My Story Will Be Perfect
Rain like it was Biblical. Sidewalk empty, just me and a happy drunk with the weather-hardened look of a rough sleeper sauntering down the hill from Victoria Station in my direction, shouting out his joy to the world. As we passed, he tipped an imaginary hat. Avoiding a ghost, he lurched down into the road. I must’ve turned, he gave me a second tip of his hat before stepping backward into the street.
Jovial fellow. Never saw it coming.
Through the hanging curtain of rain, a car burst out, hydroplaning across the shallow lake, him careening with almost balletic grace over the hood. The car slowed, stopped, a window slid down, a face peered out. Expletive. The driver hit the pedal.
Crumpled on his back, the man twitched.
I looked up and down, for whom? Anyone. Just me. No cars. A phone box. My savior. Inside was dry, my breath misting the glass. Finger on the rotary, I dialed 999, each rotation an age, listening for the spark of connection. Nothing. I hit the cradle, dialed a second time. All quiet. Maybe the broken man would rise, hobble back to safety. Again I hit the cradle. No tone, only a gentle hiss like gas escaping from a kitchen stove. Another car. It slowed, pulled around him, and sped away. I dialed again and again, expecting the phone to pulse with the magic static of connection.
He was still now, mouth open to the rain, newspaper pages carried downstream snagging at his neck.
A sign: “Dial O For Operator.” Immediately a voice. Blessed voice: a mother or an angel. She’d been there all along, crouching in the mechanism, waiting for me. I blurted out the story.
“Relax. Deep breath,” O said. “Take your time. Slowly. In sequence…” Just like a writing coach. “Tell me what happened.”
I did.
Story straight, O put me through to the emergency operator. Same question, but I was prepped this time. The story came out with ease.
“He’ll be a good writer one day,” she might’ve thought. “Maybe more descriptive language but his narrative is clear, has a sense of purpose, paces well, the action builds…”
#
Memory’s a bitch. Maybe an ambulance pulled up and a kid stepped out, his first night on the job. Or a seasoned EMS team arrived. “We’ll take it from here.” Or I waited and no one came and my panic intensified. What I do remember is gas hissing from the phone. My hysteria increasing.
Time’s played dirty with me. Aching knees. Interrupted sleep. And when I do sleep, unwanted repeating stories.
I’ve transliterated 999 to 911; the rest is awry. In my dreams, I can’t get the phone to rotate. Or it’s digital and my fingers fuck up. Or the phone dies. Or I drop it through a metal grid. Or I get through but they can’t hear me. Or I can’t remember whether I’m on Madison or Park. Or my story’s a mess, annoying the writing coach or NYPD dispatcher or O.
“Relax,” O will tell me in some future dream. “Take your time. Tell me what happened.”
Her voice will be calming and I’ll do as told. I’ll be heard and my story will be perfect.
Nigel Pugh has been published in Adelaide Literary Journal, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Litbreak Magazine, and has had two plays performed (London Fringe). Born in the UK, he was Chief Education Officer for New York City Department of Education.