There is something filthy and sad
about waiting near a pay phone
and pretending you are not waiting.
The phone booth by the drugstore
had initials carved in the metal,
gum wrappers down by the base,
a cracked little shelf for your change,
and a smell like hot wire, dirt, and rain dried on concrete.
I stood near it half the evening
with one quarter in my pocket
that felt heavier every minute.
I was not sure if I wanted the phone to ring
or to stay dead forever.
Those are not opposite wishes
when you are young enough
to believe one voice can wreck a week.
Cars went by.
The red light changed.
Some little kid came out of the five-and-dime
dragging a balloon by its string
like life was simple and bright and perfectly built for him.
A truckload of older boys laughed too loud.
A woman in curlers crossed the lot carrying milk.
The sky darkened in layers.
The phone did not ring.
I put my hand in my pocket and touched the quarter again
like it was a plan I had not agreed to.
Call and sound eager.
Do not call and sound proud.
Neither one looked good.
Both looked exactly like me.
In songs, waiting gets dressed up.
It gets neon and thunder and perfect last lines.
In real life it is mostly standing around
trying to look like you just happen to be there
when your whole body has turned into one long nerve.
I never made the call.
That ought to sound strong.
It does not.
I walked home with the quarter still in my jeans
feeling equal parts noble, stupid, and empty,
which was a combination I was getting to know pretty well.