May 24, 2010
My buddy, Angle Melt, has been burning up the phone lines lately. Same thing happens every time ol’ Angle has girl trouble or job trouble or just plain comes down with the gout: He calls and calls and calls me. Never takes my advice, never finds no peace, always ends up in a screaming match with yours truly…but whenever things take a tumble, Angle comes runnin’.
He’ll call me at all hours on both my phones, the cell phone and the land line. If I don’t pick up, he’ll just keep calling and hanging up before the machine can pick up…so the phone rings five times, then click, then rings five times, then click, till I’m about ready to go insane. If I try to tell him I’m in the middle of something, he’ll pitch his voice so low, he sounds like he’s in mortal despair and might succumb if I don’t drop what I’m doing. Five minutes later, he has disregarded every piece of advice or consolation I have to offer, and the two of us are embroiled in a screaming match.
If I take the phone off the hook, he’ll call the neighbors and ask them to tell me to open the line again. If I hang up on him, he’ll just keep dialing and calling till I pick up again. Once, I swear, I clipped the phone lines coming into the house, and he called the phone company to come and repair them. Next thing I know, it’s ringin’ ringin’ ringin’.
But I think he has finally crossed the line. Two nights ago, I went off on him. No more phone calls, I said. It’s counterproductive. Time to restore some boundaries once and for all. He seemed disappointed but shuffled his feet and nodded. Okey-doke, I get it. I thought the situation was resolved.
Silly me. Next morning, I wake up with surgical scars all over my chest. I start to freak out, and then my chest starts talkin’ to me. Good morning, it says. The voice is Angle’s. I’d like to talk about a few matters of import. For example, this fight I’ve been having with the township about the goat I just bought. They claim my property’s not zoned for farm animals, to which I say, take a look at humongous Mrs. Dishwaffle across the street! What should I do, pal?
Which is why I’m sittin’ here now with a gun to my head, finger flutterin’ on the trigger. All the while, Angle’s lunatic voice keeps jabberin’ from my chest cavity like the voice box implanted in some damn Betsy Wetsy talkin’ doll. Somethin’ about his enlarged prostate or maybe his encumbered probate. Doesn’t make much difference anymore.
