Holding On

Esther had been holding the phone for 40 minutes and she had to pee. Having been raised at a time of great propriety and respect for the telephone, she was not willing to consider taking the phone with her into the bathroom, nor was she willing to consider hanging up. She needed a babysitter. Humming along to the hold music, which was a muzak version of Hallelujah, she walked downstairs and knocked on Morty’s door.

“I need you to watch my telephone.”

“From here?”

“I have cordless.”

“When did you get cordless?,” he asked, voice tinged with jealousy.

She jabbed the phone into his hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

“What if somebody answers?”

“Chat them up until I get back.” And with that she took off.

“Cordless and she didn’t even tell me,” he muttered to himself, walking towards his couch.

Within seven minutes, the hold music was getting to him. It was infuriating music; meandering, unnecessarily slow, bizarrely jazzy. It made Beethovan’s 5^th boring. Actively boring. It was creating more boredom in the world by it’s very presence on this telephone. He began to pace in a dreamlike state, desperate for Esther to return.

When Morty’s own phone rang, it overwhelmed his senses. The confusion of hearing a ring while we was already holding a receiver to his ear was transferred into anger when he finally picked up.

“Hey Morty, quick question.”

“Emery, you putz, I need you to come down here and watch Esther’s phone.”

“Well that’s actually what I needed to talk to you about. I can’t come down there because I’ve locked myself into my apartment.”

“You’re a putz, do you know that? Locked yourself in? That’s not even possible.”

“My doorknob fell off while I was trying to open it.”

“That would only happen to a putz like you.” But the idea of taking the phone on an adventure was appealing. If he exposed it to a little more of the world, maybe it would discover a new kind of music. So, phone still at his ear, he got into the elevator and went upstairs. The signal somehow survived the trip from one floor below Esther to one floor above.

Esther, meanwhile, was enjoying life without the phone. It was relaxing in the bathroom, no muzak playing, not impending conversation with an overly-officious person unable to answer simple questions because of “company policy.” She took her time, washed her hands at a leisurely pace. When she got back down to Morty’s and he was gone, she wasn’t concerned. It was a gift, this time away from the telephone. She began to clean up the kitchen, putting away his dishes. When she was done straightening up, she went back home, all but forgetting her impending phone call.

When Emery arrived with the phone in hand, he looked perplexed. “Is this yours?"

“I don’t know, is it?”

“Morty shoved it into my hands and ran downstairs. He literally ran. Even with his bad knee.”

“He’s a putz.” She grabbed the phone, only to find it disconnected. “Did you do this? Did you hang up?” He voice was rising. A look of anger was fomenting out of her wrinkled features.

“Well, yeah. I didn't know what it was.”

Bristling, she dialed the number again, handed the phone to Emery, and kicked him out.

“Call me when somebody answers.”

“But I'll have your phone.”

That last breath of logic didn't phase her because she had already slammed the door in his face. Sinking into a chair, smiled a partially evil smile as she heard Morty's door open downstairs and heard a faint scream of exasperation as Emery handed him the phone.