Peter and Jeremy played the game all the time. They dialed any last four digits of phone numbers in town and, eventually, they'd get some lady's answering machine. Jeremy, Peter's step-brother, was the one who really got off on it. Peter just showed him the worst words to use and then they'd call the lady back until it got boring. If anybody answered, they'd pretend they were calling someone else and be all polite and hang up.

 

About five days ago they had called this one lady with kind of a weird voice on the tape. Weird, deep and like a teacher who said words really perfect. She reminded him of Ms. Dursal, his Spanish teacher at Blackhawk junior high, whom everybody figured was a dyke. She taught gym, too, and she always wore sweats and had frizzled, short, permed-out hair. She gave D's to almost everybody in Spanish and handed out referrals for practically nothing.

 

Peter wanted to let this lady have it. He showed off to Jeremy, who could come up with nothing better than 'butthole,' saying the worst stuff he could think of. They left about half a dozen messages on her machine that day and called six times that night. When she said "Hello," her voice was all thick and groggy. 

 

The first couple of times, the line was silent and then she'd hang up. After that, she started screaming things that scared Peter, even though he didn't admit it to Jeremy, stuff about cutting their little dicks off and skewering them at a barbeque. It freaked him out but Jeremy was sure Peter was cool and wanted to keep it up. So they did, for a while. On the last call she laughed. That was it, laughed like a nutcake, and Peter said he wasn't calling that lady anymore. It was getting boring, he said. Jeremy didn't believe him. "Boring? You got to be out of your mind. This is getting great." He was still hot to do more but Peter cut him off, saying "Shut-up, you little faggot. She's boring and you don't know fuck." That ended it. It was 2 a.m. anyway and Jeremy had gotten on his nerves, obnoxious and hyper kid. Peter went upstairs to bed.

 

Two days ago, Peter answered the phone. He knew it was her. He could tell by the voice. She asked nicely if the lady of the house were home. He said no and hung up. Man, how'd she get this number? This is no coincidence, he thought. He went out to the garage to ask his step-dad about being able to pick up other people's phone numbers. His step-dad didn't know diddley and didn't even ask why he was asking. He never gave a shit what they did. What was creepy was that later that afternoon, when he was watching Welcome Back, Kotter , there was a commercial from AT&T or Sprint or one of them, advertising about exactly how you could get this digital playback service of the number that was calling you. Shit, she must have that. 

 

Tonight Peter felt jumpy. She had called about six more times today, always acting nice and asking for an adult. He hung up each time, then realizing she would know for certain it had been him. At about 10 p.m., his step-dad put out a small fire on the deck. He got blamed for it and beaten. He was sure it was the lady and he wouldn't be surprised if she tried, while they slept, to roast them all.