Dead Man's Cell Phone (5 page)

 

DWIGHT

Did you love my brother?

 

JEAN

I didn't know him well enough to love him.

DWIGHT

It kind of seems like you do.

 

JEAN

Were the two of you very close?

 

DWIGHT

We had our moments. Gordon wasn't always—easy.

 

JEAN

Tell me a story about him.

 

DWIGHT

One time Gordon made up a character named Mr. Big X and he said: I'll take you to meet Mr. Big X! I was really excited to meet Mr. Big X. But in order to meet him, Gordon wrapped me up in a blanket and pushed me down the stairs.

 

JEAN

You have any nice stories about Gordon?

 

DWIGHT

Yeah. They're just harder to remember, you know. No imprint. Like—one time we had dinner and—Gordon was nice to me—and—what kind of story is that . . .

 

JEAN

You crying?

 

DWIGHT

I'm okay.

JEAN

How's that braid coming?

 

DWIGHT

It's pretty good. I've never done a braid before.

JEAN

It's good. Only you did two parts, not three.

 

DWIGHT

Huh?

 

JEAN

Usually a braid has three parts. Two parts is more like a twist. But that's fine. I bet it's pretty from the back.

 

DWIGHT

It does look pretty. Here—let me show you—

Don't answer that.

 

JEAN

It could be—

DWIGHT

Don't get it. It'll take a message, okay?

 

JEAN

But I can't get Gordon's messages—I don't have his password! I'll never know who called—

 

DWIGHT

Their number—on the in-coming calls—will be saved. Okay?

 

JEAN

Okay.

GORDON

(To the audience)
I woke up that morning—the day I died—thinking I'd like a lobster bisque.

 

I showered. I had breakfast. Hermia has it timed so she finishes her cereal just as I begin mine. Something proud and untouchable about the way she eats her shredded wheat. A rebuke in the rhythm of her chewing, the curve of her back as she finishes her last bite, standing, washing out the bowl. Who cleans the bowl while they're chewing the last bite? She washes the bowl like this. Getting rid of all the unchewed bits. No respect for the discarded.

 

I ran to the subway in the rain. I didn't say good-bye. I didn't have an umbrella. I thought about going back for an umbrella, maybe giving Hermia an old-fashioned kiss on the cheek that would
soften her face, but I remembered the curve of her implacable back and I forged ahead in the rain, umbrella-less.

 

You know when people are so crushed together in the rain, in the city, so many people, that no one person needs an umbrella, because one umbrella covers three bodies? And everyone's yelling into their cell phones, and I'm thinking, where have all the phone booths gone? The phone booths are all dead. People are yammering into their phones and I hear fragments of lost love and hepatitis and I'm thinking, is there no privacy?
Is there no dignity?

 

I get onto the subway. A tomb for people's eyes. I believe that when people are in transit their souls are not in their bodies. It takes a couple minutes to catch up. Walking—horseback—that is the speed at which the soul can stay in the body during travel. So airports and subway stations are very similar to hell. People are vulnerable—disembodied—they're looking around for their souls while they get a shoe shine. That's when you bomb them. In transit. But I didn't know that then. I was on the subway buried in some advertisement for a dermatology office, thinking about the sale of a cornea. The way I'm talking now—this is hindsight. My mind went: dermatology—cornea—rain—umbrella—Hermia's a bitch—lobster bisque.

 

I wouldn't really say that I sell organs for a living. I connect people—see:
(Almost sung, as though Iran rhymed with bad)
A man in Iran needs money real bad but he doesn't need his own kidney. A woman in Sydney needs a new kidney but she doesn't need her own cash.

 

I put these two together. You're a sick person, you want to deal with red tape? You want to be put on hold—listen to bad music
on the phone for seven years while you wait for your organs to dry out—is that love? No. Is that compassion? No. I make people feel good about their new organs. I call it: compassionate obfuscation. There are parts enough to make everyone whole; it's just that the right parts are not yet in the right bodies. We need the right man to—redistribute. One umbrella covers three bodies.

 

Truth for its own sake—I've never understood the concept. Morality can be measured by results: how good do you make people feel? You make them feel good? Then you're a good man. You make people live longer? Great. Is it my job to stop executions in China? I don't have that power. What I
can
do, however, is make sure that these miserable fucks who die for no good reason
have
a reason—I make sure their organs go to someone who needs them.

 

There was this surgeon I knew who did organ extractions in China—a highly trained surgeon—he couldn't stand it after a while—political prisoners, not even dead yet, made him sick. Now he's a sushi chef in New Jersey. I showed up one day at his counter. I ate his hamachi—excellent. (I don't dip my sashimi in soy sauce. Sushi is for adults. You want to really taste your sushi, taste it. Don't drown it in soy sauce, that's for children.) I enjoyed my food in silence. I thanked him in Chinese. He looked a little startled. People assume he's Japanese. I said to him in Mandarin: you don't want people to know about your old line of work, neither do I. Left it at that. Ate my sushi. You can tell with tuna whether they slice it from the belly or from the tail end. He always gave me the belly. It's the good part.

 

But that day—the day I died—I didn't want to eat something that reminded me of body parts. I woke up in the morning wanting a lobster bisque. So I get off the subway, go to the café, the place
I always go. A familiar guy behind the counter, a giant, with really huge knuckles. I said, I'll have the lobster bisque. He said, sorry we're out, as though it was a casual, everyday thing to be out of lobster bisque on the day I was going to die, as though I could come back the following week. As though it were a friendly, careless matter—sorry, we're out.

 

So I said: did you have any ten minutes ago?

And the giant said, yes.

I said, is anyone at this restaurant currently eating a lobster bisque?

And the giant said, well yes.

Who?

And he pointed to a woman in the corner. A pale-ish woman, sort of nondescript.

So I say, I will purchase her bowl of soup.

What? He says. I take out my wallet, pull out a hundred.

Then I see it—she is tilting the bowl to the side to scrape out the last bite.

I watch it go into her little mouth, slow motion.

Son of a bitch, I say. I'll have lentil.

 

I'm used to getting what I want. But today is not my day. So I have the lentil.

 

Lentil soup is never that great. It's only ever serviceable. It doesn't really make your mouth water, does it, lentil soup? Something watery—something brown—and hot carrots. Like death. Serviceable, a little mushy and warm in the wrong places, not as bad as you'd think it's going to be, not as good, either.

 

Suddenly I feel my heart—compressing—like a terrible bird in my chest. And I think—I'm finally punished. Someone is going
to sell my heart to someone in Russia. Then I think—use your cell phone. Call your wife. Tell her to give you a decent burial, organs in tact. But the wife's not supposed to know you sell organs for a living. So just call the wife and say good-bye. But no—she doesn't love you enough to have the right tone of voice on your death bed. The kind of voice you'd like to hear—indescribably tender. A death-bed voice.

No longer holding it in—the things people hold back from each other—whole lives—most people give in at the last moment—but not Hermia, no—she'll be sealed up—she'll keep a little bit extra for herself—that last nugget of pride—she'll reserve it for her tin-can spine—so she'll have an extra half inch of height. That thing—that wedge, that cold wedge between—I can't call her. No. A disappointment. So call your mistress. Or mother. No—mother would say—what a way to die, Gordon, in a café? No, not mother. Dwight? A man doesn't call his brother on his deathbed—no—he wants a woman's voice—but the heart keeps on heaving itself up—out of my chest—into my mouth—and I'm thinking—that bitch over there ate all the lobster bisque, this is all her fault—and I look over at her, and she looks like an angel—not like a bitch at all—and I think—good—good—I'm glad she had the last bite—I'm glad.

Then I die.

 

 

DWIGHT

I was dreaming about you. And a letterpress. I dreamed you were the letter Z.

 

JEAN

Why Z?

 

DWIGHT

Two lines—us—connected by a diagonal. Z.

 

JEAN

Oh, Dwight.

 

DWIGHT

If we are ever parted, and can't recognize each other, because of death, or some other calamity—just say the letter Z—to me—it will be our password.

 

JEAN

Z.

 

DWIGHT

Let's never be parted. I don't need more than twelve hours to know you, Jean. Do you?

Tell me you don't. We exchanged little bits of our souls—I have a little of yours and you have a little of mine—like a torn jacket—you gave me one of your buttons.

I—I love you Jean.

Don't get that.

 

JEAN

It'll just take a second.
(To the phone)
Hello?
Are you sitting down?
This might come as a very great
shock to you.
But Gordon has passed away.

DWIGHT

Jean? Who's on the phone?

 

JEAN

I'm sorry, who is this?
(To Dwight)
a business colleague.
(
To the phone)
The funeral was yesterday.

Yes, it was a very nice service.
It was Catholic so it wasn't very personal—
I'm sorry—are you Catholic?
Oh, good—I mean—

 

DWIGHT

(Whispering)
Jean—come here . . .

JEAN

(To Dwight)
I'm on the phone!

(To the phone)
Yes, in-coming. Thank you, but if you want to offer condolences, the best thing would probably be to write to Hermia and Harriet Gottlieb.

Their address is 111 Shank Avenue.