Charlie´s Phone Book

Lately, phone books have been on my mind whenever I get home. I have Charlie to thank for that. The phone book; what a waste: the big yellow compilation of erroneous information. Ironically, it advertises products which directly contribute to its being obsolete: F is for funeral homes. M is for moving... Good to be home, its been a long day. Hold the door! Ok, don’t hold it, thank you! I know, you’re not supposed to hold the door because it could be a burglar, I get it. Anyway, I have to check the mail. Let’s see…water bill… electric bill… phone bill (stop thinking about phones books)…pizza coupon....surprise, surprise nothing but bills.

Three flights of stairs and I’ll be home, forty-eight steps to be exact. I always run up stairs, not sure why. Perhaps it’s the last remnant of my inner hyper-active child. The dank, musty smell of the carpeted steel stairs explains why I run up these stairs in particular. The smell is common to so many apartment buildings: a nauseating potpourri of twenty year old carpet dust, stale cigarette smoke, and curry lingering in the stairwells with nowhere to go. The thin carpet only slightly muffles the metallic ping of each stair as I race up two at a time. The burn starts after the first flight. Feels good. Need to exercise more, I’m in awful shape. Just one more flight, now eight steps to go, feel the burn, nice. Time! Judges? Nearly a new Dork World Record, so close! My legs are full of hot lead and I’m a little dizzy. The endorphins are upset from their release without warning but I’m reminded once again why I run up stairs in general.

My heart’s racing but not from the brisk dash up the stairs. For the past week all I’ve wanted to do is come home and not see Charlie´s phone book still in front of his door. I keep telling myself not to look in front of his door, don’t do it, just get inside the apartment. Come on, stupid key. Tell me its not there, please. Come on, I’m begging you. Tell me it’s gone. Don’t look!

Oh, man… its still there.

Why did I look? Not like I could miss it; it’s right across the narrow hall from my door. It’s none of my business. Maybe it hasn’t been as long as I think. What’s today, Thursday? They arrived on Monday, right? Yeah, it was Monday…what am I worried about? Was it this Monday? Or… oh man…it was Monday a week ago. The landlord or the Super; someone, was nice enough to take the phone books from the lobby and place one by each door throughout the building. The only one still left in front of the door on the whole floor, most likely the whole building is Charlie’s.

A phone is ringing. Thank God its mine! Jiggle, push, lift! God I hate that squeak! Oil the hinges on the door. File that one under “yeah right”. Hello? No I’m not interested in changing my long distance provider. Turn on the tube, grab a beer from the fridge and have a seat at the table. Let’s see…water bill…ok, about the same…phone bill…OUCH! Oh well, it was his birthday and it made him happy, no regrets. Cable bill… the same. Do I really need cable? Who am I kidding? I can’t live without cable. Maybe I could just get basic. Sounds like someone in the hall.

Hey, maybe it’s Charlie? Check the peep hole!

Nothing.

For days, I’ve been hearing Charlie arrive at his door only to look through the peep hole and find there’s no one there. The warped view makes the lifeless hallway unbearably bleak. Then, to continue the routine of the past week, I justify in my mind where Charlie might be and why his phone book is still in front of his door.

He’s probably away, out of town. Vacation? Could be. In January? Sure, why not? It’s possible. Anyway, it’s none of my business. Charlie´s the guy that lives across the hall from me; that’s all I know about him. He lives alone and I’ve never seen or heard anyone else enter his apartment. He’s the perfect neighbor, never a peep. Our entire interaction consists of occasional hello-hi exchanges on the stairs. He walks incredibly slowly up the stairs by the way. On more than one occasion he has cost me the elusive Dork World Record in the singles 2 x 48 Step dash. He smokes, I think. He must have bad knees, too. Wonder if it annoys him that I run on the stairs? How old is he, fifty, fifty-five? He could pass for seventy. His gaunt face and sunken eyes make his teeth appear unusually large. His hands are transparent onion skin. He does not look well. But…it’s none of my business.

Let’s see…what’s on TV? I attempt to lose myself in mindless reruns of Friends and Seinfeld. Friends and Seinfeld? Good call, moron! Wait, something’s not quite right; there’s no door in this scene. Where is that knocking coming…?

The second, louder knock on my door sounds like they are knocking on my skull. I quickly recover from my near-comatose state of mind. After waiting for more than a week for Charlie to be in the hall, the actual event is shockingly unexpected. I can’t get to the door fast enough to see Charlie´s face.

No such luck. Through the bizarre world of the peep hole I see it isn’t Charlie at my door. It’s a stranger and, if I’m not mistaken, he has an earring that looks exactly… like… a phone book? Opening the door, the illusion disappears. A man I’ve never seen before is standing not quite directly in front of my door. I’m pleased to see the phone book is in no way attached to his ear. Crazy peep hole world! I glance at his face, the yellow book, and back to his face.

He starts off somewhat cautiously. Who can blame him? The slightly catatonic person that answered the door is starting to scare him. “Hi, sorry to bother you,” clearing his throat, “I’m John…” he may have given a last name, but I didn’t catch it. “I’m a friend of Charlie´s,” motioning to the door behind him with a raised thumb.

“Oh, hello” I answer trying to apologize for the way I answered the door. Finally, someone is stopping by to pick up Charlie´s mail and to tell the neighbors not to worry. I wasn’t worried, who’s worried?

“I’m a little worried about Charlie.” Uh oh. “Have you seen him lately?”

Ok, downplay. Downplay! “No…We don’t run into each other very often. I thought…he was away”, my voice fails me as I unconsciously glance at the phone book.

“Away? No, Charlie is very sick,” he answered; his face now a pale shade of panic. “When did the phone book arrive?”

Oh boy, here we go: “Last…some time last week.”

“Last week?” John instantly began dialling a number on his cell phone.

A second later a distant, muffled ring could be heard within Charlie´s apartment.
It was followed by another…and another…and another…and another…

John hangs up and dials another number, but this one is shorter. If I’m not mistaken it was only three digits long.

John begins to pound on Charlie´s door calling out his name. No response.

In twenty minutes a fire truck and an ambulance arrive. Two firemen and a paramedic are trying to break down Charlie´s door. In the process, the phone book gets kicked out of the way. About forty-five minutes later Charlie is brought out on a stretcher. All I can think is I hope he isn’t dead.

When the stretcher emerges I see they haven’t covered his face. He’s little more than a ripple under the sheet but…He’s alive! On the way down the hall the stretcher runs into something that stops the wheels and jolts Charlie´s angry, panic-stricken eyes open for a brief moment. The phone book! A heavy-set paramedic kicks it out of the way in a huff and they gradually disappear down the stairs. As they descend a feeble, yet determined voice is heard yelling over and over again, “Let me sleep! LET ME SLEEP!”

Phone books don’t have a lot going for them. They represent wasteful abundance in a modern, capitalistic society. Politically incorrect, they are the tree huggers’ lament. Every residence, every business, every hotel room, every pay phone has a phone book. They are the most abundant, yet least used commodity. Charlie’s phone book, on the other hand, saved his life. He didn’t die in his apartment thanks to his phone book. Yet not even Charlie would argue the phone book is worth the paper it’s printed on. A letter sent to everyone in the building informed us that Charlie died two months later at Massachusetts General Hospital where he was taken the night fire fighters and paramedics broke into his apartment.