Milkrun

My mind is blank. I have no idea what to say. Beetlejuice, beetlejuice? I stare at the receiver and hang up.

My fault. I should have known to be prepared. Where’s my red felt pen? Okay, let’s keep it simple.

Hello, Jonathan. This is Jacquelyn.

Too formal.

Hi, Jon, it’s Jack.

Too close. We’re not even phone-acquainted yet. And what if he thinks I’m a guy?

Fifteen minutes pass and I’m still struggling.

“Your bathroom looks great! I’m impressed!” Sam calls out, interrupting my concentration. “Jackie, where are you?”

“In my room.”

“What are you doing?” She enters tentatively, as if expecting something alive to jump out of my overfilled laundry basket and attack her.

“Composing.” I outline the situation for her.

“Okay,” she says. “How about this. Hi, Jonathan, it’s Jackie returning your message. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant. What comes after ‘message’ again? Say it slowly so I can write it down.”

“You’re a nut.”

“Never mind. I remember.”

“Don’t forget to block your number.”

“Why?”

“What if he has call display? You already hung up once. It’ll look funny if it says your name twice with only one message.”

“Soooo clever! You’d be single-girl extraordinaire.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

I pre-dial the code to withhold my number, then re-dial Jonathan’s. Sam holds my other hand for moral support.

“Hi. This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.”

Trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible, I read my scrawled message and carefully place the phone back on the receiver.

Now all I have to do is wait.

Hmm, hmm, hmm.

How am I going to wait all day?

How is he supposed to pick me up for our picnic and see my clean bathroom if he doesn’t call me back?

“What should I do all day, Sam? What are you doing all day?”

“Correcting some homework.”

“You give homework to fourth-graders? That’s mean.”

“I have to give a little homework.”

“Wanna go shopping?”

“I can’t. I’m broke.”

“Yeah, so am I. So what’s your point?”

“I find window-shopping depressing.”

Oh. Oh, well. I’ll just watch TV then. Jonathan will call back soon.

Six o’clock. No Jonathan.

Seven o’clock. I’m sure he’s just out for the afternoon.

Eight o’clock. He just got home now. He’s turning on the TV. Getting ready to watch a new episode of The Simpsons.

It’s the last scene. Any minute now.

It’s over. Any second now the phone is going to ring. Any second now. C’mon, phone, don’t be shy.

It’s eleven and I’m not waiting anymore. I detest Jonathan Gradinger; he obviously met someone else tonight, fell in love, and forgot all about me. No one will ever love me again. My days will consist of work, my nights will consist of TV, and I will spend Saturday nights from here on at the movies—alone.

And so I go to bed—alone.

The next day at work I try to proofread a manuscript, but every time I get to the end of a paragraph I call in for my messages. “No new messages,” the anal recorded bitch says.

I get home feeling pathetic. But what’s this? From the doorway I see the flashing red light. I leave my shoes on—I mustn’t waste any time!—even though I know Sam will shoot me. Please don’t be Janie, please don’t be Janie, please don’t be—“Hi, Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger again. Give me a shout back. My work number is 555-9478. My work number is 555-9478.”

No waiting this time, no bathroom cleaning, and no red ink preparation. I don’t care if my bed isn’t made, I’m calling him back now.

“Dartmouth Clinic,” a woman says.

“Hi, can I speak to Dr. Gradinger please?”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Jackie.” I’m still not crazy about the repeating everything on the answering machine thing. Half the point of the recorded message is so you can listen to it again if you need to. Or again and again and again like I might want to do with this one.