Page 7 of Roma King
“No. I don’t. I want to speak with someone who takes care of payphones. Specifically, the public payphone on the corner of Albertson and Delancy.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure which department would deal with that. First, can you tell me which city you’re in?”
I roll my eyes. Bitch knows exactly which city I was calling from, the information’s probably provided to her on a readout before she even picks up my call, but I play ball. “I’m in Spokane.”
“All right, ma’am. If you could please hold, I’ll try and figure out who I need to put you in touch with.”
I hold for three minutes, Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’ blasting down my ear while I wait. The song starts over again and has reached the second chorus when the agent returns. “Can I ask what the issue is please, ma’am? I’m still just trying to figure out who can best help you.”
“There is something wrong with the payphone,” I say slowly. This is already tiring. I have to get back to my desk in ten minutes. “It keeps ringing. The box is right outside my window, and it’s keeping me up all night. I need someone to come take a look at it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’ll transfer you to someone in our technical department. Maybe they’ll be able to figure this out for you.”
I’m placed back on hold before I can object, and Ed’s voice begins singing about a woman’s curves all over again. Perfect. This is just perfect. I do manage to finish my sandwich, however, and I’ve also emptied my bottle of water by the time the song abruptly halts and a gruff male voice says, “Cyscom appointments. This is Paul. How can I help you?”
I explain my problem to him, and he makes bored grunting sounds, interjecting them into the conversation, presumably to let me know he’s still listening, as I complete my run down of the situation at hand.
“Well,Miss…?”
“Llewelyn.”
“Well, Miss Llewelyn. I don’t normally handle issues with landlines or public payphones but let me see if I can take a look. Our systems all changed recently. I don’t know if I can even still see the locations and log records in your area.”
Typical. Just fucking typical. Paul’s fingers fly over the keyboard as he works, and he throws in the odd grunt every now and then—I can picture a husky dude in front of a computer, slurping coffee from a mug and scratching his belly as he slowly alternates between his screens, frowning at the information he sees there.
“Okay. I’ve managed to log onto the system but it’s saying the pubic payphone at the location you’ve given me is no longer active.”
“Itisactive. Why would I be calling to complain about it ringing if it wasn’t active?”
“You say you’ve heard it ringing?”
“Yes. Repeatedly. Every night for the past four nights.”
“You’re sure it’s not just the wind?”
“How couldthe windbe making a telephone ring for hours every night?”
“Okay.” Paul goes quiet. Seems he’s thinking very deeply about this. “Approximately what time has the phone’s been ringing each night?”
“It varies. It’s usually about half an hour before I go to bed. It was two thirty in the morning the first night. Then midnight on Wednesday, and Thursday, too. Last night, it started at one, and it didn’t stop until five am.” I’d been ready to go down there and smash the thing into pieces with a Louisville Slugger by that point.
“Right.”
There’s something about the way Paul says that word that makes me sit up straighter and narrow my eyes. “I need you to block whoever it is that keeps calling the payphone,” I demand.
“Can’t do that, ma’am. Not unless it’s a nuisance caller.”
“That’s exactly what this person is. A nuisance.”
His fingers fire rapidly on his keyboard. “Blocking those kinds of callers is pointless. They just call the number from a different phone. In any case, I’ve been looking at the records for the payphone in question, Ms. Llewelyn, and I can’t see any incoming calls.”
“For last night?”
“At all. For the last seven weeks. The last incoming call to that phone was on Monday, August twentieth.”
I prepare to tell Paul that he’s completely useless at his job and that he’s wrong, but I catch myself. The guy has no reason to lie. And I stare at call logs all day long. They’re pretty difficult to misinterpret, being simple lists of numbers, dates and times. There’s no real way to get them wrong. “I don’t understand how that can be true, though.” I strain to keep my voice even. “I swear, the phone has been ringing. Every night. I’ve been lying in bed, listening to it ring since Tuesday.”
“Do you live in the apartment block on that corner there?”
