the absent racket

  on thursday the telephone rang. i picked up the receiver and held it closely to my ear barely breathing a hello. a woman asked me if i had found god. 

  "no," i replied, "but when i do, i shall be prepared with a glass of vinho do porto and a kitchen knife."

  she muttered something about farm animals and i hung up. i moved to my office and began organizing my library by date of the authors' deaths. within a few minutes the telephone sounded off again. on the other end a man inquired about my day. i told him it was ruthlessly benign and inquired about his wife's day. we exchanged notes on more personal matters, the state of the state, tips for properly roasting duck, and various exit strategies. we wished each other good health then ended the transmission as i slid the last work of danielewski onto the shelf. 

  after i had completed my task i decided to draw a bath and brew a fresh pot of coffee. i put the kettle on the burner just as the telephone rang once more. slightly irritated, i removed myself from the kitchen to the nearest unit located in the den. when i arrived, the ringing stopped abruptly in its tracks. from the threshold i stood staring at the previously noisy machine. it sat solidly atop the oak sofa table next to the fireplace. its cool, sleek black frame exposed the drab palate of the faded room, which i had become fond of ignoring. after a moment's fixation i pulled myself away from the door well and transported back to the previous room. 

  i retrieved the coffee tin from the cabinet above the counter top and removed the lid. as i opened the drawer to select a spoon, the telephone rang again. but as it had happened before, the telephone ceased its calamity the second i stepped foot through the door. i pondered who the party attempting to contact me was. i gazed heavily at the telephone. it appeared at the time the cord had been elongated. i quickly dismissed this notion and again returned to my now boiling kettle of water. i switched off the gas and paused. although i had anticipated it, the piercing bell sent a shock through my bones. i paced cautiously towards the sound. 

  when i entered the den the telephone fell silent. a wave of inexplicable warmth washed over my body. i swallowed hard and turned around, heading back in the direction from which i had come. my head swirled slightly and my extremities felt weak. no sooner was i three feet from the kitchen when the dreadful alarm froze me in my place. the incessant chiming echoed off the walls and filled the entire house demanding i repeat the perplexing ritual. balling up my fists with sweat beading around my forehead, i retraced my path. the sudden calm i heard from the doorway struck me like an anvil. nearly shaken to death, i stepped down onto the floorboards. 

  inching closer to the telephone, my eyes flared and my skin stung. i slowly reached down and grasped the receiver. i pulled it off of the hook and placed it to my ear. my eyes darting wildly, nervously i asked,

  "hello?"
  after a second of dead air i was responded to by my own cracked voice, 

  "hello?" 

  "who is this," i hissed, only to hear the exact question repeated, 

  "who is this?" 

  i slammed the receiver down and confusedly backed away from the table. i left the room hurriedly and overly distraught. in the hallway i nearly collapsed. i had to stabilize myself on the wall as i drew deep panicked breaths. i stumbled up to the kitchen doorway, frantically grabbing onto the molding. around me, my surroundings pulsated and my insides throbbed.

  as i reestablished my constitution and brought my line of vision up from the floor, my eyes met the sight which trumped the terror from the telephone. there, placed atop the granite counter sat a glass of 30-year-old semi-dry tawny port accompanied by a freshly sharpened boning knife.