About 425 words

Venisia Gonzalez
Torrance, CA 90505
Email: venisaiagonzalez@hotmail.com

The Paper Dilemma

By Venisia Gonzalez

It amazes me that there are things we remember and things we don’t. By now you’d assume I

have it all figured out, but I don’t. Do I even bother answering? It’s the same voice. It always is,

telling me what I can’t remember. F**k it, I’ll answer.

“Hello?”

“I know what you did,” says the voice on the other end of the phone and hangs up.

Two weeks, two damn weeks this has been going on. Out of nowhere each morning that damn

phone call. How did they get my number? At first I figured a joke, perhaps one of my buddies

with nothing better to do. When I mentioned it over dinner to the guys after three phone call in,

they all laughed and said no.

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“What did you do?” asked Mark trying to contain his laughter.

“How the hell do I know?”

“So, that’s all they say? ‘I know what you did?’” Steve asked.

“Yes, I told you and then hangs up.”

“You sure it’s not your ex?”

“Mark, I think I’d recognize Samantha’s voice.”

“What about the blonde from the coffee shop?” asked Steve.

“Jackie? No, she’s into females; plus, how would she have my number?”

“Maybe you should chill out on the booze and women.”

“Are you serious, Mark? You of all people telling me to chill out?”

“Well, think about it. For the past few days you’ve been getting weird phone calls and every

night you’re out drinking.”

Maybe the guys were right. I hadn’t had a sip tonight of the smooth nectar that would set me

on fire. In the early morning hours, my guy at the shop wondered if I was ill. A bottle of Jack

was my typical purchase, but not last night or today. Today it was just the Wall Street Journal.

That voice, definitely female but one I can’t exactly place. In the lobby of my apartment

building, I held the door open for the superintendent’s mother. She’s frail, walks slow, barely

says a word, but always gives me a dirty look. Perhaps it’s all the noise I make coming in so late

when I drink.

“Is that today’s paper?” she asked.

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“Huh? Oh this? Yes, but it’s the Wall Street Journal.”

“I thought as much, surprised to see you with your own copy.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said –”

“I know what you said. What did you mean by ‘your own copy?’”

“You’re always taking my subscription when you stumble in all liquored up. I’ve been telling

you for two weeks now!”

The End.