, I just use mine to play BrickBreaker, but I digress.

The solution to the buzzing problem was to forward all calls to my old cell phone: a sturdy Nokia that I purchased from a sketchy Russian I met on Craig's List. Though I was reluctant to relegate my trusty phone to such a pedestrian task, sacrifices must be made. Now my old cell phone sits virtually dormant (on our virtually dormant TV) waiting for a visitor's ring like a tiny electronic doorman.

(Incidentally, there is a photograph on the background of my phone that I have taken to referring as "the doorman". He is a tabletop creation, two-dimensional for all intents and purposes, made of the rolled-up remnants of a coaster shredded by a combination of frustration and caffeine withdrawal. He looks dapper in his almost-fedora and necktie, but he is trapped for all time in the guts of my trusty Russian phone, doomed to a life of service as a smiling digital concierge.)

(But I digress.)

I brought the phone into my room last night because I had to receive a text message from Fido because — God damn this is a long explanation, fuck it.

The phone rang.

We had a visitor downstairs it seemed. I answered it.

"Y'ello?"

"Hello?" Replied a girl's voice.

"Hello?" I repeated back.

"Hello?" Replied the voice again. She sounded familiar. And then she asked, "who is this?"

"Who is this?"

I should pause here to mention: in an attempt to ensure that my roommate and I were at the top of the list of tenants names (displayed proudly in/on the lobby keypad/computer/thingie) we selected an alliterative alias of "Abraham Aardvark" to represent us. This appears as:

A.AARDVARK

on the panel in the lobby. So I've had the "who-is-this" conversation a few times before; many a drunkard has solicited us for entry — most probably due to our up-most position and our demonstrated love of the ant-bear. (And for the record, we always let them in.)

Assuming this was just another drunk girl, I prepared to unleash a bout of my usual date-rapier wit, but I was mistaken. Sort of.

"It's Celica."

It wasn't a drunken visitor, but a drunken dialer. A long distance misdial of my old number; a number I thought she had long since forgotten. I was speechless.

In a moment of confusion -- and wishful thinking -- I buzzed her in. But she was wasted, and all the way in Louisville, KY.