Love in the Time of Landlines

Jacob ran his finger around the rotary dial for eight clicks.

The last digit in her phone number.

The magic figure that would connect him to her voice.

He stopped at the finger guard, ceased breathing, and let go.

Click, click, click, click, click, click, click . . .

SLAM!

Breath flooded back into his lungs so fast it made his head spin. His heart was beating faster than the clicking dial. Sweat dripped from his forehead and onto the notepad on his dad’s desk.

Three attempts. Three strikes.

“Come on, J,” he said. “You can do this.”

The door to the study swung open. Jacob grabbed his notepad and stuffed it into the pocket of his new Stussy pants.

His mom narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing!”

She walked slowly toward the desk, head cocked, eyes fixed on her son. “Don’t lie to me. What are you up to Jacob Barker?”

Jacob’s stomach joined the internal organ revolt, flipping up to the back of his throat. He cast his eyes desperately across the desk for a plausible lie and landed on his Sony Discman. “I just wanted to listen to some music.”

His mom crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “In your dad’s study?”

“It’s quieter in here.”

“Which might be plausible if you didn’t listen to that thing so loud, you could be on a runway and not know you were about to squashed by a jumbo jet.”

“That’s a lovely way to speak to your son.”

She smiled, leaned over the desk and pinched his cheek. “So, who is she?”

Jacob was caught between blinding panic and desperate relief. Thirteen-year-old boys didn’t go to their moms for relationship advice. That would be like asking your football coach to teach you how to make homemade soap. Weird and disconcerting.

On the other hand, it was surprisingly relieving to know he could unburden himself of the greatest anxiety any person had ever faced since the beginning of time simply by telling her what he was doing.

But his teenage instincts weren’t ready to surrender just yet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She put her hands on her hips.

That’s when he knew he was beaten.

“Your Discman is out of arm’s reach and you don’t have your headphones plugged in. The phone, however, is right in front of you.” She leaned over again and wiped his forehead. “And you’re sweating like your dad on the night he proposed.”

“Gross, mom.”

“What’s her name?”

Jacob sighed; a mixture of defeat and exhilaration at the opportunity to speak it out loud. “Tracey Chapman.”

His mom screwed up her face. “The singer?”

“Different spelling.”

“Right. Kind of weird, though.”

“She doesn’t care. She’s too sophisticated to worry about stuff like that.”

His mom bit her bottom lip and made a ridiculous cooing sound. “Oh, sweetie, you really like her.”

Jacob smiled. “She’s really cool, Mom. She listens to The Beatles.”

“Does she? Cool and sophisticated, indeed.”

“And she plays the piano.”

“Sounds like the perfect girl. How did the phone call go?”

“I haven’t got through yet.”

His mom hummed, nodded slowly, and sat on the edge of the desk. “Haven’t got through, or haven’t tried?”

“I nearly made it on my last go.”

“Is that why you chose the old phone?”

“Yeah, the new one with the buttons doesn’t give you enough time to back out before it connects.”

His mom laughed. “Want me to dial?”

“No way.”

She grinned. “Or I could just sit here and coach you through the call. You know, Cyrano de Bergerac style.”

“I don’t know who that is, and that’s never going to happen.”

She laughed again, stood up, kissed her fingertips and placed them gently on top of his head. “One to make you brave.”

When she was gone, Jacob took out his notepad, placed it next to the phone and ran his eyes over the conversation starters he’d written with his best friend, Ted. Despite his complete lack of any track record speaking with the opposite sex, Ted had been adamant that Jacob needed to talk about “stuff girls like.” When Jacob pressed him for further details, Ted responded: “You know, music and clothes and books.”

It didn’t seem like the most insightful advice, but Jacob had followed it, nonetheless, and was now armed with a list of “stuff girls like”. Thankfully, he already knew about Tracey’s love of The Beatles from the sticker on her math folder. He was less sure on the topics of clothes and books, but thought he had enough to get him through.

Jacob picked up the handset, closed his eyes, and whispered: “One to make you brave.”

He turned the dial to the first number, then the next and the next, all the way to the life-changing number eight. He let the wheel turn back, and it felt like the handset was being dragged out of his grip and back to the cradle by some invisible force. He fought it hard, squeezing until his wrist ached and his hand began to shake.

The ringing started.

Jacob tried to stop his hand from shaking but it was like telling a thirsty dog to put its tongue back into its mouth.

Three rings, four rings, five rings.

She wasn’t home. His hand steadied.

The ringing stopped abruptly.

“Thomas Chapman speaking.”

Jacob froze. It was the old man. He should have been prepared for this. Ted had let him down!

“Hello,” Tracey’s dad growled. “Is someone there?”

“Um, hello, Mr. Chapman. My name is Jacob Barker and I was hoping to speak to Tracey.” Jacob could hear the terror in every syllable; his voice as high and warbled as a squawking baby bird.

“Barker, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oh no. What was he doing?! This wasn’t the army!

“Hmmm, I used to know a Barker. Edmund Barker the Third. Any relation?”

“No, sir.”

“We called him Woofer. Or Mad Dog when he was angry. What do they call you?”

“Um, just Jacob, sir.”

“Right. And you want to talk to Tracey, do you?”

“Yes, please.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Jacob’s hand started shaking again. And his leg. And his eyelids. What was he supposed to do? Have the conversation with her dad first? Stage a coughing fit? Fake vomit and hang up? None of those options would help him win Tracey over. He scanned his notes. “I was going to talk about The Beatles and my new Doc Martens boots and the book The Outsiders.”

Tracey’s dad grunted. “Music and clothes and books. Good conversation topics, son.”

Ted’s a genius.

Jacob heard the old man call out Tracey’s name and announce that there was some kid on the phone for her. He was hoping he might have been announced by his name given they’d just gone through the whole Woofer and Mad Dog routine. Not enough, apparently.

The phone crackled with static as Tracey’s footsteps approached. For a moment, Jacob was completely calm. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He was about to talk to Tracey Chapman.

“Hello,” she said, her voice sending a bolt of adrenalin through his body.

“Hi, Tracey. It’s Jacob Barker from school.”

He smiled. This was real. They were actually going to have a conversation about music and clothes and books.

There was a long pause before Tracey spoke. And when she did, her voice was as beautiful and devastating as an erupting volcano. “I’m sorry, who?”