The Periodicals Room
by
Edward Voeller
Readers had ensconced themselves on two-seat sofas and cushioned lounge chairs in the quiet of the periodicals room. Gnashing newspaper pages were the only disturbance, when a loud ringtone broke in. Maximum volume. It jolted us all, raising heads all around the room. Annoyance everywhere. I looked up from Ebony to see the source of the noise: an elderly man with a red knit cap, a hearing aid, and newspaper pages spread on his lap.
He displayed a moment of indecision. Answer the phone where he was seated or take it outdoors? The ringtone blasted again. The man glanced around him for a moment as if asking for permission. He shook his head. Finally he tapped a finger on a cellphone display and brought the phone to his ear. An urgent call, it seemed. The room returned to reading. The man with the red cap spoke very loud. Everyone in the room listened. We couldn’t help hearing.
“Yes, I am.”
“Dr. Who?”
What tests?
“Kidney disease?”
“Serious? Stage four?” The man slumped slightly in his chair.
He had forgotten his reading room audience. We listeners were bothered by the side of the conversation that we heard.
“You mean now? It’s that urgent?” The old man leaned forward in his chair, braced an elbow on a knee, and supported his head in his free hand. Then he straightened up and pulled the red cap lower on his head.
Was he terminally ill? I hoped not.
“I think you got the wrong patient,” we heard him say.
“Yes, that’s my number.”
“Yes, that’s my last name.”
“Yes, I am. Please spell Carey for me.”
“That’s not me. I’m a C-a-r-e-y, not a C-a-r-r-i-e.”
“Yes, that’s all right. Happens all the time.”
The man tapped the display on his phone and slipped the thing back into his pocket. He slumped in his chair and sighed. Arms dropped to his sides. Audible relief rose from the reading room.
The man looked up to see readers in the periodical room looking at him. He smiled apologetically.
The elderly man with the red cap was just ahead of me as I was leaving the library. I was close enough to hear another man reach out to him as he got to the exit.
“That kind of call is unsettling,” the interloper said. “Everybody was glad for you.” The old man with the red cap was expressionless. The other man hesitated. Then he spoke again.
“Y’know, I’ve had similar experiences. My name is Marlow, and my daughter’s name is Marlowe. Same sound but she’s got an e at the end of her name. Don’t think that doesn’t cause problems when people call at home.”
The man with the red knit cap stood stolid.
“Me an’ my daughter experience that confusion all the time,” the interloper continued.
“Just like me and my daughter,” the man with the red knit cap replied, and he walked out of the library.
He displayed a moment of indecision. Answer the phone where he was seated or take it outdoors? The ringtone blasted again. The man glanced around him for a moment as if asking for permission. He shook his head. Finally he tapped a finger on a cellphone display and brought the phone to his ear. An urgent call, it seemed. The room returned to reading. The man with the red cap spoke very loud. Everyone in the room listened. We couldn’t help hearing.
“Yes, I am.”
“Dr. Who?”
What tests?
“Kidney disease?”
“Serious? Stage four?” The man slumped slightly in his chair.
He had forgotten his reading room audience. We listeners were bothered by the side of the conversation that we heard.
“You mean now? It’s that urgent?” The old man leaned forward in his chair, braced an elbow on a knee, and supported his head in his free hand. Then he straightened up and pulled the red cap lower on his head.
Was he terminally ill? I hoped not.
“I think you got the wrong patient,” we heard him say.
“Yes, that’s my number.”
“Yes, that’s my last name.”
“Yes, I am. Please spell Carey for me.”
“That’s not me. I’m a C-a-r-e-y, not a C-a-r-r-i-e.”
“Yes, that’s all right. Happens all the time.”
The man tapped the display on his phone and slipped the thing back into his pocket. He slumped in his chair and sighed. Arms dropped to his sides. Audible relief rose from the reading room.
The man looked up to see readers in the periodical room looking at him. He smiled apologetically.
The elderly man with the red cap was just ahead of me as I was leaving the library. I was close enough to hear another man reach out to him as he got to the exit.
“That kind of call is unsettling,” the interloper said. “Everybody was glad for you.” The old man with the red cap was expressionless. The other man hesitated. Then he spoke again.
“Y’know, I’ve had similar experiences. My name is Marlow, and my daughter’s name is Marlowe. Same sound but she’s got an e at the end of her name. Don’t think that doesn’t cause problems when people call at home.”
The man with the red knit cap stood stolid.
“Me an’ my daughter experience that confusion all the time,” the interloper continued.
“Just like me and my daughter,” the man with the red knit cap replied, and he walked out of the library.
flash fiction submissions, flash fiction submission, nano fiction submissions, nano fiction submission, micro fiction submission, micro fiction submissions, short short fiction submission, short short fiction submissions, sudden fiction submission, sudden fiction submissions, flash fiction journal, nano fiction journal, sudden fiction journal, micro fiction journal, paying market, open for submissions, accepting submissions, reading period, brief fiction