asks how much the call will cost, empties his pockets of change. He picks out a dollar and thirty-five cents in quarters and dimes, stacks it ready on the shelf. He starts dialling again. His fingers are shaky, his palms sweaty. His legs, gut, and chest are filled with a rising commotion. The first ring of the phone, in Dina’s cramped apartment, sets his innards bubbling. This is craziness. He starts to feed in quarters.
“I will tell you when to deposit your money,” says the operator. “Sir? I will tell you when to deposit it.” His quarters clank down into the change return and he has trouble scooping them out. Thephone rings again, on Dina’s dresser, in the jumble of makeup, panty hose, beads and chains, long feathered earrings, a silly cigarette holder, an assortment of windup toys. He can see them: the green frog, the yellow duck, the brown bear—all the same size. Frogs and bears are equal. Also some space monsters, based on characters in a movie. When set going, these toys will lurch and clatter across Dina’s floor or table, spitting sparks out of their mouths. She likes to set up races, or put a couple of them on a collision course. Then she squeals, and even screams with excitement, as they go their unpredictable ways.
“There doesn’t seem to be any answer, sir.”
“Let it ring a few more times.”
Dina’s bathroom is across the hall. She shares it with another girl. If she is in the bathroom, even in the bathtub, how long will it take her to decide whether to answer it at all? He decides to count ten rings more, starting now.
“Still no answer, sir.”
Ten more.
“Sir, would you like to try again later?”
He hangs up, having thought of something. Immediately, energetically, he dials information.
“For what place, sir?”
“Toronto.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
He asks for the phone number of a Michael Read. No, he does not have a street address. All he has is the name—the name of her last, and perhaps not quite finished with, boyfriend.
“I have no listing for a Michael Read.”
“All right. Try Reade, R-E-A-D-E.”
There is indeed an M. Reade, on Davenport Road. Not a Michael but at least an M. Check back and see, then. Is there an M. Read? Read? Yes. Yes, there is an M. Read, living on Simcoe Street. And another M. Read, R-E-A-D, living on Harbord. Why didn’t she say that sooner?
He picks Harbord on a hunch. That’s not too far from Dina’s apartment. The operator tells him the number. He tries to memorizeit. He has nothing to write with. He feels it’s important not to ask the operator to repeat the number more than once. He should not reveal that he is here in a phone booth without a pen or pencil. It seems to him that the desperate, furtive nature of his quest is apparent, and that at any moment he may be shut off, not permitted to acquire any further information about M. Read or M. Reade, on Harbord or Simcoe or Davenport, or wherever.
Now he must start all over again. The Toronto area code. No, the operator. The memorized number. Quick, before he loses his nerve, or loses the number. If she should answer, what is he going to say? But it isn’t likely that she will answer, even if she is there. M. Read will answer. Then David must ask for Dina. But perhaps not in his own voice. Perhaps not in a man’s voice at all. He used to be able to do different voices on the phone. He could even fool Stella at one time.
Perhaps he could do a woman’s voice, squeaky. Or a child’s voice, a little-sister voice. Is Dina there?
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“It’s ringing now. I will let you know when to deposit your money.”
What if M. Read is a woman? Not Michael Read at all. Mary Read. Old-age pensioner. Career girl. What are you phoning me for? Sexual harassment. Back to information, then. Try M. Read on Simcoe. Try M. Reade on Davenport. Keep trying.
“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get an answer.”
The phone rings again and again in M.
“I will tell you when to deposit your money,” says the operator. “Sir? I will tell you when to deposit it.” His quarters clank down into the change return and he has trouble scooping them out. Thephone rings again, on Dina’s dresser, in the jumble of makeup, panty hose, beads and chains, long feathered earrings, a silly cigarette holder, an assortment of windup toys. He can see them: the green frog, the yellow duck, the brown bear—all the same size. Frogs and bears are equal. Also some space monsters, based on characters in a movie. When set going, these toys will lurch and clatter across Dina’s floor or table, spitting sparks out of their mouths. She likes to set up races, or put a couple of them on a collision course. Then she squeals, and even screams with excitement, as they go their unpredictable ways.
“There doesn’t seem to be any answer, sir.”
“Let it ring a few more times.”
Dina’s bathroom is across the hall. She shares it with another girl. If she is in the bathroom, even in the bathtub, how long will it take her to decide whether to answer it at all? He decides to count ten rings more, starting now.
“Still no answer, sir.”
Ten more.
“Sir, would you like to try again later?”
He hangs up, having thought of something. Immediately, energetically, he dials information.
“For what place, sir?”
“Toronto.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
He asks for the phone number of a Michael Read. No, he does not have a street address. All he has is the name—the name of her last, and perhaps not quite finished with, boyfriend.
“I have no listing for a Michael Read.”
“All right. Try Reade, R-E-A-D-E.”
There is indeed an M. Reade, on Davenport Road. Not a Michael but at least an M. Check back and see, then. Is there an M. Read? Read? Yes. Yes, there is an M. Read, living on Simcoe Street. And another M. Read, R-E-A-D, living on Harbord. Why didn’t she say that sooner?
He picks Harbord on a hunch. That’s not too far from Dina’s apartment. The operator tells him the number. He tries to memorizeit. He has nothing to write with. He feels it’s important not to ask the operator to repeat the number more than once. He should not reveal that he is here in a phone booth without a pen or pencil. It seems to him that the desperate, furtive nature of his quest is apparent, and that at any moment he may be shut off, not permitted to acquire any further information about M. Read or M. Reade, on Harbord or Simcoe or Davenport, or wherever.
Now he must start all over again. The Toronto area code. No, the operator. The memorized number. Quick, before he loses his nerve, or loses the number. If she should answer, what is he going to say? But it isn’t likely that she will answer, even if she is there. M. Read will answer. Then David must ask for Dina. But perhaps not in his own voice. Perhaps not in a man’s voice at all. He used to be able to do different voices on the phone. He could even fool Stella at one time.
Perhaps he could do a woman’s voice, squeaky. Or a child’s voice, a little-sister voice. Is Dina there?
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“It’s ringing now. I will let you know when to deposit your money.”
What if M. Read is a woman? Not Michael Read at all. Mary Read. Old-age pensioner. Career girl. What are you phoning me for? Sexual harassment. Back to information, then. Try M. Read on Simcoe. Try M. Reade on Davenport. Keep trying.
“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get an answer.”
The phone rings again and again in M.
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