Big Ass Phone

They moved that big ass telephone to the back corner of the parking lot even though I said not to, idiots. It’s going to take twice or three times as long to get across the lot to pick it up when it rings. How am I supposed to find time for that during a busy Friday or Saturday night service? It’s all the way over there now, next to the dumpsters—bigger than the dumpsters, making the dumpsters look small, big and grey like an elephant’s dead body. 

Phil rolled his eyes when he came in and told me to put my apron on, get back to my tables. “David,” he said, “It isn’t yours to worry about.”

Jesus Christ. I like Phil (most of the time) but his head is so far up his ass. It is mine to worry about, because I’m the only one who’s strong enough to pick it up. That receiver must weigh 200 pounds. Sometimes I think Phil could lift it if he tried, but he never tries. He wants us to ignore it, even when it rings during service. The whole building vibrates. Conversation dies. The guests look at us like we’re insane. We say, “Another glass of chianti? Still enjoying your osso bucco?” A man in a suit touches his tie. “Shouldn’t someone pick up that phone?” 

Molly’s worried about it, too. She told me so as we prepped fruit for the bar yesterday. The office line rang—a good, old, normal phone—and she jumped like she’d cut herself. She put down the knife and wiped her palms on her apron. She had dark circles under her eyes. 

“I’ve been having dreams,” she said. “I’m being chased down a hallway. By what, I don’t know, but it’s awful. The hallway doesn’t end. There are doors on both sides, but any time I try to go through one there’s a table in there. And the guests have empty glasses, so if I go in to hide I’ll have to take their order first. Then whatever’s chasing me will catch me. So I just keep running.” 

I didn’t know what to say. We went back to slicing up lemons and things. 

But I’m still thinking about what she said. I’m having dreams, too. I’m in a crowded place and someone’s having a heart attack and I’m the only one trying to perform CPR. Also, there are spiders everywhere, big ugly ones with rubber legs like cheap Halloween decorations. This is my body’s way of saying, you’d better stop doing this. You’re getting too old for this. I’ve thought about giving my notice. But that big ass phone will still be here, and maybe Phil can ignore it forever, but Molly can’t, and if I’m not around and it starts ringing again, I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself trying to pick it up. Slip a disk or something. She can’t afford to miss that much work. She can’t afford to leave, either. 

I only have one choice. 

When that phone rings, even if I hurry out there as fast as I can, no one ever says a word on the other end. By the time I get there, I’m out of breath from running and hoisting the receiver. I can barely grunt out a hello before the line goes dead. That big ass phone isn’t connected to regular phones. There’s no cable going to it or anything. No, it has to go somewhere special. 

So tonight, while Phil’s in the walk-in doing inventory, I’m going to go out to that phone and I’m going to make a call. I’m going to pick it up and dial 0 for the operator. And then whoever answers, I’m going to ask them some questions. Because there has to be a bottom to this. There has to be someone in charge. Someone has to be behind this whole stupid big ass phone thing. 

I’m afraid of what could happen. But I won’t let that stop me. They can’t keep treating people like this.