Little Things - 8. Chase and The Phone Booth

Chase and the Phone Booth

He knew he should never have decided to walk. Leaving the car with just a bottle of water was stupid. It was hot, and the sun was like an unfulfilled ghost, relentless in its haunting of him.

He sweated but knew stripping in the desert was just plain moronic, so he trudged on, wondering if he should turn back.

It was scrub desert, pretty in its way, but not when lost and without water. He'd said he'd rest an hour ago when he got to this outcropping of massive boulders. They offered scant shade and were hot to the touch. He did sit in the little shade there was. The water was warm, and he took two sips only.

As he sat, he gazed across the flat desert: cactus, tough grasses and rocks dotted the landscape. The air shimmered in the heat as he scanned the terrain. His eyes were tired and gritty, but something stood out in the distance.

What was that?

Chase got to his feet. "What the fuck is that?"

He started to walk toward it. When the shape of it became clear, he stumbled over a piece of dead cactus. "Jesus, no way!"

Stumbling on, he nearly fell but caught himself. He reached his destination and held out a hand to touch the glass door. It was cool.

In the middle of the desert, under the persistent rays of the sun, the glass door was cool. Chase pushed it in the middle, and it folded as it was built. The hinges squealed in protest because of sand and lack of lubricant, but the door finally opened.

Then Chase stepped inside the telephone booth.

Despite being comprised of glass and aluminum and exposed to the sun, the booth was chilly and comfortable, defying logic and nature in the extreme desert heat.

Chase took a quick inventory of his surroundings: a beat-up pay phone, a triangular metal shelf, a hardcover phone book which dangled from a plastic cord, ever-so-slightly swaying, it seemed, to an impossible breeze. "What the fuck," he muttered, touching the phone book, making it sway more harshly so that it knocked against the opposing glass.

This place couldn't be real. And, yet, was it? An old phone booth, plopped in the middle of the desert, without any other structures surrounding it – not even, it appeared, a telephone pole?

Chase picked up the handset and gingerly brought it close to his ear without making contact. There, to his continued surprise, was a dial tone. Quickly, he slammed the handset back onto its cradle as though its voodoo magic would harm him.

His purpose had been unclear when he’d left his car and stumbled off over the dunes – only fuzzy thoughts about disappearing for a while, to think about things, figure out how to climb up from the pit of despair and self-destruction he’d trapped himself in the moment they’d buried Kenny six feet under.

Part of him – the sane part of his consciousness which was rapidly receding – demanded that he get on with his life, that it was now or never; he’d been driving around in his old Ambassador Brougham for months, sleeping in the backseat, scrounging for food and answers to repeating questions. He knew full well the futility of asking such questions anymore.

No matter what he did, no matter how much time passed, he'd never find forgiveness for what had happened, for what he'd done, which had been the catalyst for his brother's death nine months earlier.

Turning now to leave, anxious to return to the security of his car, to his life such as it was, he pushed at the accordion door of the booth only to discover that it wouldn't budge.

Frustrated, Chase picked up the receiver and held it to his ear this time. It buzzed merrily. Keeping it away, he peered at it.

“What the fuck?” Chase slammed the receiver back onto the switch hook. He stared at it. There had been a noise. Gingerly, he picked it up again and put it to his left ear. There was a dial tone. "How?"

Chase bent down and looked for wires. Nothing. He replaced the handset again. He was sweating now, though the booth felt air-conditioned. Reaching for the door handle, he pulled on it for the second time.

It didn’t move.

Chase used both hands. It rattled but refused to open. He slapped, pulled, kicked, yelled, pushed and pounded on it. The door would not open.

"God damn it!" Tired from exerting the little energy he had left, Chase slid down and sat on the metal plate floor. He kicked out at the glass door once more. "Fuck it." He looked at his watch; it was nearly 5 pm and 45^c. “Fine, it will cool off soon. Should be able to open the door then.”

He licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. Chase then crossed his arms, shuffled his butt around and closed his eyes.

The constant ringing woke him up. Forcing open his eyes, Chase was surprised at the light. He looked at the booth's ceiling, where a light bulb burned. The ringing had not stopped. “Fuck!”

Forgetting the light, Chase pulled himself off the floor and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

There was something there—a faint voice—possibly.

“Hello! Can you hear me?” When no answer came, Chase slammed the receiver back onto the switch hook. It took only seconds before it began to ring again. Grabbing it once more, he took a breath before answering. “Hello?”

“Chase, Chase, Chase …”

Chase could hear his name clearly this time, but that was all; it was just his name repeatedly. His anger growing, he put the receiver down once more. Again, the phone started to ring.

Chase turned his attention to the door in an effort to ignore the continuous jangling. He pulled and tugged on it. Finally slowing, he decided to pick up the receiver. "Hello, god damn it!" He was quiet then. Chase stopped yelling, and he held the receiver to his ear. “Kenny?”

“I love you, big bro. Stop being mad.” The voice was soft but scratchy.

Chase squeezed the receiver tightly. “Oh my god, how can you? Are you alive—? You’re dead.”

There was silence for several minutes, but Chase refused to hang up, sure that he was speaking to his deceased sibling.

“Kenny?”

The soft, whispered words came again. “Bro, please … accept things and live now. Stop being angry and sad. I love you. I’m here with Mom and Dad. Live now.”

Above him, the light bulb flickered, and though he waited, he didn’t hear anything more from the phone. His face was wet with the tears he’d not cried when Kenny died. He’d not cried at his brother’s funeral either. Still, Chase gripped the plastic receiver. Into it, he said softly. "I'm sorry." He gently placed the handset on the cradle. Chase’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned his head against the phone and sighed deeply.

Behind him, the folding glass door opened slightly. Its hinges protested loudly in the quiet of the desert night.