Change Your Phone Number, Change Your Life
“Look at this: ‘Serious credit recovery company seeks hard-working strong, silent types. Preferably former bodybuilders with proven experience with references. Work paid daily plus results-related percentage’.”
“Stop talking bull. Give me that, let me see.” I rip the newspaper from her hands but, alas, she is telling the truth – that’s exactly what it says. “Wait a minute, you mean that no one checks these ads before they go to print? Really?”
“Apparently not. And anyway, what do they care? It’s a free country.”
“Terry, seriously, do you think people actually answer these?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind handling the interviews for them.”
“That’s because you’re a horrible woman!” I laugh, batting her over the shoulders with the newspaper. She tries to protect herself with a cushion, but she’s too slow to parry.
She dropped by after work and we locked ourselves in my room with a couple of beers, turned up the stereo, took off our shoes and for more than an hour we’ve been sifting through advertisements, newspapers and online magazines hoping that something will jump out to save me from destitution.
“Have you seen this one?” she asks suddenly, handing me a flyer.
“Auditions,” I read. “What is it?”
“For a holiday resort. Entertainment, stuff like that.”
“‘The photogenic girls of the Monkey Club are waiting for you’?” I read aloud. “I don’t think that’s my kind of thing.”
“Don’t you feel photogenic?” she teases.
“I don’t even know what ‘photogenic’ means!”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to The Chronicle?”
“It’s too late now.”
“It isn’t too late. I know you didn’t want me to, but I talked to Tom anyway.”
“Terry!”
“He’s waiting for you with open arms and I think he’s also given Dave what for, because there were some seriously bad vibes in the office.”
“Damn it, Terry, I asked you not to…”
“Yes, I know, but you’ve invested so much in that job. Tell me why you have to end up behind some accountant’s desk, or, worse, serving beers in some bar? Not that there is anything wrong with that, but your dream is to become a journalist, not to answer the phone for someone.”
“Because at least I would be respected as a person.”
“‘Seeking driver for weekend trips. Attractive appearance a must, friendly, generous, cheerful. Send full body photo to…’” she says, picking one at random.
“Terry, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“I’m doing it for your good.”
“Then listen to me, because my good cannot include Dave Callaghan.”
“It’s only working in the same building.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he told me to give up on Curvy and I don’t want to, Terry.”
“It’s not up to him to decide. I told you that Tom…”
“Terry, no,” I say, trying to shut down the discussion. “Maybe it was destiny that I left, have you thought about that? Let’s face it, what are the chances of one of my articles ever appearing on the front page of The Chronicle?”
“You managed it with Curvy.”
“Come on, that’s a tiny piece at the bottom of the page that nobody’s going to read.”
“It’s a start.”
“No, it’s not a start. It’s just a series of lucky coincidences that will never happen again.”
“You can’t know that.”
“But as I can’t be sure it’s not true, I’m looking for something else. If I’m still struggling to make a name for myself there after three years then maybe that means it just wasn’t meant to happen,” I say, trying to be objective, and then go back to sifting through the ads with a knot in my stomach and a heavy heart. I didn’t want to leave, and now that I no longer have The Chronicle I feel completely disorientated, but I try to convince myself that it’s just a question of changing my habits and that sooner or later that constant feeling of having lost everything will go away.
“Sam…”
“What is it?”
“Are you dating that guy now?” she says, trying to disguise her nosiness as a casual question.
“Who? Al?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Something like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s not from San Francisco and he’s only here at the moment for the competition, so I don’t know what’ll happen when it’s all over.”
“Have you tried asking him?”
“That seems a little premature.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” she agrees, draining her Bud. “You know,” she laughs, “when you told me you had passed the selections I almost fell out of my chair.”
“I can believe it.”
“That photo has done the rounds of the whole newsroom. You could have told me, though…” she concludes, reprovingly.
“You’re right,” I nod apologetically. “I just… I couldn’t.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs. “Hey, look at this! ‘Seeking private masseuse for weekends. Maximum discretion’ – it’s perfect!” She slaps the newspaper with her hand euphorically.
“Wow, yeah!” I say, playing along. “My secret dream! How did you know?”
“Hey, if you’re not going to go for it, I am!”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Sure I would. You’re about to become a millionaire model, let us poor mortals have our pathetic little pleasures!”
The evening goes on like that, more or less – stupid kidding around and talking about life in the office. And even if it doesn’t really help me solve my problems or find a job, at least it puts a smile back on my face. At midnight, though, we say goodbye: Terry has to go, because she can’t run the risk of getting to work late tomorrow and I can barely keep my eyes open any more. I wait with her on the pavement until the taxi arrives and then wait for it to turn the corner before I go back inside. My folks are out tonight and the house is strangely silent. The TV is off and Samson is sleeping curled up in an armchair. I close the front door, remembering to leave the keys under the doormat, then climb the stairs on tiptoes so as not to disturb the quiet of the house and return to my bedroom without turning on the light. I’m so tired that I only just manage to put on my pyjamas and dive under the blankets. And like every night, before falling asleep I set the alarm clock on my phone. It’s an almost instinctive gesture, but tonight is different because I don’t actually need to wake up early tomorrow. I no longer have a job to wake up for, and when the thought occurs to me, I freeze and sit there thinking about it. If I don’t set it, it’s a bit like saying that I’m giving up. But if I do, I’m saying that this is just a transient phase that is soon going to lead me to some new, happier life. Though both options are valid, the winner is the third option, which states – and I’m inclined to believe it – that for the moment I’m just terribly tired and that a day off can only do me good, so I decide to put my smartphone on charge without worrying about the time. I take the charger out of the drawer and plug it in, but just as I’m putting it down next to the lamp, I realise that there are two unread messages. The first is from Al, wishing me good night. The second is…
“Dave…” and I open it with trembling fingers.
Sam, please, I have to talk to you. You’re making a huge mistake. Call me.
And I… For a moment I was almost hoping that… Why do I fall for it every time?
“Goodbye, Dave.”
I switch off everything: the light, the phone, my heart.
Tomorrow I’m changing my life, I’m changing my job – but above all, I’m changing my phone number.