hello operator

We've all got wheels to take ourselves away / We've got telephones to say what we can't say / We all got higher and higher every day... A lyric from the Flying Burrito Bros., a hippie country group from the late nineteen sixties. It's a simple passage from the song "Wheels," that I'd love to hear on a vinyl twelve inch. Lyrics and poetry can say the things we're searching for, but are often confined by rhyme, meter, and metaphor. A song or poem is not always literal, or always good if it is. One may open their heart through letter writing, but nothing opens up the pipes like the dialogue over a telephone.

It would be easy to tell of the obvious changes in telephone communication over the last several years. Speaking to someone in a coma since the nineteen eighties, a picture phone might take a little explanation. As would, the man on hands-free spasmodically speaking to no one as if schizophrenic, in the check out line. Or, the woman in an altercation in rush hour causing a pileup when she chucks her expendable track phone out the window. "That phone's gotta cost as much as her car! Right?"

Great moments in telephone technology abound. The telephone itself is evidence to support that if it can be conceived, it can be done. Think of all that's been done around a telephone. The two speakers stand line to line, dressed in black. With no one to see the way they tremble, they bravely exchange first I love yous. With fists clenched far from one another, they brazenly tear new assholes. With no tears to kiss away, they sever a love they can no longer face. The telephone gives voice as much as it carries it.

It's the origin of crank calling. My upstanding boss once cranked our store on a Friday night to impress a female coworker he was out with. He asked just how black the third shift operator was, who I was training with that night. Though, I suppose some sauce had to do with his courage. I crank 911 call centers when I can't help it. It seems my calling card number begins with 911. So, if I forget to dial the 1-800 number first, I end up dialing 911 and hanging up. I'm told I should report no emergency, but I'm also told they don't always buy that. Furthermore, I'm told I should just get a cellphone and move up with the world. Having a land line, and being old school with my clunky answering machine, at least, puts me back in the time of early nineteen nineties situation comedies. At the moment I've got a greeting set about how I'm away from my desk or meeting with a client. This invites a slew of crank messages, but wards off spam messages from telemarketers.

New legislation is being established to impose restrictions on where phones can be used. The way these things interrupt and take precedence, I'd rally for them to be used only in homes and businesses. The intent is to make drivers more attentive to the half ton of steel they're managing toward obstacles in the roadways. At a time when I did have a cellphone, I began crossing an intersection too engrossed in conversation to notice the red light. The driver beeped at me, and made me wait. It seemed fair to impose equal rights for the driver, persecuted for the phone negligence of others; and the pedestrian here, me, presenting the same risks. Touché, even.

The telephone is a distraction, and also a diversion. Early in the infancy of the Internet, there were bulletin board systems, accessed by standard phone line. Stock in telephone dating services, not to mention 1-900 numbers and Playboy surely began to weaken. I'm not sure how well operators for the hot phone sex lines made the transition to being webcam models. It's a whole other set of credentials. I've wanted to call a 1-900 number, just to see how off course I could get the conversation. Not to be rude, maybe even make her day. You've got to figure these phone sex girls get a little itchy as they're working, though. As long as a catheter isn't an issue, it wouldn't surprise me if riding the waves of verbal eroticism takes some actual self operation. And I would hope it might, for I believe women should enjoy their places in the workplace.

I've said it a few too many times: Are you having text? Or, (when in Canada) Ooh, you two are texting, eh? Who knew those three letters beneath each number on the keypad would have such function beyond quick memorization of a toll free number on TV. I'm still not sure how much more appropriate having sex in front of someone is--than sending private text messages, excluding the schmuck in the room with the land line. For hours one weekend, I roughly calculated the altitude of the satellites off which my two friends were bouncing ASCII strings to one another. It was no less obvious than passing notes during the SAT. Yet, as covert as they teach for the ASVAB of SEALS. Made me as paranoid as does THC or LSD, I would imagine... I have a small recording setup in my apartment. I wished I had a omnidirectional microphone plugged in. I'd have sampled their ringtones and played them back on the quadraphonic at odd intervals 'til they tweaked. Instead, once I'd estimated the amount of time for text delivery, I'd gesture at the phone in front of one of them and say, "Abracadabra!"

Like magic, thought transcends an unwelcome party over a distance of twelve feet. Sure it's capable of much more, such as chipping away at a solipsist philosophy. The voice on the other end can surely report nothing of the likes of chaos and daemons beyond the scope of the sole being. The telephone receiver can be a deceiver, however. Dropped calls can simulate irritation with the conversation, even on either end simultaneously. And this: I knew a girl who carried around a lot of photography equipment, so she was always out of breath when walking. I believe my exact words were, "Who are you fucking?" Which, brings up the topic of the telephone as a sex toy. I believe it not to be a myth, the placing of a call during sex. Don't ask me for tales of experience in it. I've never known someone so naughty. Say, the party on the other line were her boyfriend; I'd feel nothing but post masturbatory-like shame for a crime against mankind. Though, to get personal here, I was once speaking with a giggly phone buddy, from across the state. She kept asking me to guess what she was doing. "I don't know, what are you doing?" Finally, she gave me a clue, "Starts with an 'M!'" -- "Math? what what...? Ooh! You silly girl you!" And she had a laughing fit, then swore to my disappointment that she'd never do it again. Perhaps I should have been proud of her resolution. I had a friend with a Volkswagen van during these college years. Where was Malcolm that weekend?

hair lip

Hair probably has its evolutionary roots in the cilia of single celled organisms. We begin life with but one hair, victoriously whipping around the ova in which it has embedded itself. Real hair, with follicles and a blood supply follow, but are a remnant of evolution, themselves. People are covered in thin silky sheets of soft, stunted hairs. Of course, the hair was once thick, and served as a natural clothing against the elements, the cold. Still, with so many other kinks straightened in our species' history, we remain with full heads of fur. There is no practical need for this headdress. Patterned hair loss amongst males does not cause terminal brain freeze. It is predicted future humans will be bald, but I don't buy it. Hair holds an animalistic allure, like the spread fan of a peacock. And we are inseparable from our history as animals.

Some German exchange students came through my town when I was about sixteen. My sister, who they had met when she was sixteen, promised them a place to stay if they ever toured America. My mother was out of town when their purchased '86 shit box station wagon pulled up in my driveway. I invited a friend over, and we got smashed on domestic. I remember them telling me one thing they took away from knowing my sister on her class trip to Germany in high school. That was, that there was a difference when speaking of 'hair' and 'hairs.' I remember my first party with German exchange students. I also remember my first hairs. It was a big event, I thought some had dislodged from the bar of soap with which I was fruitlessly trying to lather my delicates. But, no, they were firmly attached. What I didn't stop to ponder, was why. Of all the places to grow hairs, under two tight layers of cotton. I'm reminded of a friend who introduced me to the mind bender of, "Did the hand make the face, or did the face make the hand???!" He was a college friend. No, the human body is as radially symmetrical as it is reflective. Another way to describe it is the way an Earth Science teacher of mine did, in eighth grade. His true beliefs were kept from the classroom, if he was not a universal agnostic indeed. We studied the Flat Earth Society, and my mind wandered all over it. Quite a contrast from the seventh grade Life Science teacher I had, who took it upon himself to cut the chapter on evolution out of the curriculum. He mentioned that the chances of evolution occurring were that of a printing factory exploding, and all the letters landing in an unabridged dictionary. The Earth Science teacher explained that nature is lazy. Which, would explain why the utilitarian skull bone we know as the pelvis, also tends to grow hairs up on it. Take note of the mostly useless nipples men possess. When advocating for evolution in a locker room debate about this time in junior high, my adamantly religious friend snapped, "If there's no God... Why, then, do men and women fit together like puzzle pieces?!!!" I was a little shy about sex at the time, and didn't offer a rebuttal. I might have said, being a hobbyist at the time, 'Well, because He doesn't have the patience for model shipbuilding.'

Now, I'm coasting down the prime of my life, with a full head of hair and not two gray hairs. Many people comment on my hair. When it's long, they'll say; hair like that looks good short. Or; I really like your Afro puff. When it's being cut by a professional; you really have some hair. My sister mentioned it was like topiary to cut. It's been braided, shaved, matted, naturally dreaded, cut drastically, cut conservatively. Recently, I've discovered pomade, which is a biofusion cosmetic. The shit is like Vaseline's Italian cousin Vinny. Pomade is a commitment. It takes several batteries of liberal dish soap to strip the hair of it, and another week of allowing oils to replenish before you get that clean squeak back. While it's in, it's like trying not to pick at a scab, or you'll get your fingers gooey. You sleep with it, and it creates a shellac on your pillows. However, it straightens my curls for eighteen hours, and gives me a look like I maintain my aught-eight bedhead hairstyle.

It's punky, which sums me up, so I've been looking into coloring it. Back when I was twenty and attending technical college, I dyed it jet black and played around with some hair gel. I didn't know what I was doing when I dyed it, and ended up getting the dye all down the sides of my face. I figured the best way to clean up was to use Lava soap. This left abrasions, which I painted over with my mom's makeup. An ex-con at my school spotted me with the makeup and had a heyday. The last day of class, he brought it up again, "Remember when George came to school wearing makeup!!!?" I wished I'd researched his record on the Internet--"Remember when you broke down that girl's door, and...? Well, maybe I'm glad I didn't.

There's a girl in my life, I call her my girlfriend, and we're both cool with that. She has hair, and the like. While paging through some photo albums, I noticed a particularly good shot of her with cut bangs. So I opened my mouth and said, "You'd look really good with bangs." It really amazes me how that little tongue roll on the 'You'd,' the ''d' defines the meaning of the sentence. Where, if the ''d' was not present, she may not have decided to cut her bangs right then and there. I protested, that I didn't want to be the deciding factor for someone; not you; to cut her bangs. Well, she did it, and her hair is all around kind of short to begin with. The short bangs only took getting used to because I practically did the snipping. She assured me she was thinking of it, and I value from her that I clinched the decision. In her bathroom, I picked up a big curling iron type thing and asked if it were a hair straightener. She replied yes, and I mentioned I always wanted to play with one of those. Prior to all of this, while we were perusing the aisles of hair coloring in some Mart, she showed me a box of "Blue Black," that she'd like to apply to my hair. I cringed at the memory of the makeup I applied the last time I dyed my hair black. But I was also sent back in time in TV Land... There was this show called Love Line on MTV, and it was hosted by a comedian and a real doctor. I believe the show is still being aired as a radio show, perhaps on the Internet. The episode I saw on my television featured a young man, Asian, who had this question for the doctor: "My girlfriend wants me to dye my pubic hair blue. Is that safe? She wants blue pubes. My girlfriend wants blue pubes." He had blue hair, and it looked pretty fly. I couldn't help but envy this guy. One, he was Asian and had straight black hair without trying, and three, it sounded like he was just from and headed to a whole lot of cheeky sex. Not only that, but I thought I could learn from him. One, these are the sacrifices one makes for their other. And also, if she thinks it's cool and you don't know, you ask a doctor.

Whether I'll dye my hair is up in the air. It's not that I wouldn't. Though, I kind of told her I wasn't all about it, already, and I felt it become touchy. I'd scalp myself for this girl, but that's not the alternative I want to offer her. Nor is it how drastically I am opposed to dying my hair black again. I suppose I'm a little vain, I look in shop windows at my reflection so much every cashier and barista on my circuit probably thinks I'm creeping on them. There's a nice glass door in the control room of the television station where I work. My brown crown of thorns reflects nicely. I just don't know if the door is reflective enough for black hair to give me the same feedback. Then, if I can learn anything from working in television, it's let Makeup handle the makeup.

i'll be your cane

Early in the night, last night, I sat typing chat messages to a friend who'd recently returned from travels overseas. We didn't chat much about her travels. I laid on the charm, as I try to when seeing someone online who'd been missing so long her absence had become unnoticed. I've been with her once, I her first. I'd be a joke to talk of hard feelings or awkwardness. Her shyness doesn't render the scene uncomfortable. Just, with barriers to break down. She's real reserved, but I have no type. The alcohol didn't hurt my chances, but think some amount of exceptional tact must have been involved. Last night, about the time she'd told me her friends ditched her, and her parents were out for the night--and she had makings for rum and Coke, the telephone rang. The voice was totally through a track phone, female, and tired, or something. It was a another girl in my life, one I see about every day I'm not working. She requested I come hang out with her, in a tone of imitation mock sweetness, whose double negativity amplified the actual sweetness electrically. I said I'd call her back, but I didn't provide an explanation, but that I would. I was torn, I hadn't actually been invited to this past fling's for a rendezvous, but the door looked open. My last line of chat was "telephone." So, I typed, "I got an offer to hang out." If she was too shy to invite me before, too shy to try to get me to break plans, or if she'd hoped we'd chat it up all night at a safe distance of several hundred miles of Ethernet cables, I don't know--I was two beers into matching her rum limit. But we knew the right thing to do, we said goodnight. I called my other friend back, and we made plans. I took a shower, and drove the speed limit for thirteen miles.

The girl, who I'll say now prefers to be called a girl, citing "woman" as highfalutin in her self image; the girl was sleeping in fetal position when I was let in by her mother, who I love. Her mom was pretty half adamant that the girl be taken to the emergency room. She said she'd had a fall on the cement porch. Her mom said, "Okay, take her to the ER," then stood expectantly over me and the girl. I must have thought the word, "Uh," about ten times. It's like when someone tells you to take on a task with someone. I'd have had a better chance knowing what to do if I was told to milk a goat. The girl came around, and showed us that there was no evidence of head trauma, but stood up and swiftly hit the floor. She'd fallen asleep so tightly fetal, her right leg had lost sensation. Just then, a sheriff came to the door. If there's one thing 9/11 has taught me, it's the value of protecting oneself from information. Her mom didn't call him, and I have no idea why he showed up.

Meanwhile, the girl was slurring and speaking incoherently. One might have guessed she was hallucinating, but I recognized the off subject questions as the result of a rude awakening. This was the end of a two hour nap after being awake thirty-three hours, she said. The cop talked to her mom for awhile, then he'd like to talk to me. So we talked. He asked, "Is she like this a lot?" (I'd heard the cop mention to her mother about a suicide risk. I surmised the girl, and realized I needed to keep her out of the clutches of people who would see all this as that. Thank the cocktail party effect for one thing right in the world.) To get back to the the cop's burning question, "Is she like this a lot." Two things to take into account in this conversation. Two elements are subjective. Also, it is a catch twenty two. 'Is this out of the ordinary?' If yes, action should be taken. 'Is this happening all the time, is it a problem?' If yes, action should be taken. I spoke with the man. I told him I observed wit and humor in her, but that she was just tired. That, I take some of the same medications she does, and have been in her same state in varying severities. When we were through, he said, "I still don't know if she is like this a lot, and thanks for answering all my questions." I think he was sincere.

The cop asked to speak to the girl alone. The girl got up, and knocked several knickknacks off a table on her plummet to the floor. I don't know why we weren't asked to leave, or where the girl was going to. The bathroom, maybe. I'd been coming to her aide when she'd try maneuvering around the house on the sleeping leg, so I sprung and caught her before she added more bruises to her limbs. There was something of instinct, not to shy away, when she was in need. She's very affectionate with me. So I was used to the feel of her skin. And she always makes me feel very deft when she's around.

The cop left after urging us to go to the emergency room to get the leg checked out. Which, by now, I was beginning to think was a good idea. Her leg still hadn't woken up. She was resistant, but agreed to think it over after some food. Fast food was mostly closed at the hour it was getting to be. I carried her in my arms to my car in the driveway. We rolled up to an all night gas station, and I took her order. Since, there was no way I was letting her come in with me. But she insisted she'd like to browse. I figured her leg was reviving enough, so I came around and helped her out. It wasn't a little hobble to the door. It was a one legged pogo. I did my best to stabilize her, but we were learning a new demonstration toward one another. She slipped, and her ankle twisted sharply, she cried out, I'm sure. Though, I might have repressed the memory of the sound of the cry, itself. A voice came over the loudspeaker, "Are you alright out there?" I carried, in my arms, the girl back to the car and managed to unlock the passenger door, and help her in. I raced inside and told the cashier that there certainly was a need to panic, but not for her to panic. We drove to the ER.

It was a long wait. I abode by the non-smoking campus of the hospital, the sign stating, conspicuously crookedly placed on the foyer glass. To see her wheeled down the hall in a splint for the sprain, was so much sunshine. Her level of lucidity throughout the rest of the night and into the early morning, was like the phases of the moon. At times, she was vibrant and talky, but fell into mumbling random irrelevant questions. We found a Mexican place whose drive-thru was open, and returned to her home on the outskirts of town. We soon discovered in our journeys from then on, that there's more organization required to move objects as well as a person manually from cars to houses. I carried her in my arms, food bags and keys also dangling from my grasp. She felt like no more than a cinder block on my muscles. But, stepping up steps and holding doors with my shoulder blades, with that responsibility, it felt more like cupping a butterfly in my palms.

We slept much needed sleep. I'd been up comparable to thirty-three hours, myself. I have no idea the endurance residing in this girl. With a freshly-sprained ankle she had some errands to do in my town. There were wheelchairs at the stores, she insisted. Sure, I'd be up for that, maybe there would be a motorized one somewhere. You can't let an opportunity like driving a Rascal around Wal-mart pass you up just because you got a little scraped up. I had to talk her out of a couple of stops, or ask please for her to let me take on the business involved in them while she waited. And, I ensured her safety at every gas station stop. The asphalt has got to be on a grade, you'd think, for fuel runoff.

Just like the moon, she knew not whether it was night or day. It was eight o'clock PM, and shit, she just remembered that the mall doesn't open until ten. AM-PM mix up has never happened to me as abruptly as this, but I can totally understand. I keep odd hours, and it gets downright eerie. So, instead of drive-thru breakfast, we got some cheeseburgers. I didn't carry her into the hamburger franchise, and it's not that I would've liked to, other than it's the easier way to transport her, at the moment. She's a little proud for crutches, rascal enough to bash clothes racks over in Target with one of their go-carts, and not too shy to ask me out in a crowded fast food chain. Gratitude, maybe, if so, circumstance. Lucky, not yet, in the ultimate sense. To reveal a close moment so far, I said, "I want every kiss to show you how I've admired you for years." We've been friends awhile, and we've been waiting. Maybe waiting for two nights like this. I tell her she's my element, and the struggle of these nights couldn't have been swum in any other waters but hers.