A stupid old telephone

Bob spoke in an impossibly soft voice, barely just barely above a whisper.  It was obnoxious.  Where did he pick up this affectation?  Did he think it meant well bred?  He must have read about it in the few books he had read in his life.  He spoke so softly that I had to lean in when speaking to him in order to hear.  It was an intimate tone, as if he were imparting gems not for general ears, or telling me secrets in a conspiratorial hush, confiding great and interesting information.  Over the phone he spoke even softer, so much that I grew to dislike speaking on the telephone with him.  He made me feel like I had bad hearing, that I needed a new telephone and finally, that he needed a new telephone.

"There's something wrong with your phone," I said in a crabby tone.  I knew I could hear and converse normally with other friends on my phone.  With him, I was always saying, "What?"  and "Can you repeat that?"  and "Say it again?"  and "Bob, I can't hear you."  Aggravation set in.  I began to feel crabby every time it was him on the phone.

"Oh, it's this phone," he said, louder.  But then soft again, "We brought it with us and we need new batteries for it and can't find them here so we're having them sent from the States."

"Why don't you just buy a new one for God's sake," I said.  "Telmex sells Siemens and Panasonic.  They're cheap and they're good." I had no patience for a gringo who wouldn't spring $30 for a local phone, and worse, for gringos who sent to the U.S. for batteries.  Those batteries could be found here, everything could be found here, but I didn't want to offer to go on the hunt. 

"No, we like our phone," he said and I just shrugged, getting more aggravated every time he phoned.  At first I was polite and then I would growl, "You have to speak up."  He phoned at least four times a day, sometimes as early as 8:00.  The next call was around 11:00 when he was pouring his first drink of the day.  He was lonely, shut up in the house whilst Tommy roamed the streets of Merida, looking for deals, scams and adventure.  I was Bob's only friend, his only link to the outside world. 

I looked at their phone when I was over there for one of our gatherings.  It was an old, beat up thing, nothing special, bigger than it should be because it was so old.  Ridiculous.  Why the heck were they obsessed about finding batteries for it.  People and their quirks.  

It was when they skipped town that I understood they took the phone with them.  They traveled with nothing but their few Hawaiian shirts and bermudas each, the two dogs, Uncle John and this phone.  The phone was a diary of their past wrongdoings.  It had caller ID, hence the number of every person they had ever spoken to on a regular basis.  This was the way they screened calls from family, hurt parties, victims, enemies, the police.  If I ever did find their new telephone number in Belize and tried calling them, they would see my name come up and not answer.  That's why the phone was so valuable.  It insured their privacy.   It was how they left people behind, weeding them out of their life, staying forever out of touch, unfindable.

Now I have come to understand that that Bob's soft voice was a control thing.  It made you Pay Attention. To Him.  He craved attention since he was the housewife, home scrubbing floors.  He spoke extra softly on the phone so as not to be heard by Tommy or Uncle John.  Clearly they each had their secrets from each other.  Everyone was suspecting the other of selling out, giving way, giving up.  Bob also spoke softly because had no voice in the goings on, he was a captive of Tommy's schemes in order that they eat and live.  

Bob's soft demeanor was in exact opposite to Tommy who couldn't manage anything other than a shout at all times for all occasions.  He literally could not speak in a normal, civilized tone of voice.  So, one whispered, the other shouted, each in response to the other.  A dance of odds in a minor key.