Crowds of people had stopped and were listening.
‘I know your Victoria’s Secret favourites list. I know which sex toy you prefer. I know that you always order the least expensive flowers for your mom!’
The crowds were beginning to look at her indignantly. Two teenagers, scruffy, gangsta wannabes, nudged each other and headed to the garbage cans to fish the phone out. She raced back.
‘And I know other things, too, folks. I know her real bra size, minus the padding. I know what the Russian woman who does her bikini wax really thinks of her. And don’t get me started about the facial hair!’
The two boys were throwing bottles and newspapers out of the trash can. She pushed them aside.
‘That’s my phone,’ she said. ‘We’re quarrelling, but it’s still mine. Stay away.’
‘It’s in a garbage can, so I’d say it’s fair game, bitch,’ said one of them.
‘I’m serious,’ she said.
She gave one of the boys a shove and dove into the garbage can, fishing through its contents wildly. Let that not be a condom. And please let that not be a tampon. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and finally found the phone. She rolled over, shook herself free of the filth, and sat on the sidewalk, holding the phone up in a gesture of victory.
The taller of the two boys made a grab for it. She held on and wrestled with him. The phone gave a chuckle, then blasted them with the sound of a police siren. A voice like something off ‘Cops’ came over.
‘All police officers to Broadway and 45th! Arrest Richard Quinn Arnold and Greg Katland.’
The larger boy released his grip.
‘It knows our names, dude,’ he said.
‘Richard Arnold lives at 876 Waterford Avenue –’
‘This is too freaky,’ the other boy said. They took off down at a sprint, pushing aside the crowds waiting for half priced Broadway theatre tickets.
‘I’m going to have a latte and think of what your fate will be.’
They were in a Starbuck’s, and she was tucking the phone into her purse.
As she ordered her iced grande, the phone made an unpleasant gurgling sound. A couple of customers looked her way. She couldn’t blame them. It did sound as though she had a baby choking in her bag.
‘New cell phone,’ she said with a perky smile. ‘Not working properly. Taking it back to the store.’
She headed to an empty table.
‘Please let me out of here!’ the phone said loudly. ‘I need to talk!’
A guy reading a free paper in an armchair one over gave her a look and ran his hand over his shaved head. He had attractive skull contours.
‘Is that your cell phone?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s a brand-new model.’ She liked this guy. He showed promise, if only in a no-future, just-raw-sex kind of way.
‘I said I want to talk to you!’ the phone shouted, its voice muffled by the contents of her purse.
‘You don’t want to answer it?’ the guy asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no call. It’s just malfunctioning. Weird noises. I don’t know what the engineers were thinking.’
I can fix it,’ he said, pulling his chair closer to her table. ‘I’m a wizard with these things.’
‘Really?’
She reached into her purse and rummaged around for the phone. Maybe it was all just a technical glitch. She moved aside the lipsticks and mirror, the pens and keys, the bottles of aspirins and anti-depressant pills.
There it was, hiding behind her wallet. It was trembling. She tried to wrap her fingers around it, but it made mewling noises and shook violently. It felt like a tiny skinless mouse. She gave it a tug but it wouldn’t come. It seemed to be clinging to the lining of her purse.
She gave a firm pull and pried it free.
The man put his hand out. ‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it behave.’
There was something to be said for a man who could occasionally look after you. Her juices were revved!
She placed the mobile in the man’s hand. As she did, there was a sizzle sound.
‘Yeeeouch!’ The man leapt up from his chair and dropped the phone.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘Jesus fucking Christ that hurt.’ He gave her a stunned look.
She reached out to touch him.
‘Stay away from me!’ The man’s hand was red as though he’d been burned.
He grabbed his backpack and strode away shouting, ‘You think that’s some kind of joke?’
I will destroy you!’ she told her phone.
‘Hey, hey, hey, I’m –’
‘You’re what?’ She stopped and stared right at it.
‘I’m sorry,’ the phone said. ‘I really am. I don’t know what came over me. And I promise I’ll never do it again.
She knew she was a sucker for a good apology. But he was going to have to work a little harder than that.
‘I couldn’t care less,’ she said. ‘You’re headed for the recycle bin.’
‘Please don’t be mad,’ the phone said. ‘I’ve just never felt like this around a girl before. You’re so beautiful that I lost control. Nobody’s lips feel like yours when they press against my mouthpiece. R.B. doesn’t know how good he has it. You’re too special to spend Saturday alone. Forget him. Forget everyone else. You’re with me now. And guess what? We’re going to the best party in New York City. Tonight!’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, though the prospect of a party versus being alone was melting her resolution fast. ‘I mean, you really messed up things for me back in that cafe. I don’t know that I can trust you.’
‘Let me make it up to you. It was just high spirits. You wouldn’t want a man who doesn’t have high spirits, would you? I’ll show you the best time you ever had. And I’d be so proud knowing all the other cell phones in the room were jealous of the woman holding onto me.’
‘How do I know this isn’t one of your disgusting stunts?’
‘You don’t,’ the phone said. ‘I haven’t given you any reason to trust me. But let me prove my devotion to you. Who do you most want to talk to? I’ll dial him up. How about Brad Pitt?’
She glared at him.
‘Not that I’d think a tough, independent woman like you was into Brad Pitt.’
She relented. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you my choice. Call my father.’
‘But, but –’
‘You said anyone.’
‘Are you sure you want to talk to him?’
‘Yep,’ she said.
‘The dead aren’t the best conversationalists.’
‘I don’t care. Do you want me to go to the party with you?’
The phone was silent.
‘Just as I thought,’ she said. ‘Like all men, you’re more promises than you are delivery.’
The phone rang.
She picked up the call. The voice was unmistakably familiar.
‘Daddy?’ she said.
‘Is that you?’ her father’s voice asked.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, emotions filling her to the bursting point. ‘It’s me, me, it’s really me.’
‘Good of you to call, honey,’ her father said. ‘But I’ve got a client on the other line. Don’t go away.’
And then there was the sound of on-hold classical music. Red-faced and furious, she rang off.
‘That is so like my father!’ she said.
They were only a block away from the 58th Street entrance to Central Park. Fighting back tears, she walked quickly, then jogged her way into the park. She made her way to the first tree she saw, clutched its bark and started to sob.
‘No wonder I’m with a loser like R. B.! He’s just like my father! No time for my needs!’
‘Please don’t cry
,’ the phone said. ‘I love you.’
‘But how do I know?’ she cried. ‘I mean, for sure?’
‘Haven’t I stuck around even through all your abuse today? Don’t I deserve some credit for that?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry I banged you against that wall.’
‘I like your emotions. And I like the way they get out of control.’
‘You’re shitting me,’ she told him.
‘I am not.’
‘I can be a real twat sometimes,’ she said. ‘But you’re just saying that. Which I guess is sweet. Which moves me.’ She was caressing the phone sadly. ‘I’d like to make it up to you.’
‘Then come to the party with me.’
‘I can’t. Not looking like this.’
‘You’re beautiful,’ he insisted.
‘No. I’m not. Don’t lie to me. Not now.’
‘But you are. You’re the only woman in New York for me.’
‘You just say that because you don’t want to go back to the store,’ she said.
‘Think I’d stay there long? Think some other woman wouldn’t pick me up – like that?’
‘Well, you are kinda cute. God, I’m thirsty.’
‘I love your relationship with water,’ he said.
‘You do?’
‘I live to watch you drink water.’
She unscrewed her bottle and poured the overpriced H2O down her throat. Despite how much liquid she put through herself, she always felt parched. But now she felt satiated, as though she was standing beneath a luxuriant waterfall.
Her throat gurgled slowly, her stomach came to life. She gave a wiggle with her hips, and laughed softly as she wiped a drop or two of the delicious clear liquid off her chin.
‘You know how to do it!’ the phone cried happily. ‘I want you. And only you.’
‘Really? Only me?’
And suddenly her cell felt like a lover’s tongue in her ear.
‘I know you enjoy a rep for being good at phone sex,’ it said. ‘But I’m here to show you what it’s really about!’
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I need it. I don’t care if we’re in Central Park. I want it now.’
‘Rub me over every inch of you,’ the phone said. ‘And do it slowly.’
She was unbearably turned on. She kissed her phone, then put the whole keypad into her mouth, playing with each individual button. She loved the way it moaned and urged her on. They were in plain view of joggers, vendors and people throwing Frisbees. Nannies pushed fabulous baby carriages. Let them see; she didn’t care.
She leaned against a large tree near the baseball field, sliding down its trunk as she pushed the cell phone up where it most wanted to be, and she didn’t even have to push it inside her pussy, the phone knew just what to do, and it did so much more than R.B. ever could; and it really explored her in a way that R.B. never had.
And then the phone brought her to orgasm as she felt the exquisite whir of not just one, but a succession of phone calls coming right into her.
She pulled the phone up to her mouth and kissed herself on its mouthpiece, and heard another ring.
‘Let’s go again,’ it said.
‘Don’t you ever need recharging?’ she asked.
‘Not when I’m with you,’ the phone rasped.
‘So where is this party anyway?’
Like a divining rod, the mobile tugged her out of the park and through the haughtier blocks of the Upper East Side. They’d talk and murmur and whisper and fondle until the phone realized it was time to turn a corner, then it would give her another of those tugs, and she’d giggle the way she did back in college when boys proposed a new sex game.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ she said headily, and followed his urgings.
It reminded her of dreams she’d had where she’d be wandering through one of those incredible houses in the back pages of the Times magazine section and suddenly it would be endless, room after room, wing after wing, attics and basements, bedrooms and terraces, and she’d know someone was out there waiting for her to open the right door.
Where did all these limos come from? Did sidewalk trees really grow this leafy and large in New York?
‘You have to know your way around,’ the phone’s voice said to her. Well, said wasn’t really the right word. The words were being mainlined into her, beamed in from somewhere beyond Planet Dolby.
‘But I didn’t say anything. How did you –’
‘When you’ve got a direct connection, it’s better not to ask these questions. Just know that it’s a step beyond broadband.’
Broadband. Oh, God, yes.
The street lamps and cobblestones and facades reminded her of those old-novel-adaptations she used to love going to at the Paris Theatre, the ones with the English actresses and the great wallpaper.
Each brownstone was grander than the next, yet she felt as though this was where she belonged. She felt a twinge of pity for R.B., who’d never know this kind of pleasure with her, and would never know what ecstasy she was truly capable of.
Her reverie was interrupted by an old woman’s voice. So familiar. Could it be?
No, please. Not the crone. Not now.
But it was her, swearing in that all-consonants language of hers. ‘My respects, Majesty,’ her phone said to the ancient pest as they glided by. Did the crone give them a wink?
She pulled her phone close and whispered, ‘You know her?’
‘Every cell phone is her subject. Who do you think is in charge?’
‘You don’t mean she is?’
‘And you thought it was those suits on the cover of the Business section. Silly girl.’
She felt chastened yet grateful. Initiated somehow.
‘Welcome to her little place.’
She looked up the staircase. ‘Place’ wasn’t quite the word. ‘Chateau’ would be more accurate. The phone gave her a tug and then they were sweeping up marble steps and through an extravagant Beaux-Arts entryway.
‘I hope this party is as good as it looks,’ she said, excited but apprehensive.
You’ll be charming. The thing to do is to let you be yourself.’
And what did that mean? And would she find out now, after all these years of not knowing?
The doorman bowed deeply, sweeping them inside behind a group of dwarves and tall, slim models.
And then it happened. She didn’t need her phone. The phone was her and she was it, with no need for transportation of blah-blah-blah, didyaknowthisandthat, just instantaneous connection.
This is the most amazing crowd you’ve ever seen at a party, the phone said, or rather seemed to help her think.
What a relief not to have to make all that usual effort to communicate!
For me, too, he said.
It’s like sixty-nine for brains, only it works, not in that distracting way it is in reality where you can’t pay attention, but the mutual-lusciousness way it is when you fantasize about it.
An elevator full of perfume and furs, the doors now opening on to a magnificent hallway full of as many priceless paintings and objects as a corridor at the Met.
They began moving down it when she noticed, on the opulent Oriental rugs, evening clothes strewn in heaps along the corridor. Before her, and on either side of her, guests were shedding items of clothing and leaving them behind.
She looked in a panic at her phone.
I don’t know if I’m up to this kind of Eyes Wide Shut scene. Face it, that movie was a major flop.
But it’s done brilliantly on Blu-ray.
Blu-ray! Of course, it made sense. Her knees felt a little weak. It was like the world was turning into a flat-screen monitor with an endless loop of her favourite sex scenes going by.
I am HTML. Anyone can code me now.
She looked down and saw her blou
se unbuttoning itself. Her skirt slithered down her legs and puddled on the carpet, miraculously not tripping her. The crowd was turning right through a double door. As her hair swung loose and her bra flew off, she pulled her cell phone close to her.
Tell me I’m not going to make a fool of myself. I mean, this is exactly what I’ve always wanted. But is now really the moment? But if I don’t go in now, will it ever be the right moment?
It will always be your moment.
She jolted back as if slapped. But she knew it was what she’d needed to hear, and her head cleared.
I finally have access to my own menu.
You always did.
Together they walked through the door. In the room were groups, clusters of all kinds of bodies, G-strings, masks. Was that a whip in that hand? She approached the nearest group, which opened up to her.
She felt a moment’s shock and gave her cell phone a squeeze, but he wasn’t there. One after another, the members of the group turned to her, and each one had a head shaped like the earpiece of a phone.
A bolt of panic raced through her. She turned to a mirror and saw that she’d become one of them. It was grotesque, it was terrifying. It was the most beautiful thing she would ever be. She was among her kind. She could be who she was.
There were slender, appealingly flesh-coloured heads with clear buttons where their eyes should be, there were black ones and kandy-koloured ones. Each had a keypad on its chest, each had a square microphone hole for a mouth. She fingered her own microphone hole.
They were all engaged in conversation, leaning into each other and putting sides of their heads to the microphones of others to listen.
They welcomed her into their groups. Their voices had a beguiling aimlessness. She loved vibrating with them. From time to time, there was the trill of a cell phone orgasm.
She laughed. She’d never heard anything funnier. And now she was trilling in ecstasy.
But where was her dream lover? Would she never hold him in her hand again? Never hold him next to her ear? The thought that her lips might never touch him again made her want to scream. Would she ever be able to cry again?
The crowd parted for an instant and across the room was the most hunky, most adorable cell phone she’d ever seen.
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