At first, Keith didn’t recognize the sound - it was a new ringtone. But the buzzing, the phone’s plastic body vibrating on the coffee table, rattling the cheap wood and smudgy glass, brought him out of sleep. Every time, he thought. Every damn time. How many days off do I get? How many hours a day, a week, am I chasing other people’s money? As soon as I get one afternoon to put on some music, lay back on the couch and...
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz -
“Hello?” Keith said, the weariness and frustration leaking into his voice.
“Is this Keith Bundry?”
“Who is this?” Keith asked - his annoyance growing.
“Keith? Is this Keith?”
“Yes - this is Keith, who is this. I’m busy.”
“Sorry, Keith. I don’t want to be rude. This is Trina Sollis, we met at the fundraiser last month, for the library?”
Keith took the phone away from his ear, rubbed his face, shook his head, and looked around the room as if to make sure he was in the right place. The Miles record he had chosen as a soundtrack for his nap was still playing -on the first side. He had been out less than twenty minutes. Every damn time. He brought the phone back to his ear.
“Trina Sollis. What can I do for you?”
“Hi Keith, sorry, I know you’re very busy. I’ll keep this brief. As I mentioned, we met last month at the fundraiser for the Meredith County Library System. I believe I gave you my card?”
Keith wanted to go back to sleep; he wanted to be hearing Miles’s muted horn, not this woman’s uncomfortably booming voice. Every word she spoke thumped into his head, made his teeth itch. “Yes, I remember you Ms. Sollis, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I just wonder if I could get it back?”
“What? Get what back?”
“My card.”
Keith didn’t know what to say. Was this real? Was he still asleep - he must still be asleep. “Uh...”
“I’m sorry, can I get it back? I mean, I don’t want to put you out. I can drop by at your convenience. Your office, or your apartment. Whatever will make this easier.”
“Uh... Uhm... Really? I mean, you need... Can’t you.... Don’t you have any?”
“I’m willing to come in anytime. This doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
Keith let the phone slide from his face. He shook his head, stood up from the couch, and walked over to the bank of windows to look down at the retched tennis court across the way. The net was torn and sagging, the lines on the court were mostly worn to nothing. Two kids in cut-off jeans were playing with old clunky wooden rackets, probably stolen from an after-school program or community center. The younger player, he might have been only eleven, was bleeding from the knee and the wrist. He must have fallen and slid on the ground, grinding his skin away. The tennis ball, once faded green, was pinking up with his blood.
“Sorry Ms. Sollis,” Keith said, bringing the phone back to his face, “I lost the connection for a second. Why do you want your card back?”
“Well, I don’t really, I mean... I need to get the card back, but I’d rather not get into my private situation, if that’s alright.”
Keith was much more interested in the tennis match than his phone call. The wounded kid wasn’t bad. He had a powerful serve. He wasn’t afraid to rush the net, but not in a juvenile way. He knew the mechanics of the game. He could control the play easily - he was making his older friend, probably his brother, run all over the court. “Look, Ms. Sollis, you brought yourself into my private situation by calling me at home. This is strange, this is very strange.”
“I’m being perfectly reasonable with you, Keith.” her voice was oddly monotonous, robotic. “I can come by at your convenience - would your office or your apartment be a better place?”
“There’s never a better place to be bothered with someone else’s neuroses, Ms. Sollis.” It was starting to rain, and the tennis players were sliding and sloshing all over the court. They’re mudders, Keith thought, they’re better in the rain. “I don’t even have your card anymore. I probably put it in an ashtray on my desk for a couple of weeks, and didn’t notice when the maid threw it out with the spent matches. How did you get my number, by the way?”
“You gave me your card,” Trina said, in the same android voice.
“Well, if you could drop that off at my office, that would be great - bye.”
Keith turned his phone off and threw it over his shoulder. It bounced off a coffee table leg and spun under the well-worn brown micro-fiber couch. He went to the fridge to get a bottle of Diet Coke, and returned to the windows, pulling a stool from his kitchen nook. He sat down, and let out a heavy sigh when he saw that the tennis players were gone. Maybe the rain had become too heavy. Maybe they had to get home before dinner. “I wonder who won,” Keith said. Just then, he heard a soft plastic click from behind. The record player stopped, side A was over. Keith let out another sigh, slide a window pain open, and threw the full bottle of Diet Coke down to the street below.
