Modern Love
& Other Tall Tales
Greg Boyd
Red Hen Press 
Los Angeles 2000
Modern Love and Other Tall Tales
Copyright © 2000 by Greg Boyd
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.
The Stories in this book have previosuly appeared in the following publications: Artful Dodge and then again in the anthology Anyone Is Possible (Red Hen Press, 1997), “The Further Adventures of Huck, Tom and Jim”; Asylum Annual 1994, “Modern Love”; Asylum Annual 1995, “Listen”; Fiction International 22 and then again in the anthology Best American Erotica 1993 (edited by Susie Bright), “Horny.”
Special thanks to the editorial work of Peter Pryor.
Cover image: “Franciscan Monk”
Metal sculpture by Mike Peery
Metal Maddness, Los Angeles, California
Book and cover design by Mark E. Cull
ISBN 1-888996-22-6
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 00-100601
Published by Red Hen Press
* * *
First Edition
Modern Love
Modern Love
A strange woman called me on the phone and told me she wanted to be my love slave. I asked her if she was joking, and whether she’d simply picked my number at random from the phone book. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. Then she told me in great detail exactly what she’d like me to do to her and the kinds of things she was capable of doing for me.
The whole time she was talking I kept looking at the blank television screen, wishing I’d had the sense to turn it on before picking up the phone. It’s something I usually do when the phone goes off in the evening. That way I can watch what’s on and think about something else the whole time whoever’s on the other end is trying to sell me their steam cleaning or raffle tickets or whatever without having to waste my time completely or feel guilty and mean-spirited because I’ve been rude to them by hanging up. After all, these people usually aren’t the owners of the companies or services they represent or even commissioned sales representatives, but rather temporary employees or else minimum-wage workers employed by agencies set up to perform phone soliciting services. The point is that these people have to make a living like the rest of us, and barging into the private lives of complete strangers at the dinner hour isn’t exactly the kind of job a person would voluntarily choose to do. So even though I resent their intrusion, I don’t want to add to the misery of someone already burdened by such a desperate situation, for I truly believe that one small insensitive act can often be enough to drive a person to unspeakable crimes. And I don’t want that sort of thing—mass shootings in crowded restaurants, to take only one example—on my conscience.
So even though this woman wasn’t really selling anything, I felt I had to listen to what she was saying, if only out of common courtesy. At least she had a pleasant speaking voice, though a bit husky and deep for a woman. With a voice like that I would think she could have easily been on the radio, maybe taking calls from other people. Some of what she said was very graphic and perverted. Stuff having to do with safety pins, leather goods and various body parts. You can imagine. By the end of her monologue she was breathing heavily into the receiver and whimpering a bit, which made me so nervous and embarrassed I had to get up out of my chair. Worst of all, the whole thing took a lot longer than it should have.
Finally, after she was finished, I hung up the phone. An odd electricity crackled in the air. I went into the kitchen and got myself a couple big scoops of vanilla ice cream, which I stirred around the bowl until it was soft and creamy. By the time I’d finished eating, it was raining lightly outside. The apartment suddenly seemed small and stuffy, charged as it was with static energy, so I thought I’d take a walk. My doctor tells me I should get more exercise to improve my circulation. Because I’m bald on top, I put on a fur hat to keep from catching a cold. Living alone as I do, I’ve often thought of getting a dog or some other small pet, but I wonder about the responsibility. Still, if I would have had a dog I would have taken it with me, maybe for protection, as this isn’t the safest neighborhood, but I don’t, so I went by myself, jingling my keys in my hand. I live near the cemetery, which is black in the center at night, though the sidewalk along the outer wall is fairly well lit. It wasn’t much of a walk, just once around the perimeter of the cemetery. That’s really about all I can take.
When I got back to the apartment the phone was ringing again. I could hear it from the landing of the floor below. I knew instantly it was mine. After all these years, I recognize the tone. For some reason I thought it might be important, even though hardly anyone but salespeople ever call, as I’m long-ago divorced with grown children I never really had a chance to become close to, who are now living in the Midwest. The few friends I once had are all deceased or else moved out of town years ago. I stayed because of my job and the pension. It’s not easy to change after so many years. After making it up the stairs, I had to rush to get the key into the lock and open the door. I nearly stumbled as I hurried to pick up the receiver.
The same woman who’d called earlier was on the line. She wanted my address. “I’d like to see you now,” she said. I was still breathless from rushing to climb the stairs. Finally, though, I managed to tell her I didn’t think her coming over was such a hot idea. But she wouldn’t give up. Then she started in about handcuffs. Apparently, she wanted me to help fasten her to my bedpost. For a moment I pictured a stranger sleeping like a dog at the foot of my bed. I wiped my mouth and the top of my head with a handkerchief. I kept saying no, over and over, but she wouldn’t let go of the idea. Finally, I made up a fake address and gave it to her. She promised to be there in fifteen minutes. “Put on some water to boil so we can have tea,” she said, then the receiver clicked gently. For a while I sat perfectly still and went over the conversation in my head. My hands were shaking. Finally I went into the kitchen and heated some milk to drink before bed.
Sometime during the night I thought I heard noises in the apartment and when I got up to check, my ex-wife, young the way she was when we were first divorced, was fixing toast in the kitchen, dressed only in black stockings, a garter belt, and high heels. She looked up from spreading margarine when I entered the room. “Hiya, Lou,” she said, waving the knife in her hand, “long time no see.”
I stared at her a long time. “Annie,” I finally said, “I thought you remarried. Where’s your husband?”
“Gone to a ball game. He took a cab. Say, Lou, you don’t look so good. Are you getting enough exercise?” Suddenly, we were standing close together. She leaned toward me, still holding the knife. We were just about to embrace when I woke up. I’m usually not much of a dreamer, so all I could think of was the milk must have been sour.
The next morning I ate my oatmeal, took one and a half cups of coffee without any milk, and rode the subway to my office as I do every working day. Though I can retire any time, I stay on. It’s what I do. Mostly my work involves tracking taxes for the same big firms, but occasionally I’m called in to consult on an annual report and sometimes I even prepare personal taxes for our wealthiest clients. I’ve been around a long time. People trust me, so when something big comes into the office, I’m often the one they turn to. And honestly, after all these years, the numbers kind of soothe me. That and the routine, like every day saying the same things to the same people in the morning when I come in. Or always sharpening my pencils before I sit down at my desk. At my age, people have to know what to expect.
After work I usually eat dinner at one of two places on the same block as my building. The waitresses know me and give good service without making a big fuss, which is more comfortable for everyone. They know what to expect for a tip and I know they’ll refill my coffee cup twice without even asking. Both places are comfortable, not too pricey, with menus varied enough to keep me from becoming too bored to eat. At one of the restaurants they’ve got one of those carts loaded with sweets and sometimes, when I’m in a decadent kind of mood, I treat myself to dessert.
But that evening I couldn’t seem to find anything on the menu I wanted. Finally, because a person’s got to eat, I ordered a bowl of soup and a sandwich, most of which I left on the plate. For some reason I didn’t feel like being around so many strange people moving their jaws, or to see women in shiny brown jumpers scurrying past, arms full of dishes. I thought I’d feel better at home where I could put my feet up, maybe watch a few minutes of television.
I’d just come through the door, hadn’t even turned the set on yet, and was still unlacing my shoes, when the phone went off. “You’re punishing me,” she said. “Please let me see you. I want you to hurt me, but not like you did last night. That was cruel. I’ll do anything you say, but please don’t lie to me again.” I squeezed both arms around my waist and told her I wasn’t interested.
“Look lady,” I said, finally, “I’m old and bald and fat and probably not much fun for you. Besides, I don’t have any ropes or chains or even a ball of string around here, just a box of rubber bands, which I don’t think would be much good for hand-cuffing even if I was interested in such a thing, which I can tell you bluntly right now I’m not. So why don’t you try someone else, someone younger, someone with a police record?” But she wouldn’t listen. Instead, she threatened to kill herself if I didn’t immediately give her my real address.
“I’d die for you,” she said, her voice deep and breathless. Then she described in detail how she’d slash herself with a razor blade across each wrist, up both forearms, then make another big straight rip across her neck. “I know just where to cut,” she assured me. I didn’t say anything. Instead, my eyes drifted back to the dull screen of the television. I don’t know how long I sat there, neither of us saying a word and me just staring at the layer of dust on the convex picture tube, but it must have been several minutes. I kept hoping she’d hang up. I honestly didn’t know what else to do.
When she screamed into the phone it was so loud that I jerked my head back and knocked it hard against the wood back of the chair I was sitting in. For a second the pain blinded me and I sat there blinking and rubbing the back of my head. As soon as I could speak again, I asked if she was all right. For a minute or two the line was dead silent and I started to think the worst. Then she told me in a hoarse whisper that she’d made an incision an inch deep and three inches long in her thigh with a razor blade. I shivered as she described the pool of blood that was collecting beneath her on the floor of her kitchen.
“Look lady, give me your address and I’ll call an ambulance for you.”
“No. I’m going to keep cutting myself until you let me see you. Only you can prevent it. I need your attention one way or the other. You decide.”
“You’re crazy,” I said, but she didn’t let me finish. Already she was threatening to slash her wrists. “But first I’m going to nail my hand to the breadboard. I’m not kidding,” she warned, “if you don’t tell me your address right now I’ll drive a nail through the palm of my hand. I’ve got the hammer right here in my hand.” She pounded it a few times to prove what she was saying was true. “Then I’ll mark both my cheeks with the razor and carve your phone number into my chest.”
That did it. Even though she was completely insane, I didn’t want to have her death or even her disfigurement on my conscience. I didn’t want nightmares of a woman with nails protruding from her body like some crazy Saint Sebastian painting or to wake up screaming in the night from seeing my phone number bleeding in pulpy flesh. I tried to tell her my address, but she said to wait until she got a pencil and paper. Then, after she’d written down the street number, she promised to call a cab and come right over just as soon as she’d bandaged her leg.
While I was waiting for her to show up I thought of calling the police and having them come up and arrest her when she got here. But what if they didn’t believe me, or she told them some completely different story that made me look like a criminal? And then even if they did take her, what would my neighbors think if they saw the cops dragging a woman out of my apartment in handcuffs? There was nothing to do but wait for her.
So I sat there and imagined what might happen when she arrived. Certainly I’d manage to get her calmed down. A bowl of ice cream might divert her attention. I hoped I could talk her out of any wild schemes she might have. No doubt this stranger was putting me at great risk, but as time passed I became more and more convinced that I could handle whatever situation developed. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and face. By now I was pacing back and forth across the apartment. Each time a car drove by, I ran to the window and looked down to the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her getting out of the taxi. I wondered what she looked like, how old she was. Not that I cared. I only wanted something to go with the voice, something to make it real. But no taxi stopped in front of the building.
Hours passed and still she hadn’t arrived. As the night progressed, I sat by the window in the darkness and the silence, the phone on the end table next to me. Perhaps she’d lost too much blood and had passed out. Maybe she’d seen that the cut was so deep that it would require stitches to stop the bleeding and had gone to the hospital. A doctor might have become suspicious and informed the police. It occurred to me that I didn’t even know her name. Eventually I must have drifted off to sleep in the chair, though I remember the night was filled with red lights and sirens.
The next day I called in sick to work and stayed in my apartment. Though she’d never called me before during the day, I didn’t go out for lunch, didn’t even shower for fear that I wouldn’t hear the phone if it rang while the water ran. As evening approached I became more and more restless and agitated. I needed to hear from her. But the apartment was silent. Christ, I thought, maybe she had given up on me and was making another call to someone else at this very moment. The thought made my stomach ache. At one point I turned on the television and flipped from channel to channel, image to bright image, but nothing held my attention or took my mind off of her. Evening came and went. I switched on a single light and sat in semi-darkness. Later I tried the radio, searching in vain for an announcer with a husky voice. All I found was noise, advertisements, a few stations where people talked without making any sense. I switched it off. Then I moved from room to room through the thick silence, going from couch to bed to chair and back to the couch once more.
Finally the phone rang. I bounded to it in three giant steps, snatched it up. “Hello?” My heart was racing. But it was only a salesman for life insurance. I slammed the receiver down hard and lay back on the couch with my forearm over my eyes. The city pulsed around me: a car horn on the street below, a bus accelerating through the intersection a block away. I clenched my fists and listened to the rhythmic sound of my own breathing. I sat up and touched the phone, brought it to my cheek, slammed it back into its cradle.
I wanted her. If I could talk to her again I’d tell her everything. That I wanted to strip her naked, handcuff her arms behind her back and whip her with my belt until she cried out. That I wanted to pierce her nipples with safety pins as she begged me to stop. That I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat. That I wanted her.
I got up, went into the bathroom, removed the blade from my razor and carried it back to the easy chair by the window. In the distance, I could hear the sirens. They were always present. Slowly, deliberately, I tested the blade against my neck until I could feel my pulse against the metal. My heart pounded through my ears as I lowered the blade to my lap and cradled it with both hands. For a long time I rocked slowly in the silence.
Then I picked up the phone and dialed.