Short Story / Rain and Rust (Analysis)
Rain and Rust
1.
The train finally pulls into the station. I look at my watch, absently, though I don’t really need to- I’ve been looking down at it every three minutes for the past hour. Yep, three-twenty. Fifteen minutes late. Fifteen minutes of lost shoe leather. And a lost chance, the last chance to make things right with her.
She told me that I had to be at the station by three, that she wasn’t going to wait. She’d said that she was tired of waiting. Said that she had spent the past four years waiting. On me.
I take two walks through the station, even a slippery side trip into the ladies’ room, looking under stalls for her, and I guess that she wouldn’t be waiting on me again. Ever.
I’m still sighing as I shuffle over to the nearest payphone. There are only four phones in all. An absent thought comes to me: There used to be more phones here. I’m sure of it. But now, with all the fucking cell phones littering the world, with all those people having meaningful conversations with meaningful people, I guess those phones are becoming obsolete. I know how that feels.
Change rattles heavily as I jam my hand into my pocket. Clutched in my hand and free of the pocket, the clinks of the coins become something else, grating, gritty sounds like metal teeth being ground together. I open my hand. My palm is dented in a dozen places with red, tiny crescents, and dead presidents and state slogans leer up at me. I read ‘Gateway to Freedom’ on one. That’s abstract. Freedom is another word for being alone. I’m free, and I have never felt more imprisoned. I just wish I could tell her this. Maybe I can do that this time. This one fucking time.
I feed the coins into the phone’s slot, a vertical mouth that gobbles up my money and never says thank you. I can hear the phone digesting my coins, through the receiver, and I don’t even bother to count the money I’m putting in. There are different sounds to go with the different coins. Dimes and nickels give you short swallowing sounds. The quarters, though, they give you the long hiccupping sounds. Ten of these and I am satisfied that I have paid my tithes to the phone gods. I punch out my number, and catch myself humming in tune with the beeping tones. I know this song. I should- I’ve played it a thousand times or more.
Some artificial voice, one that’s supposed to make me feel pleasant and patient, tells me that I’m being connected. Another thought: No, wrong. I’m never going to be connected again. I’m permanently disconnected. Don’t believe me? Listen in when she picks up.
The phone rings four times and I know that the machine is going to pick it up. I know that’s wrong. The call is going to go to voicemail. It what she has, what all people who aren’t obsolete have. It’s what you use when you’re calling a cell phone from a cell phone. Voicemail is shitty, even more so than answering machines. At least with an answering machine, you can hope that the person is listening while your talking, screening the call. And maybe you can say just the right thing, good or bad, to get them to pick up the phone. Not with voicemail. You just get to leave your message and hope that you’ve used the right tone, the right words, or the right silence to make the person want to call you back. Voicemail is for pussies. For people who like to hide and be passive-aggressive about shit.
Still, I leave a message.
“Hey, uh, it’s me. I’m in the station. Uh, look, it wasn’t my fault. The train was late, shoulda gotten here by three. But it rolled in late. It couldn’t be helped. Anyway, I hope you can cut me some slack here. I came, like I said I would. Like you told me to. Probably gonna have my ass in the sling with my boss, but I’m here. I’m going to wait here for a while, by the phone, and if you want, you can call me. The number is…” I look for a number on the phone, but where the number is, there’s an ugly burn, like a scar, and the number is unreadable. I look to the next phone, and can’t see a number- the phone’s metal umbilical cord is too short. “Hold on- just trying to find a number here…” I pull the phone away from my head and lean way over to get a better shot at the phone next to me. I see a message- ‘This telephone does not receive incoming calls.’- and shoot the phone gods the bird. “Shit, there’s no phone number and it doesn’t take calls coming in. Go fucking figure. Well, I’ll call back later. I lo-, I’m sorry, Rachel.” I pause before hanging up. Then, “I love you.”
I don’t believe it, but I wonder if she might, this time.
My head is drooping lower than the receiver is when I hang up. A mechanical gulp sounds hollow from the phone. I half expect a burp. I feel really tired. More than tired. Weary.
I plod over to the snack counter, a jumbled mess of magazines, newspapers, and personal hygiene items. Plastic wrapped sandwiches, chips, and junk food hang on little clips like Christmas ornaments on some weird tree. The whole thing looks someone tried to shove a convenience store into a box. Even the clerk looks crammed. His shirt is wrinkled, more than mine is, and his glasses are chewing into either side of his head. Must be from eating the cream-filled donuts that nobody else is buying. Didn’t they outlaw shit like that ten years ago?
“Can I help you, sir?” His voice sounds distant and sleepy. His nametag says ‘RONALD’. Ronald wishes I would fuck off and die.
“Yeah, I guess. Got any coffee around here?” Admittedly, I wish Ronald the same. After he gives me some coffee. “I need caffeine.”
“There’s some coffee on the counter, against the wall. But you might want to go to the other end of the station. There’s a Starbucks there, and they sell fresh bagels and pastries. The scones are…” I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
“I don’t want Starbucks. Fuck Starbucks and the pukes who work there.”
“My girlfriend works there, sir.” ‘Sir’ sizzles with acid.
“Really, Ronald. Hmm, imagine that. Two romantics under the same busy roof. And both in the service industry, too. What are the odds?”
Ronald shows a little color. Yeah, the hypertension from a sugary diet, saturated fat diet is plain to see. Plus, he seems to be getting pissed. “Do you want coffee or not, sir?” He has nothing else to say, although I can imagine the spewing shit that must be boiling inside of his head.
“Sure. I’ll take two cups. One for me, and the other for my best friend.” His eyebrow raises and he looks around at the empty end of the station where I came from. “It’s a joke. I don’t have any friends.”
Ronald has a clever moment. Probably his only one in many years. “You must be joking. A nice guy like you? Next thing you’ll tell me is that you’re single, too.”
Good one, Ronald.
“Just ring up the coffee, Ronald.” He’s smiling now, the fake, congenial smile that says, “Burned you, you fucker. Got you right in the ass, didn’t I?”
“That’s three-fifty-six, sir.” He’s beaming at me now, and I stand back a bit, in case his glasses explode from the pressure of that fat smile.
“Here’s five. Keep the change. Take cupcake down at Starbucks a fucking Twinkie on me. Tell her I said, ‘Hi, lumpy.’”
More acid from Ronald. “Have a good day, sir. And be careful when you’re drinking the coffee. Wouldn’t want you to burn yourself.” He doesn’t give me the change. I thought he might just grow a spine and whip it at me, but he’s holding it tightly in his piggy fist. Later on, he might just be using that same hand to squeeze the blue-veined tits of his Starbucks sweetie.
I cluck my tongue, and snap a wink at the clerk. “Rock on, Ronald. Rock on.” I don’t look back as I pour the coffee and walk back to the phones. Ronald will no doubt tell Miss Starbucks what a dick I was, and how he burnt me down. Let him be the hero. God knows I’m no hero. I’m the anti-hero.
The phones are waiting for me. They knew I would be back. I always come back. It’s part of my wasteful ritual. It’s what I do with Rachel. Well, what I did. Now? I’m not so sure, but I’d be willing to bet that I will be saving a lot of phone money from now on.
I slurp the tepid coffee that tastes burnt, grimace, then finish the brown liquid in one last chug. My esophagus twinges in protest. Another idle thought: I should have bought one of those snack cakes to soak up the acid from this coffee. I set the other cup of coffee on top of the phone, not really worried about the fact that it’s tipping a little too much. I couldn’t possibly get scolded, and my gut won’t miss the bitterness of the swill. I fish more coins out of the pocket and ceremoniously listen to each one slide down the throat of the phone. Ten more big gulps and I’m dialing. Static buzzes in my ear, then I hear the ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Great- another fucking voicemail.
Her voice is unexpected. “What do you want?”
I fumble for something to say, caught unawares. I manage, “Is that any way to answer the phone. What if it was your best friend, or worse, your father?”
“But it wasn’t either of them. It was just you, Jeff. Just like I knew it would be. Christ, you are so predictable.”
I ignore the punch in the gut. “So, you were waiting for me to call back?” The hope in my voice sounds pathetic, even to me.
“Actually, yes, if you must know.”
“I guess that’s good news.” I had to go slow. I didn’t want to spook her or piss her off.
“Good news? Well, you could say that.” Her tone is only slightly syrupy, and I can’t resist a smile.
“Glad to hear it. Hey, look, I’m sorry that I pulled in to the station late. Damned trains never run on time. But I wasn’t that late.” That last part shoots out of my mouth, and I want to suck the words back in. The coffee and acid taste mingle together and bite at me.
“Don’t worry about it, Jeff.” She is unnaturally even-tempered now. I grow nervous.
“Really? Don’t worry about it? But I was late, and you hate that shit.” I feel dampness at my neck, my forehead, and my palm feels slick on the grimy plastic of the phone receiver.
“Not any more. I don’t hate that any more. I don’t hate that, or the fact that you are stuck in that crappy, dead-end job. Or that your clothes are outdated by ten years. Or that you don’t have a car- still. Or that you’re calling me from a payphone- still.” Her voice isn’t raising, but I recognize the flat sarcasm.
“Do we have to go over those things again? I have told you a hundred times that I’m working to fix those things. I just need a little time is all.”
“You have told me a lot of things, Jeff, and more than a hundred times. More like a thousand. But that’s all you do. You only tell me things. You don’t do anything.” She’s is standing up as she talks. I can feel it.
“That’s not true, Rachel. I’ve done plenty. I got a better job and I moved into my own place, out of my brother’s apartment.” The coffee is threatening more fiercely now.
“Got a better job? No, Jeff you just ditched one loser job and picked up a new one. For fuck’s sake, you have a degree in electronics engineering. And where do you wind up working? At a fucking video store repairing VHS players for people who are too ancient or sad to get a DVD player.” The volley is on its way.
“But, it pays the bills.” I clamp my eyes shut at my own anemia.
“What bills? You don’t have any bills, because you don’t have a life. You don’t own a television that was manufactured in this decade, hell, in the past two decades. Your stereo has a handle on it. You don’t have a cell phone. Your clothes might as well come from the thrift store. And you wash those clothes in a shitty laundromat where two-bit hookers and crackheads hang out. You ride the bus and the subway because your last car- lovely piece of shit that it was- broke down on you two years ago. Jeff, they towed it away because it was a piece of shit. The City did you a favor.” She is in cruising gear now, and nothing I say will slow her down. Still, I try.
“Rachel, just because I don’t have a lot of unnecessary expense doesn’t mean I don’t have a life. It just means that I’m saving money.”
She coughs and I imagine her phone covered in a spray of spit. If she were standing in front of me, the spit would be on my face. “Saving money? For what?”
“For us, for our future.” The creaking sound of a door about to slam shut floats to my ear.
“Tell you what, Jeff. I’m going to do you a huge service. Right here, right now. Save your money. Keep it. Tuck it away. Put it in little boxes all over that bullshit apartment in that dumpy, bullshit building you live in. Fucking choke on it, for all I care. ‘Cause we’re fucking through.” I shudder as the door whams shut.
My voice is choppy, and I should be crying. Or yelling. Anything to show emotion, a reaction to this final act. But I can only sputter. “Don’t say that, Rachel. Look, let’s work this out. Come get me and we’ll sit down together and plan it out. I’ll do whatever you ask. Promise.”
“Sorry, Jeff, the stores are all closed.” What the fuck is she saying?
“Huh? What are you talking about, Rachel?”
“I mean that you can’t buy any more time. This is it. The end of the road. I’m not going to come get you. I’m not going to answer any more of your calls. In fact, I’m leaving after I hang up on your ass, and I’m catching a flight to the West Coast.” There’s a dart thrown that I didn’t expect.
“What are you going to do out there?” There is no strain to my voice, even though there’s a lump the size of a grapefruit hanging just below my Adam’s apple. What the fuck is wrong with me?
She jumps at my lack of fractured tone, echoing my thoughts. “What the fuck is wrong with you? No, don’t answer that. Let me do the honors: You are switched off. I don’t know why, or what caused it, but you are as dark and dead as a house with the power switched off. You aren’t even really upset by this whole thing.”
“That’s not true.” The shriek in my chest wants to come out, but I can’t even muster a whistle.
“Jeff, you are a walking lobotomy case. If you were even a little distressed, it’d be because it’s over. But you’re not distressed. Five minutes after we hang up, you’ll be numb. Just like you always are. That’s why you don’t care if you’re always late, if you even bother to show up. That’s why you live in that shit-hole place. That’s why you’ve looked like a car wreck for the better part of two years now. And that’s why you don’t care if you work for Shitz and Company…”
“That’s Schultz and Company.”
“Good-bye, Jeff. Have a drab and dead life. And say hello to all the fucking losers at that fucking shabby hotel you call a home.” The line goes dead and the coffee spills in two directions. From the tipped cup atop the phone and from my gaping, gasping mouth.
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You did a very good job with the dialogue that you used. his appeared life-life. You could have added a little more description of the surroundings just to bring a little more color to the story.
The story moves along quite well and you do fine job of covering a love-lost situation.
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Your writing at the end there was distinct and effective. The dialogue between boyfriend and girlfriend with the she-devil slamming the relationship shut felt real – too real! Been there, done that! Didn’t particularly want to have to re-experience the knifing pain, but you successfully brought it all back! Cheers, mate! :-( – What did I ever do to you, eh?
However, the build up, in my opinion, was too laboured. The clunking of the coins and all that detail almost had me taking the “skip” option. I’m so glad I didn’t, because I would have missed a truly excellent scene packed with supressed dread – the sort of terrible dread that we feel when we know what is going to happen and are powerless to stop it because communication has finally ceased. And I understand, because of the laboured build up, why she found him such a no hoper. My own experience is undermining the craftmanship of your writing, as I would have been edgy and unable to sit still. Pacing and plotting and planning and most of all getting myself into a terrible state of masochistic anxiety. But that’s just me and I now fully accept that your character has every right to wind himself up at a slower pace… ;-)
The only part I felt I had to stop and re-read, was when he tells the voicemail that he loves her followed by the line: I don’t believe it, but I wonder if she might, this time. It reads like he doesn’t believe he’s in love with her rather than, I assume you mean, that he is sincerely sorry?
I didn’t pick up on any other annoying typos and all that’s left is for me to suggest that you hook the reader sooner rather than later as this is a very worthwhile read. Give him a character trait or something that endears the reader to him. That will also add a great deal of punch to the end.
Thank you for this and my deepest and sincerest best wishes. Tim x
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