He steps off the train. He looks around expecting her to be there. She said she would meet him. It is why he came. She does not answer her phone. As the night approaches, he gets a text message, waits patiently for the next train back to where he started.
Appeared in 50 Word Stories, February 2023
http://fiftywordstories.com/2023/02/08/lou-faber-one-way-ticket/
He said he sent God an email
but got no response until, after three days,
he got a bounce back saying the account
had been closed for lack of payment.
A few hours on the internet yielded
a heavenly website, and after another hour
digging down into the site map, he found
a tiny hot link to the Contact Us page,
and there a phone number he
immediately called. What could be better
than asking God directly, he figured.
He should have known better, and did
when on the third ring the phone was answered
and the recording began, “For Jewish, Press 1;
for Catholic and most Protestants, Press 2;
for Muslims, Press 3; For atheists
and non-believers, Press 4.
He pressed two and was told the office
was only open for calls on Sunday from 6 AM
until noon, and occasional Saturday afternoons.
Unsatisfied he called back, pressed 1 and learned
the phone would only be answered Friday night or
Saturday, though he doubted anyone worked then.
He tried 4 on the next call and was transferred
to a line that seemed to be answered in Norwegian
by someone who he thought said was in the branch
office in Stjordal in Nord-Trondelag.
The afternoon was growing short
and he realized he didn’t really care
about the answer, wasn’t sure
he’d believe it anyway.
First appeared in Dipity Online Literary, February 2023
https://www.vevnaforrow.com/post/heaven-must-wait-by-louis-faber
NOTE: Jazz K, the editor did an amazing job with her treatment of the poem. It is worth a visit for that alone.
Stepping into the hotel, it was like being dropped into a truly alien world. Nothing shiny, no excess of glass and marble. A simple dark wooden reception desk, a clerk in black with a white vest. A bow upon approaching. Your room is simple, no internet, a single light on a small desk. A tatami mat in the corner. A hard wired phone. And you know, in the distance, the Daibutsu awaits you in the morning. Here there is no CNN International, nothing that isn’t Japanese. Your computer is essentially useless, a fax machine in the office for emergencies. And the nearest business center, sorry closed, is in the city. The Internet is coming soon, they promise . But on your morning run, as you catch your breath on the step outside the Todai-ji Daibutsu-den, a deer comes up to you and licks your face and you know this morning Daibutsu is smiling.
It will be easy, he says, you just
fish a wire down inside the wall,
find the hole you cut, put in
the box and wire it up,
no big deal at all, easy really.
She grimaced immediately,
then turned away from him to sigh,
for she knew that any time a man
decided something was easy,
no big deal, a day or more was gone.
He was convinced he could
do the job simply, save money
with his efforts and at first
it seemed to go well enough,
but that was only at first of course.
Three hours later, little progress
made, but much mess created
she smiled, stroked his back,
handed him his cell phone
and the electricians business card.
At some point in each call
to a customer service representative,
or worse still technical assistance
which is a painful oxymoron
in and of itself, I pause and wonder
how the conversation might go
if I could reach through
the ether of the phone
and grab the script.
Would the voice on the other end
suddenly become attached
to a person, ripped
from its computer home?
Would that person engage
in pleasantries for a bit
before telling me that I should
go to the website where
I will inevitably learn that
there is nothing they can
or will do for me? And why
is a call to my local doctor
garbled, but my computer
voice in India is crisp, clear
if never fully intelligible?
We sit in the waiting room,
for we have grown accustomed
to waiting for so many things,
not wanting to rush a life that
appears ever more finite in duration.
We stare at our phones, struggling
to see, to help bide the time, an irony
not lost for we are here because
our vision is problematic or worse.
Erasmus said the one-eyed man
is King in the land of the blind,
and many here hope for that
period of regency before they, too
become common citizens
of a land they hoped never to see.
We live in the cell phone age
and there are hidden advantages
that the young, exchanging
last year’s model for this,
will never fully understand
until they, too, are much older.
With the push of a button,
held in for five seconds,
the phone will go off at night,
and since no one any longer
has a landline, you are assured
that no one will drag you
from sleep to announce
they are able to extend
the warranty on a car you
sold two years ago,
or to say that a friend
or relative has died,
and denying death night hours
is the closest thing
you can do to feel that you
are in control of anything.
The phone is again ringing,
and the odds say it is someone
who wants to extend my warranty
on the car I no longer own,
or to lower my credit card interest
though I never carry a balance,
or to help me fix my computer if I
just hand over control to them.
I won’t answer this time, almost
never do unless I know the caller
and want to speak to them,
robocalls, despised as they are
do provide a convenient excuse
not to speak to the long lost friend
who only needs a short term loan,
or the charity always wanting more.
Many want the government to act,
to ban or limit these calls, and I
agree, but be prepared to answer
when I call about the money you promised.
You called again this morning, and,
as usual, long before I was awake.
You left no message, but you never do,
and I do wish you’d stay in one place
just for a while, it would make finding
you to speak with you much easier.
This morning you were in Azerbaijan,
and last week you called from Belarus.
Later today you called from New York
and this time actually left a message,
but, of course, you left it in Mandarin
despite my repeated requests you not do so.
I’m sure you will call again tomorrow,
or if not, the next day, and I’ll be interested
in knowing where you are, but to save you time,
please rest assured that I will not be able
to help you recover that vast sum of money,
or send you, the cousin I’ve never heard of, the funds
you need to get out of jail or the hospital,
but feel free to call anyway and, do have a nice day
It’s Sunday, so I know, before long
I will have the nagging thought
that I should call my mother.
I’ve had this thought for years,
once acted upon it with regularity,
listened patiently for her weekly
list of things I needed to help her with,
since I never visited to do the work
with her standing over my shoulder.
I stopped the calls four years ago
because the dead make few demands,
and she didn’t bother to answer
except in the darkest hour
of my dreams.
an old writer and his words 