Making the Call

After my (too) brief encounter with Lynn Wednesday night, I could think of nothing else. Unfortunately I didn't think to get her telephone number. I figured the station had it in the telephone directory, but I was off Thursday and Friday and felt extremely awkward calling up the station to ask someone there to look it up for me. It would be my luck Wendy would answer the phone, and I could just hear the disapproval in her voice. I also didn't really want it spread around that I had an interest there, lest I look like more of an idiot than I really am should the whole thing go sour.

First thing Saturday morning, therefore, I looked up her number in the computer and wrote it down on a slip of paper that I folded and tucked into my pocket. I didn't really want to call while Lizzie was around, so I waited through the whole day, until I got home, to call. All day long I kept reaching into my pocket to make sure that slip was still there.

Apparently the matter was also on Lizzie's mind. She danced around the subject for a while, but finally she couldn't resist it any longer.

"I won't ask what was going on in Lynn's room Wednesday night," she said.

"That in itself is a question," I responded.

"Okay," she said, "So what happened?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask."

"Look, he's blushing again," she said.

"Stop it!"

"So really, what happened?"

"Nothing," I said. "She was showing me her photos. They're really good."

"Is that all she showed you?"

"I'm not talking to you about this," I declared. I tried to sound authoritative when I said it, but it's hard to control the mood when you're smiling.

Lizzie turned a little more serious. "I told you she has a boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah, you told me," I said. "I'm not sure what to think about that."

"Well, now I'm not either," she said. "She said yesterday they're not getting along that great."

I felt a funny flutter in my stomach at those words. Does it make me a bad person to rejoice in someone else's bad news?

"Uh, that's too bad," I said. I tried to sound sincere. I really did.

"Oh, don't even try it. That's good news for you," she said.

"I really don't know what you're talking about," I grinned.

Here is where I'll reveal what is probably my most debilitating weakness. I'm afraid of the phone. I don't like to answer it. I don't like to call people on it. It took almost an entire semester at school to get comfortable ordering a pizza. I would go down to the pizza joint and order it in person, then sit and wait on it, rather than use the phone to call ahead. Even more recently, it took every ounce of courage I could muster to return the ND's phone call back when he first contacted me about this job. My friends often think I'm snubbing them when I don't return their calls, but it isn't that. It's the phone.

I actually read somewhere that there's a name for this problem. It's called "call reluctance." Apparently lots of people have it, but they're able to work around it. They keep the problem from coming to light until they have a job that requires heavy phone use. The article I read was in the context of salesmen who couldn't meet their quotas because they're afraid of the phone.

When I finally got home, I was scared to death. I'm a grown man, yet I'm terrified of picking up the phone and even more terrified at the thought of calling a girl. What if I stumble over my words? What if we have nothing to talk about? What if she rejects me?

I lifted the receiver and put it back down. I suddenly had to go to the bathroom. Yep, better get that out of the way so I can be totally relaxed when I talk to her.

I picked up the phone again. The dialtone sounded menacing. I decided to check my email. There was, of course, another message in there telling me to post on my blog more often.

Okay, stop procrastinating and do it, I thought. But it had already been three days since I had talked to her. What if she's pissed off that I haven't called sooner, I wondered. She may not want to talk to me at all.

Nonsense. I decided to make some notes for myself. I discovered that one way to get over my fear of the phone is to collect my thoughts on paper. I grabbed a pen and pad and wrote, "I was wondering if you'd like to go out next week."

That's stupid, I thought. I'm not going to read it off the paper. I'll just throw caution to the wind and wing it.

I reached for the phone, but it rang and scared me out of my wits. It wasn't supposed to do that. I answered. It was for Suzanne, my slut roommate. It was a guy, of course. He wanted to know if Suzanne would be home later. I said I didn't know and took a message. I'm not her hookup service.

"All right, dammit!" I said out loud. I took a deep breath. In a swift series of motions I picked up the phone and dialed the number. I waited for it to connect.

...

...

"The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try again."

What? I know I copied it down correctly, because I checked it twice. I dialed the number again.

"The number you have dialed--"

"Fuck!" I said.

And yet, I felt relieved. Suddenly the pressure was off. That's when I decided to sit down and write my previous entry about Wednesday night.

But the story doesn't end there.

I worked with Lizzie again today. Even though Lizzie has a big mouth and will probably spread it around, I knew she had Lynn's number, so I told her what happened with the wrong number from the station computer.

"Oh yeah, she just moved there a few months ago," Lizzie said. "It takes forever sometimes for the phone list to get updated."

"You have her number, though, right?" I asked.

"Yeah, I have it."

"Weeeell, would you give it to me?"

"What for?" she asked. What for? If she weren't a girl...

"Oh come on," I said, feigning disgust.

"Oh all right," she said. "I don't think she would mind if it's you."

She wrote Lynn's number on her little reporter's notebook and tore off the page for me. Lizzie's handwriting is atrocious, but at least I could make out the numbers. Years from now I'll probably find that note and think "Lujuu? What the hell is Lujuu?"

After a shorter version of Saturday night's game of chicken with the phone, I finally dialed Lynn's number.

I got her voice mail. And I hung up on it without leaving a message. Not just once, but three times throughout the course of this evening. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you are reading the words of the world's biggest coward.

Sigh. Pizza, job interviews and dates. I'll end up having to do this in person.