The snow outside begins to curve around the windows, wrapping delicately around in shapes of the flower and leaf borders of an old boxing poster. Shapes and images made of ice tangle around the windows edges, if I place myself just right I see my reflection inside the border. The spotlight is on me for that moment. The snow is getting heavier every second, as far as I can tell it’s nearing around five feet, but I have no plans of walking out to check that theory. I’m much more comfortable sitting inside, staring out the imperfectly framed window, letting my mind weave in and out through realms of sex and sadism.
When I hear the telephone ring I tell myself to ignore it. But it continues to ring. I don’t want to answer it. It could be my wife caught in the snow, I tell myself, it could be the pound saying they’ve found my lost dog, I tell myself. It could be my mother with another health ailment, I tell myself. I decide to answer the phone in a frenzy of self-loathing.
-Hello?
I don’t have a dog, I remind myself. My mother is dead, I remind myself. I’m divorced, I remind myself.
-It’s snowing outside.
-Yes, yes it is. Can I help you? Who are you calling for?
-For you silly, I’m calling for you.
I don’t recognize this voice, I don’t give my phone number out, I don’t even leave the house, I definitely haven’t given it to some random, seemingly ebullient man.
-Who is this?
-It’s me, of course, who else could it be?
-I’m sorry; I think you have the wrong number.
-No, of course I don’t, you’re the one I was looking to talk to. Do you have some time?
-I’m afraid I don’t, I’m rather busy. I’m getting ready to eat. I’m working on my sculptures. I’m working on poetry. I’m taking a bath. I have a mystery to solve. I have clothes to mend.
-Not even a minute?
-I’m sorry.
-Then I will call back later.
-You don’t need to call back.
-What time is it now? 16:23? I will call back at 17:08. I hope that works for you, goodbye.
I say goodbye as well, but the man has already hung up.
Before I sit back down I flip the switch on the portable heater, the falsetto hum fills up the room and I cross my legs on the floor. The portrait in the window has shrunk significantly since I last looked out. The border is taking over.
What did he mean, “you’re the one I was looking to talk to?” Why was he looking to talk to me?
I need to eat.
The kitchen is pretty small, but it works for the amount of cooking I do. The oak cupboards are a nice touch, but a pain since they tend not to stay shut. From one of the top shelves I pull down a can of meat that even Philip Marlowe couldn’t figure out the ingredients of, grabbing some noodles with my other hand. Noodles and magical meat.
That’s a real all-star lunch.
While I’m heating up the water I notice a string of sounds outside, the time on the coffee maker reads 17:44, but it seems like it’s always off by about ten minutes. It sounds like a group of pigs being beaten by a southern slave driver.
The sound of whips echoes through the house, numbing the sound of the heater for a few seconds. The water comes to a boil and I toss in my noodles. I let the meat slide out of the can onto a plate, I don’t remember if I’m supposed to cook it or not and don’t particularly care. I pull out the noodles long before they’re done and sit down by the heater with my cold meat and thick noodles. The noodles have the same texture as car tires, the meat tastes like dirty ice caught on a cars bumper. What a beautiful holiday I’ve made for myself in my nice little home. I decide to light a candle to make dinner at least appear to be civil in some way. The pig noises continue for a few minutes before turning to yelps and ending with the smell of fire.
It wasn’t until 19:02 that I looked at the clock again, stupid military time. The snow outside has seemed to subside quite a bit, and the window portrait is already showing signs of growth. It’s hard to say how much snow fell. Flicking on a flashlight all I see is a world covered in snow, the yellow outline of the flashlight glows and sparkles across a sea of white. I suspect the snow had reached about six feet before it began to slow down.
I began to wonder why the man never called me back.
Perhaps he realized that he wasn’t looking for me after all.
At 19:30 the phone rang.
-Hello?
Laughter filled the receiver – that kind of laughter that seems happy enough, but has an undertone of sadness. A deep, bellyful of laughter.
-Hello? I repeated.
The sound continued as I repeatedly questioned the receiver. Hello, I would say, is anyone there? I would echo. I eventually gave up and dropped the receiver hard to the stand. I love the sound a telephone receiver makes when it hits the stand; it’s like a miniature church ringing its bells for tiny people.
I moved into this place about three years ago, it used to be owned by one of my father’s good friends, Robert Leroy Parker. He was a rancher, if I remember right. Since I’ve taken over the possibility of ranching has gone from little to none. I guess it’s global warming, father used to tell me that Utah was a real hot spot, now it just snows.
Robert lived here by himself, raising sheep and cattle. He didn’t talk much about his past. He seemed like the kind of guy that might have been interesting to hear from; at least that’s how I remember it. He left the place first to my father, who lived here for two years before disappearing to South America somewhere with a young woman. We had holiday parties and dinner gatherings up here all the time. When my wife and I divorced it seemed logical that this would be my new home. I haven’t left since. I have my food delivered and my clothes are in good enough shape to be worn by somebody who never leaves his house. It might seem odd in that serial killing mail bombing type of way but I’ve enjoyed myself. I’m not really saying that I’ll be here for the rest of my life, but for now it’s just what I need.
I’m startled back into reality when the phone rings again; I swear I can see dust flying off the thing.
-Hello?
-Snow stopped.
-Yeah, it did. Can I help you?
-Can you spare that minute yet? There’s nothing left to watch out there.
-Why didn’t you call back when you said you would?
-What’s it matter when I call? I only want a minute; it doesn’t matter when it happens.
-You have one minute.
-You’ve lived in that house for what, two and a half years now?
-Three years. How do you know that?
-It doesn’t matter how, it’s the why. You have any protection against snow?
-Snow? Why would I need protection against snow? Who is this? Where are you calling from?
-It doesn’t really matter who’s speaking does it? I mean, the function of speech isn’t a matter of whom; it’s a matter of what. Simply stating “I” gives rise simultaneously to several different selves, who is speaking might change with every word. And frozen water can cause serious damage to a home as old as yours.
-So you’re trying to sell me… what? Snow insurance?
-Of course not. Don’t be absurd. I’m calling to ask you what you want for Christmas, and to make sure that the conditions are good enough that I’ll be able to get there.
-Wait ¬¬- are you claiming to be, who? Santa Claus?
-Do you want gifts or not?
-Listen, I don’t know what you’re getting at here, but I’m really not in the mood to be fooled with today.
-No? Then let’s not fool. What do you want for Christmas? I’ve just updated my systems; I’m all computerized and digital now, telephones and all. No more of that random guessing. Soon enough I’ll have email, but my IT elves really dropped the ball on that one, so we’re stuck making billions of calls.
- I don’t want anything for Christmas. I’m here for peace and quiet.
-Well, what would it take then? You have to need something right? You’re just sitting there staring out the window.
With that I hung up the phone.
40 seconds.
An instant later it rang again, I shorted him about 20 seconds. The phone continued to ring for about six and a half minutes.
The snow outside has definitely stopped.
I have to need something.
It’s cold in here, and I’m hungry again.
What could I possibly need?
At 23:06 I decide to go outside, if I have a crazy chubby stalker with a bellyful of laughter I don’t want to be here when he shows up. I need to fully equip myself. My feet get covered by clunky snow boots with plastic tips, legs and arms are sheathed in Gore-Tex, face masked by a tight cotton knit. I cover my hands with plastic bags and grab my sled, flashlight fixed up tight to the front with duct tape. I grab my world map from a hanging file folder. It looks like Bolivia is to the south, all down hill then I suppose. Should be an easy ride.