A Call in the Night

I forgot how to use my voice.

Again.

How do throats even work? God... I think you just have to open it and squeeze something out, right?

No! You're gonna puke.

Fuck! Every single time.

They're looking...

Every single time I have to recite a poem in front of people, my throat closes up.

They're waiting...

Oh God! It's like a frigging dam. The words are building up, increasing pressure against it, rolling on top of each other in wrathful waves; they'll wash away everything... From every hole of me.

I cannot let this happen.

Just close your eyes and breathe...

Breathe...

Breached, the dam surrenders, and the rehearsed waves pour out with a strength that appears borrowed. Borrowed from someone more confident, more performative...

...straight-out-better.

It flows.

"I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree." My voice booms in the classroom. It soars and rolls, and echoes against the empty walls.

I'm pretty good at reading poetry.

"A tree whose hungry mouth is prest..."

I control gravitas, deliver emphasis, and raise the pathos: it's all about conveying feelings.

That's just the trick with reading poetry out loud: Open your heart and care.

Commit to those words and be their author, advocate, and lover.

"...against the earth’s sweet flowing breast."

"He said breast," Chad whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear. Air escapes his mouth on the last word: the poorly concealed exaggeration of a laugh.

Why doesn't she say anything?

"A tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray."

Not even a mention of God is austere enough to contain the giggles that are rippling through the classroom.

Concentric circles of cruel joy, trapped in this stagnant human puddle.

"A tree that may in Summer wear a nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; who intimately lives with rain."

"Dude's a dendrophile!" Chad squeals.

Kilmer or us?

He points at me, but I'm not the one who wrote this!

Walloping laughter splashes throughout the classroom.

All the blood has drained from my body and gathered inside my cheeks; I'm gonna pass out.

Hold it together, dumbass!

Every cell in my body screams that I should flee, hide in the bathroom, come back after everyone has graduated, and start over.

But the dam is broken; those words will be released. I hear my voice carry on through the power of rehearsal.

"Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."

"Chad has a very valid point! —Professor Lewis won't even dismiss me before starting the discussion. — Notice the abundance of sexual symbolism and how the author completely disregarded the masculine metaphors traditionally associated with trees. This overtly sexualized tree is tame and feminine. The dirty fantasy of a mind twisted by the patriarchal propaganda."

Oh God. I didn't mean any of this.

I want to defend myself, but the river of rehearsal is now dry.

No sound escapes my mouth as my gaze darts back and forth over the faces of my classmates.

They're enjoying your pain.

Laughter and laughter. Tucker is the weirdo again. Again. Again!

Why on earth did you pick that poem?

"Is this how you feel about trees, Tucker?" The professor shines the beam of inquisition in my face. She says something else, but her voice is completely swallowed by the monstrous laughter all around.

Can we sit down now? Please?

I don't think I can move ever again.

Chad's face is shaking, deformed by its cruel cackling. An abomination in a football jacket.

Everyone is pointing and screaming sexual profanities.

Everyone except...

...her.

Allie is staring at me.

Like the calm surface waters of an ocean so deep, its currents could make leviathans disappear.

I cannot quite get the emotion.

Such a haunting stare...

Driiiiiin!

The bell. Oh, thank God!

"Aren't you going to open the door?" Mom's voice is carried over like the smell of peach pie on Sunday morning.

Mom... in school?

"Sweetheart, aren't you going to open the door?"

I try to answer, but my mouth is too pasty with dried drool and darkness.

No, not the door, no.

It's the phone.

Why on earth did I think it was a good idea to set such an old-fashioned ringtone?

Because you never pick up the goddamn phone. Now it's too bothersome to ignore.

Of course.

God, I hate phone calls! Why can't people just write messages?

You never answer those either.

It's not my fault! There is just too much room for interpretation, too many misunderstandings, too many chances to offend people. I'm just too much of a weirdo.

Breathe...

What time is it even?

2 a.m.

Who the fuck even calls at this hour?

Check the caller ID, genius!

Thanks...

"Allie?" Her name escapes my dry mouth like the discharge of adrenaline that wakes me fully up. Properly up.

Pervert!

We haven't seen each other since high school. I still have her number saved after that group project we worked on together.

Never done anything with it, you coward!

Driiiiiin!

How many times did it ring already? It'll go to voicemail after five. Should I pick up?

"Oh hey, I was just dreaming about you." I start rehearsing while my finger hovers over the green button.

Put the phone down, you idiot! You're gonna freak her out! You can't say stuff like that to people!

Right, right. Then what?

You are not ready to talk now. Not to people in general, definitely not to her!

Of course.

Allie and high school...

High school wasn't the best place to be me, but Allie... so positive, so strong, and never made me feel like I was too much.

I wish I told her, but she always felt so out of reach, larger than life...

Driiiiiin!

Hey, snap out of it!

Right, right. Why is she calling me at 2 in the night? We haven't seen each other in — what day is it? — three years, seven months, and twenty days.

Yeah, tell her that, you weird stalker weirdo.

Of course not... But why is she calling me now?

Butt call.

Did she have my number on speed dial then?

No chance. Drunk call?

Why would she be thinking about me when drinking?

Maybe she noticed your feelings and wants to reciprocate.

Hahaha, right! Her status has been "single" for over a year — Stalker! — why now?

No.

It could only be one thing.

A prank call.

Yeah.

I feel the arid stones of disappointment settle in my stomach.

Wasn't there a class reunion we didn't go to? Like this weekend or something?

Of course! She must have reconnected with someone from class, like that Chad bastard, stayed up drinking and having fun together, and decided to prank the old nerd.

Driiiiiin!

Fuck them! I'm not picking up.

Good.

No, even better! I should pick up and tell her off!

And let her know you still have her number saved after all this time? Show yourself for the desperate weirdo stalker you are?

I'm not a stalker! People keep tabs on their old schoolmates all the time!

Right, right. Keep telling yourself that.

But wait... if she is drunk, or this is a prank, that's good. I'll just message her tomorrow.

How exactly is that good?

I'll be all "Sorry, I don't have your number. Who is this?" and she will feel super embarrassed and will have to come up with an excuse for why she called me this late at night.

And she can't say "butt call", or she'll have to admit having us on speed dial.

Exactly! Maybe she'll say she went to the reunion, started thinking about me, and didn't realize how late it was!

Then she will be the weird one, and I will be all sympathetic: "Don't worry about it, I do clumsy stuff all the time". Maybe even tell her I still have nightmares about high school to be relatable; we'll laugh together and I'll invite her for coffee.

She'll feel obliged to accept and... Boom!

A real connection! You bloody genius.

Driiiiiin! Click

There. It went to voicemail.

God, I can't wait for tomorrow!

Sleep, dude, sleep; so it comes sooner.

Thanks.

The cheerfulness in my own "Goodnight" feels bitter against my teeth as I exhale slowly and release my finger from the red button.

No sound.

No one else to call.

I listen for the distant roaming of cars outside my window. It's soothing. They don't care how late it is.

The empty screen, still warm against my hand, shows a furry cat in between all the icons.

It's not my cat, but it was prettier than the default background.

It's such an interesting device, a phone. So many possibilities, so many potential connections... I don't remember when I got my first phone anymore; it feels like a lifetime ago.

Someone else's lifetime.

Oh, the screen's light went out.

It saves battery. Smart device. So environmentally friendly.

I like that.

Now it's an empty dark brick, merging with the darkness around it.

Just like me.

My hands aren't shaking anymore.

They let the phone slip on the pillow, above the empty amber vial.

I can finally rest.

Author's Note: The character of "Professor Lewis" is inspired by Harper Lewis and her "An Apology to Trees", a witty and read-worthy dissection of Kilmer's classic.