Cat In A Flamingo Fedora

Chapter 7

Call Again. . .

"I've been thinking about you," Matt told his most devoted caller.

"Oh?" The Voice sounded intrigued, even pleased. Matt smiled grimly. Manipulating back was too satisfying. Man was the only animal that could become his own tormentor.

"You've only been calling me for the last eight months."

"You counted. I'm flattered."

"No, I checked the logbook."

"Logbook?" A tinge of panic.

"As a nonprofit agency, we have to account for ourselves." This was an off-white lie; in reality, the book logged crank callers. But Matt wanted his caller to see the larger network beyond the lone counselor on the phone. He got quite a reaction.

"More than anything, you have to remain private. Discreet. Isn't confidentiality what you promise, what you sell, what you get paid for?"

"Is that how you think of us, as hookers? As an intimate service you pay for?"

"Why not? I've done it all my life. Paid for service. Nobody ever does anything for free, one way or another."

"That's a cynic's self-justification."

"What's this 'we' all of a sudden, anyway? I thought it was just you and me. You trying to hide behind an organization, Brother John?"

"Isn't everybody nowadays?"

"Not me. I stand alone."

"Except on the phone."

"Not fair! We're supposed to be talking about me, not about what you think of me."

"I don't think anything of you. I'm an organization man, remember?"

"I don't care who you are. That's the beauty of this arrangement, isn't it? We don't have to know each other. We don't have to like each other. But you have to answer the phone."

"You don't have to call."

A pause.

"There's where you're wrong. I do."

"Is it another addiction, then?"

"Life is an addiction, Brother John. You ever think of it that way? That if we're not addicted to staying alive, we die?"

"You say you're not suicidal--"

"It's a phone! You say a lot of things on the phone . . . that you're interested in somebody's deal, or body. That you won't be late for an appointment you have no intention of keeping. That you wish somebody a 'Happy Birthday' or a good life. None of it's necessarily real."

"I'm not a debating society. I'm here to help. It seems to me the only help you need is a twenty-four-hour on-line baby-sitter."

"What is this, tough love? You used to just listen. I could hear you being nonjudgmental.

Then, a call or two back, it changed. Why?"

"At least you're thinking about somebody besides yourself."

"Is that it? I'm too self-centered? Why shouldn't I be? I'm famous for it. That's why I liked talking to you. Usually I have to give people a certain amount of time to spout off about themselves, but you . . . you would just listen. You could be a robot for all I know."

"Is that your ideal partner for a heart-to-heart, a robot?"

"You don't get it. That's not an insult. That means you're good at what you do. You don't let you get in the way. Talking to you is like talking to myself, and then I see things ..."

"Insight is important, but--"

"No, you listen, listen to me about what you should do, for a change. Don't judge. You never know what circumstances made me the self-involved pig I am. You never know how much I might hate this wonderful famous self of mine, or how many people around me might hate it too. You never know when my talking to you might be a matter of life or death. Do you? Do you, Brother John?"

What could he say? Nothing. Matt felt his shoulders sag.

"Now, listen..."