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non_plot challenge #21 - Ten Digits
Stephen sighed, took another drink of his coffee, and tried again to make out the number.
(604) 686-378 … something.
That last digit was unreadable. Somehow, he'd managed to totally obliterate the last digit in her phone number. It was an Simon Fraser University number. He'd figured that out from the exchange - plus she'd said she'd lived in the res halls at SFU. But the last digit was totally unreadable … and he'd never gotten her last name. And there were undoubtably hundreds of Jennifers on Simon Fraser campus.
Tossing the matchbook down on the table, he pondered just throwing in the towel. Two ships, passing in the night. They had nothing in common, after all. Could he even think of one thing? He was American, she was Canadian; he was a student physics teacher, she was a fine arts student minoring in Japanese. She was a vegan; he couldn't resist a thick, juicy steak.
So why didn't he feel good about it?
Her eyes.
That was it. There was something in the warm, friendly chocolate of her eyes that had torn away a piece of his chickenhearted American soul. The curve of her face bathed in the blue light of the Vancouver transit buses as they searched the late night mini-marts of the Lower Mainland for coconut milk. The tumble of her curls over her shoulder. Her laugh. Her quick, breathless voice. The soft way she'd touched his arm when she talked; those bitten nails, covered in poster paint.
"It's only ten numbers." he said to himself, straightening and searching for change for the pay phone. "Ten digits. Ten phone calls. Nine wrong numbers and one call that might change the rest of your life."
* * *
Two stacks of quarters sat silently on top of the black box of the phone. He picked up one and dialled, rubbing the ridge of another against his nail.
604-686-378 - one.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
A girl picked up; he could hear giggling in the background, and the sound of the Sex Pistols. "Yeah?"
"Is - is Jennifer there?"
"Nope. Wrong number, guy. Sorry."
Click.
Damn.
* * *
604-686-378-two.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Someone picked up - a guy, with an effeminate drawl. "Hello?" Noise in the background - a party, the hockey game.
"Uh, hi. Is Jennifer there?"
"Oh, I know who you are."
"What?"
"Of course." The mystery man purred. "You're at our phone. You just wait right there, lover. I'll be there in ten minutes to satisfy you."
"No, no, I'm looking for-"
"You just wait." The line went dead.
"Jennifer." Stephen trailed off uselessly, staring at the dumb black reciever.
Great. Now he had ten minutes before some guy, God-only-knew-who, came down here to do God-only-knew-what in his he-didn't-want-to-think-about-where.
Should he just quit?
The door blew open, fanning his hair back from his face with the cold January wind, and in some fluke akin to synasthesia he could smell green tea.
Her tiny hands holding the handleless, chipped cup, painted with camellias …
Eight numbers to go.
* * *
Three was some chick rattling away at him in Cantonese. At least he assumed it was Cantonese, or Mandarin, or something from the Pacific Rim. He had no idea, but it dribbled away two of his nine remaining minutes trying to explain 'Jennifer' before she replied, in broken English, 'sorry, wrong number'.
Four was a guy named Marty that sounded like he'd been enjoying far too much of the local bud.
Five was a residence hall advisor in Hamilton Hall (which was a little disturbing, due to his long tenure in Hamilton Hall back in New Jersey) named Janine, who was very nice and totally unhelpful.
Six was no answer, but the voice mail was for Andrea and/or Lisa.
Seven …
On the first ring someone picked it up and screeched, "I HATE YOU, YOU CHEAP FUCK!" directly in his ear, and slammed the phone down hard enough that he could hear the little bell, which signalled the death of another number and half of one of his five remaining minutes.
He decided to set that one aside as a 'possible' and started dialling again.
Eight.
"Is Jennifer there?"
"I'm Jennifer."
Oh thank God. "Jennifer? It's Stephen. You remember … from the coffee shop? Two nights ago?"
Silence. Uncertainty. "Um …"
"You remember? We … we went out for sushi? You said I had a cute nose? You were telling me about your cat Jeremy Stringbean and your roommate Annie Picklepuss? We spent half the night running all over the Lower Mainland looking for coconut milk and you don't remember?"
"I don't have a cat." Jennifer replied simply.
Stephen paused.
"Sorry." His voice was hollow, distant. "I - I think I've got the wrong number."
* * *
Nine was some guy named Andrew.
One left.
As he dialled the now familiar string of nine digits, he froze, eye falling on the matchbook yet again.
Was that seven really a seven?
Or was that seven a one?
His internal clock screamed that he only had two minutes left, and that he should just abandon this quest and get the hell out of here before he found himself on the wrong end of something that he'd rather not be on the right end of, much less the wrong end, but muscle memory dialled the last three digits, and before he could move, there was the phone ringing in his ear.
"Hello?"
"Is - is Jennifer there?"
The phone was unceremoniously dropped on a desk with an hollow clatter. He paced on the short tether of his phone cord, fidgeting.
The phone was picked up.
That voice. That perfect, lilting, breathy voice, with the little question at the end, licking up. "Hello?"
"Jennifer?" Stephen nearly dropped the phone, taking one step too far past the length of the phone cord. "Jennifer?"
"Hi! Who's this?"
"Uh … Stephen? From the other night?"
"Stephen! I was hoping you'd call! Did you want to come by?"
"Yes." He sighed emphatically. "I've got to get away from this guy - I couldn't make out the last digit in your phone number, and …"
"Oh my God." She laughed breathlessly, a falling cadence of giggles. "Did you - did you dial 686-3782?"
"Yes."
"That's just Randall. He hit on you? He does that to people if he doesn't recognize the number. He's harmless. He's in my watercolour class."
Slumping up against the wall, Stephen sighed with relief.
"How about I come down there and get you? I'll be there in two shakes."
"Wait!"
"What?"
"What's your last name?" he asked desperately. "In - in case I lose you again."
"Demore. Jennifer Demore."
(604) 686-378 … something.
That last digit was unreadable. Somehow, he'd managed to totally obliterate the last digit in her phone number. It was an Simon Fraser University number. He'd figured that out from the exchange - plus she'd said she'd lived in the res halls at SFU. But the last digit was totally unreadable … and he'd never gotten her last name. And there were undoubtably hundreds of Jennifers on Simon Fraser campus.
Tossing the matchbook down on the table, he pondered just throwing in the towel. Two ships, passing in the night. They had nothing in common, after all. Could he even think of one thing? He was American, she was Canadian; he was a student physics teacher, she was a fine arts student minoring in Japanese. She was a vegan; he couldn't resist a thick, juicy steak.
So why didn't he feel good about it?
Her eyes.
That was it. There was something in the warm, friendly chocolate of her eyes that had torn away a piece of his chickenhearted American soul. The curve of her face bathed in the blue light of the Vancouver transit buses as they searched the late night mini-marts of the Lower Mainland for coconut milk. The tumble of her curls over her shoulder. Her laugh. Her quick, breathless voice. The soft way she'd touched his arm when she talked; those bitten nails, covered in poster paint.
"It's only ten numbers." he said to himself, straightening and searching for change for the pay phone. "Ten digits. Ten phone calls. Nine wrong numbers and one call that might change the rest of your life."
* * *
Two stacks of quarters sat silently on top of the black box of the phone. He picked up one and dialled, rubbing the ridge of another against his nail.
604-686-378 - one.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
A girl picked up; he could hear giggling in the background, and the sound of the Sex Pistols. "Yeah?"
"Is - is Jennifer there?"
"Nope. Wrong number, guy. Sorry."
Click.
Damn.
* * *
604-686-378-two.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Someone picked up - a guy, with an effeminate drawl. "Hello?" Noise in the background - a party, the hockey game.
"Uh, hi. Is Jennifer there?"
"Oh, I know who you are."
"What?"
"Of course." The mystery man purred. "You're at our phone. You just wait right there, lover. I'll be there in ten minutes to satisfy you."
"No, no, I'm looking for-"
"You just wait." The line went dead.
"Jennifer." Stephen trailed off uselessly, staring at the dumb black reciever.
Great. Now he had ten minutes before some guy, God-only-knew-who, came down here to do God-only-knew-what in his he-didn't-want-to-think-about-where.
Should he just quit?
The door blew open, fanning his hair back from his face with the cold January wind, and in some fluke akin to synasthesia he could smell green tea.
Her tiny hands holding the handleless, chipped cup, painted with camellias …
Eight numbers to go.
* * *
Three was some chick rattling away at him in Cantonese. At least he assumed it was Cantonese, or Mandarin, or something from the Pacific Rim. He had no idea, but it dribbled away two of his nine remaining minutes trying to explain 'Jennifer' before she replied, in broken English, 'sorry, wrong number'.
Four was a guy named Marty that sounded like he'd been enjoying far too much of the local bud.
Five was a residence hall advisor in Hamilton Hall (which was a little disturbing, due to his long tenure in Hamilton Hall back in New Jersey) named Janine, who was very nice and totally unhelpful.
Six was no answer, but the voice mail was for Andrea and/or Lisa.
Seven …
On the first ring someone picked it up and screeched, "I HATE YOU, YOU CHEAP FUCK!" directly in his ear, and slammed the phone down hard enough that he could hear the little bell, which signalled the death of another number and half of one of his five remaining minutes.
He decided to set that one aside as a 'possible' and started dialling again.
Eight.
"Is Jennifer there?"
"I'm Jennifer."
Oh thank God. "Jennifer? It's Stephen. You remember … from the coffee shop? Two nights ago?"
Silence. Uncertainty. "Um …"
"You remember? We … we went out for sushi? You said I had a cute nose? You were telling me about your cat Jeremy Stringbean and your roommate Annie Picklepuss? We spent half the night running all over the Lower Mainland looking for coconut milk and you don't remember?"
"I don't have a cat." Jennifer replied simply.
Stephen paused.
"Sorry." His voice was hollow, distant. "I - I think I've got the wrong number."
* * *
Nine was some guy named Andrew.
One left.
As he dialled the now familiar string of nine digits, he froze, eye falling on the matchbook yet again.
Was that seven really a seven?
Or was that seven a one?
His internal clock screamed that he only had two minutes left, and that he should just abandon this quest and get the hell out of here before he found himself on the wrong end of something that he'd rather not be on the right end of, much less the wrong end, but muscle memory dialled the last three digits, and before he could move, there was the phone ringing in his ear.
"Hello?"
"Is - is Jennifer there?"
The phone was unceremoniously dropped on a desk with an hollow clatter. He paced on the short tether of his phone cord, fidgeting.
The phone was picked up.
That voice. That perfect, lilting, breathy voice, with the little question at the end, licking up. "Hello?"
"Jennifer?" Stephen nearly dropped the phone, taking one step too far past the length of the phone cord. "Jennifer?"
"Hi! Who's this?"
"Uh … Stephen? From the other night?"
"Stephen! I was hoping you'd call! Did you want to come by?"
"Yes." He sighed emphatically. "I've got to get away from this guy - I couldn't make out the last digit in your phone number, and …"
"Oh my God." She laughed breathlessly, a falling cadence of giggles. "Did you - did you dial 686-3782?"
"Yes."
"That's just Randall. He hit on you? He does that to people if he doesn't recognize the number. He's harmless. He's in my watercolour class."
Slumping up against the wall, Stephen sighed with relief.
"How about I come down there and get you? I'll be there in two shakes."
"Wait!"
"What?"
"What's your last name?" he asked desperately. "In - in case I lose you again."
"Demore. Jennifer Demore."
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~Sasa
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~Sasa
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heh.
Re: heh.
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I know you've said you don't want everything you write to be comedy, but I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. It's not all comedy. It's just life, and you have a singular talent for highlighting the amusing irony and absurdity inherent in life, even while serious, poignant, and even tragic things are going on. It's a mark of a good storyteller. And it demonstrates how much you love your characters. You are a kind and compassionate small god.
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this is hilarious. i love the variety of people who've essentially got the same number. (and of course, Randall and "seven" cracked me up. poor, poor determined Stephen...)
The curve of her face bathed in the blue light of the Vancouver transit buses as they searched the late night mini-marts of the Lower Mainland for coconut milk.
i really love that sentence. thought you should know.
anyway, i enjoyed reading this. ^__^
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