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The Obscene Caller
 THE OBSCENE CALLER
by Diana Altman
The Internet says that even today, with caller ID and answering machines, there are obscene callers among us. A recent study reports that one in five female college students have received an obscene phone call. College websites fill their security pages with the usual advice—hang up immediately. “An obscene call is an attack made in secret by a man who is alone.” Alone.
Jonathan and I used to live on the second floor of a two-family house on a tree-lined street in Newton, Massachusetts. Our furniture was a combination of items rescued from the sidewalk and hand-me-downs from our parents. Jonathan built our bed from planks we found in the woods. It was a simple frame on the floor with slats across to hold the mattress. There, and in many other places in 1971, we created our eldest child.
We ate brown rice out of wooden bowls and used chopsticks. Everyone’s youth coincides with some philosophy of food that promises freedom from disease. We were under the influence of Macrobiotics which proclaimed the wisdom of eating local produce plus lots of beans, and Adele Davis who tried to wean us from red meat. I cooked walnut cheddar loaf and millet topped with bok choy. Then Jonathan and I ran out to Brighams for a hot fudge sundae.
Our bathtub had claw feet. We took turns sitting at the faucet end. When we soaked in bubbles we passed a joint back and forth and held it with a clip so it wouldn’t get wet. We spent the evenings reading Sherlock Holmes stories out loud.
What we loved most about that apartment was its upstairs room. The stairs did not go to another floor, just up to that one room where I worked writing fiction and freelance pieces for various newspapers. I also worked as a private tutor. My two Japanese men studying at MIT had returned to Kyoto so I was running the classified ad again.
Each morning Jonathan drove his Saab to Brookline where he was an architect in a small firm. I fed his cat in the kitchen then took a bowl of food to my cat who had been living in the closet since the day she met Jonathan’s cat. I sat down in the closet with her for a while, let her bat her nose against my chin, then climbed the stairs to get to work.
Discouraged by all the rejection slips that arrived like bad smells, I had decided to take everyone’s advice and write a dirty book. Sex sells, they all said. The problem was overcoming my own modesty and writing down things that would make me die of shame if read by my in-laws.
My book was set in Cambridge and opened at a faith healer’s apartment. The faith healer made everyone take off clothes, drink a potion he brewed on his stove, then sit on his lap. Men and women both. This was based on a faith-healer I actually met in Cambridge during my student days but now I added male dogs. I felt sneaky and guilty and kept imagining a shadowy adult, my mother or teacher, barging in and shaming me. But still I wrote, breasts, erections, thighs, and...brrringgg!
Usually, I took the phone off the hook and kept it disconnected until I’d finished working. Now I couldn’t do that because maybe a new tutoring client would call. I yanked up the receiver.
“Miss Dutelle?” A male voice.
“Yes?”
“Will you watch me masturbate?”
My insides flipped over. Could my thoughts while writing have been projected into the world? Can that happen? “Who is this?”
“Bill Stanton.”
No. Couldn’t be. I knew Bill Stanton. He had been in my class when I taught seventh grade English. He sat sideways at his desk with his legs in the aisle. Why would Bill do this to me? We had a relationship. We spent one afternoon sitting close and arranging his three-ring notebook, separating his class notes with tabs, sorting homework papers according to subject. How old would he be now? Fifteen? I could see him surrounded by other young punks all guffawing with their palms over their mouths. How could he do this to me, me who went word for word with him before vocabulary tests, me who helped him understand that a short story is not just retelling last night’s television show. “This is the saddest phone call I ever got,” I said and hung up.
I went back to my desk, heart pounding, sat down, and picked up my fountain pen. Now where was I? The girl was in the bedroom with...brrringgg!
“Hello?”
“Well, will you?”
I slammed the phone down. What had I done to Bill Stanton to make him do this to me? I stood there furious as the phone rang. It rang and rang and rang. Answering machines were not common, yet. If I took the phone off the hook then prospective clients would continue getting a busy signal and they’d give up. I stomped downstairs, grabbed my coat and the phone was still ringing as I went out the door.
Picking organic things off the shelf at the health food store, I imagined confronting Bill Stanton. I’d go to the high school where he was surely failing every subject, walk into the remedial reading class and say in front of everyone, “Well, here I am, Bill, come to watch you.” He would shuffle next to me to the principal’s office. If he ever called me again, I’d trap him.
Jonathan did not believe a former student of mine would call me two years later. “Maybe I’ve put myself in touch with all the scurviness of the world by spending my time writing a dirty book,” I said. Jonathan read the chapters and said he didn’t think the book was all that dirty so I wondered if, perhaps, I was more sheltered than I realized.
It was the blustery time of year when it’s dark at four in the afternoon and people from other states wonder why anyone would live in New England. Gray every day, skeleton trees, slushy streets, it seems permanent. Through the window of my study I could see lights in the house across the street. Someone came to a window and pulled down the shade. Brrringgg!
“Hello?”
“Will you watch me masturbate?”
Ha! Here was my chance. If he thought being sent out to the hall for disturbing the class was bad, he hadn’t seen anything yet. “Who is this?”
“Bill Stanton.”
“Do I know you?”
No reply. I waited. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
“Then how do you know me?”
“I don’t.”
“Then how did you get my name and my telephone number?” I would catch this brat and make sure the rest of his days in Newton High School were pure torment.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Should I tell you?”
“Yes, you should.” I waited to be amused by the story he would make up.
“Out of the paper. You advertized as a tutor.” Now he heard the sharp intake of breath and stunned silence he was hoping for. “Well, will you?”
Just because he wasn’t the Bill Stanton I knew from junior high school didn’t mean I couldn’t outwit him. What would be the exact thing that would scramble his brains? “Sure,” I said. “Where should we meet?”
“Where do you live?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Tough luck. I’m not telling.”
“Well,” he said, “do you really want to watch me?”
I would schedule a rendezvous, phone the police, and we’d pounce on him. “Why do you want me to watch you?”
“Because. I don’t know why. It’s just a need I have.”
“Do you always call people up when the need comes upon you?”
“Yes. I do. You find that hard to believe?”
“No.”
“You find it hard to believe that women agree to watch?”
“I can’t imagine why they want to.”
“They like to. Why did you agree to meet me?”
“Curiosity.”
“Well, that’s why they agree, some of them. And some of them just like to watch.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I can tell you find that unbelievable.”
“In a way I guess I do.”
“Why?”
This man’s voice was full of education and a careful upbringing. He was an east coast person. “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seems strange, that’s all. I mean where do they watch you? Right out on the street?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes in cars or sometimes in their apartments.”
“Don’t you have an apartment?”
“Yes. But I have a roommate.”
“Why don’t you ask your roommate to watch you?”
“No. I’m not into men.”
“You aren’t into women either by the sound of it.”
“No, you don’t understand. I have intercourse with women but then, later, maybe the next day or a little while later I get this urge to have someone watch me. I mean it’s just not enough, sexual intercourse. It’s a problem I have.”
“Why don’t you try to get rid of your problem? You must like it.”
“I do like it.” This was said in a way that made my stomach lurch and made me wonder if I was not up to this task. Car headlights lit up the walls.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“I will not.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, tell me at least what you thought the last time I called. Were you annoyed?”
“I thought you were my old student Bill Stanton.”
“You did?”
“Yes. He was a kid in the seventh grade and I thought you were him and that he was just fooling around.”
“No kidding. Do I sound that young?”
“He’s not so young now. Fourteen or fifteen.”
“And I sound fourteen or fifteen?”
“No. You don’t.”
“Well, how old do I sound?”
“How should I know? How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve,” I said.
“Twelve? You’re kidding!”
“No. I just sound old for my age.”
“Oh, come on. You’re putting me on. You’re not twelve.”
“Okay, I’m not twelve.”
“Well, how old are you?”
“Infinitely older than you.”
“How do you know? Maybe I’m older than you.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m twenty-one,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Infinitely older than you.” In truth, I was only five years older.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’d like to know.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“Why not? I’ll tell you about me.”
“Go ‘head.”
“Anyway. I know something about you already.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I know you’re not married.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because,” he said proudly, “in the paper it says Miss Dutelle.”
“So it does,” I said. This certainly was an unexpected consequence of keeping my maiden name.
“And I know you were a teacher.”
“So you do.” My ad boasted a degree from the Harvard and experience in public schools.
“Are you still a teacher?”
“No.”
“What do you do now?”
“Listen,” I said. “I’m not going to tell you anything about me.”
“Why not? It would be nicer.”
“Nicer! You call this nice?”
“Sure.”
“Then you tell me about you.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m twenty-one and I’m a student at B.U.”
“A senior?”
“Yes. This is my last year.”
The clock told me it was time to go downstairs and start boiling the soaked adzuki beans. Jonathan would be home soon. The time had come to slam the door shut on my trap. “Where should we meet? I said.
“Can we meet tonight?”
“Sure. Where?”
“You aren’t teasing me?”
“Why should I tease you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you would say you’ll come and then you won’t.”
“That’s the chance you take. Where should I meet you?”
“Could we meet now?”
“No. I have to have dinner. I’ll meet you later around nine o’clock.”
“Can I come to your house?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, do you know your way around Boston?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the Cadillac-Olds is on Commonwealth Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll meet you on the corner in front of that place.”
“Okay.”
“How will I know you?”
“You won’t,” I said.
“Well, that’s no good. Tell me something so I’ll recognize you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll recognize you. You’ll be the only one hanging around on the corner.”
“But how do you know that? Tell me at least how I’ll know it’s you.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in an old red Volvo with a lot of rust stains on it.”
“And you’re sure you’re not kidding?”
“Why should I kid?”
“Well, maybe you don’t understand my problem and maybe you won’t show up.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, how can I be sure?”
“You can’t.”
“Well, that’s no good if you won’t promise. I don’t know what to expect.”
“That’s right. You don’t.”
“Well, that’s not fair.”
“Those are the breaks,” I said.
“Just tell me if you’ll be there.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You promise?”
“I said I’d be there and now I have to hang up.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you at nine o’clock.”
“Yes,” I said. “See you then.”
I put down the receiver, picked it up and phoned the police.
“Main desk. Sergeant Baker.”
“Yes,” I said. “I wonder if you could advise me.” My voice was too treble, panicky. This surprised me because I thought I was calm.
“Certainly. What can I do for you?”
“Well, there was an obscene caller just now on the phone and he gave me his name and said he’d meet me tonight and I don’t know if I should meet him or just forget it.”
Dead silence. “It’s up to you, Ma’am. If you want to meet him then...”
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. I wondered if maybe some police would go with me and then we’d catch him.”
Dead silence. “There’s not much we can do, Ma’am, if you agreed to meet him. That’s between you and him.”
“But I only agreed so he could get caught.”
“Yes,” the sergeant said. “But he isn’t caught. He’s got to be apprehended in the act of placing an obscene call. As it is now he’d just deny he called you and then where would we be?”
“But what should I do?”
Dead silence. “We’ll send a patrol car around to your house and they’ll take care of it. What’s your name and address?”
I told him. “How long will it take?”
“We’ll send it right away. Should be there in ten, fifteen minutes.” The second I put down the receiver the phone rang.
“You were on the phone.”
“So I was.”
“Who were you calling?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“The police?”
“Maybe.”
“You were.”
“Maybe I was.”
“Why were you calling the police? Do you want to have me caught? Is that your game?”
“That’s the chance you take,” I said.
“Well, now I’m not sure I want to meet you.”
“Okay. Let’s hang up.”
“Just tell me if you’re going to show up alone or with someone.”
“No. I won’t tell you.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I tell you who I call on my phone?”
“Well, can I trust you?”
“Of course you can’t trust me. You’d be an idiot to trust me.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“How should I know,” I said. “You’re the obscene caller.”
“Just tell me if you’ll be alone.”
“No. I won’t tell you.”
“Well, tell me if you’ll be with men.”
“Maybe.”
“You mean you want to hurt me? Is that what you want to do? Is that fair?”
“Fair? Are you being fair?”
“Yes,” he said, “I am. I have a need which I’ve asked you to help me with and you won’t even tell me if you’re going to show up alone or not.”
“That’s right.”
“Why are you being like that? What’s the big deal? If you want to watch me just say you do but if you don’t want to just say no and I’ll hang up and that will be the end of it.”
“Listen. I said I’d meet you. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And will you show up alone?”
“That’s the chance you take being an obscene caller.”
“Are you going to have your friends there ready to jump me?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, are you?”
“Maybe. And maybe I’ll bring my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Sure. And my sister. They’d love to see such a sight.”
“They would?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Oh,” he said. “You’re just teasing me. You don’t really want to watch me at all. You just want to trap me and get me in trouble.”
“If you’re afraid of getting in trouble,” I said, “why do you make these phone calls?”
“Because. I cant help it.”
“You can’t help it?”
“No. I can’t. I have this need to have someone watch me. I’ve made a simple request to you. All you have to do is say whether or not you want to watch. If you do, good. If you don’t that’s cool too. Just tell me the truth.”
I kept looking out the window for the patrol car. If I could keep the caller on the phone, the police could hear for themselves and then he’d be cooked. “I’ve said all I’m going to say,” I said. “I said I’d meet you.”
“And you really will?”
“I said I would.”
“Can I trust you?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Okay. I’ll trust you.”
“I’ll see you at nine o’clock,” I said.
“Okay. But let’s not meet in front of Cadillac-Olds.”
“All right.”
“Let’s meet in front of the B.U. Library.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Do you know where the School of Public Communication is?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you in front of there.”
“Okay.”
“How will I know you?”
“You won’t.”
“Come on. Just tell me a little bit about you.”
“No. You tell me what you look like and I’ll recognize you.”
“Well, I’m about six feet tall, green eyes, and a black moustache. What about you?”
“I’m six feet tall,” I said, “green eyes and a black moustache.”
“Oh, you aren’t serious at all.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. I’m very serious.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you later.”
“Are you sure?”
“I said I would.”
“Well, I’ll trust you.”
“That’s up to you,” I said. Now it began to dawn on me that the police had not sent a patrol car.
“And you’ll be there?”
“I’ve got to hang up.”
“How come?”
“Because I’m making dinner and it’s burning up.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at nine. Maybe we can just talk or go get a cup of coffee or something.”
I went downstairs to the kitchen and put water in the pressure cooker. As I was twisting the lid the phone rang. I went into the narrow hallway where Jonathan and I spent a lot of time kissing and picked up the phone that was on an overturned milk crate. “Hello?”
“How’s your dinner?”
“Oh, for heavens sakes. What do you want now?”
“I just don’t know what to do.”
“Do what you want.”
“Just tell me if you’re going to be alone or not.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“But can I trust you?”
“Trust me or don’t trust me. Do what you want.”
“But I’m scared now.”
“You ought to be.”
“Why won’t you just tell me if you’re sincere or not.”
“I said I’d meet you and that’s all I’m going to say.”
“But you’re making it into some kind of game,” he said.
“Why shouldn’t I? What’s so serious about it?” Jonathan’s cat rubbed against my leg, went into the kitchen, came back, and rubbed against my leg again.
“Why won’t you tell me what you look like?”
“Why should I?”
“Okay. Just tell me if you’re going to be alone or with someone.”
“No.”
“Just say if you’re going to be with women or with men.”
“No. I already told you I’m not telling you anything. Do you want guarantees or something? You called me out of the blue. Don’t you understand what kind of risk you’re taking? Don’t you understand that what you’re doing is against the law? Hasn’t it occurred to you what could happen calling up people like this?”
There was a long pause. Downstairs I heard the door open, then Jonathan’s footsteps coming up. “I don’t know,” the caller said. “I don’t know what to do. Why won’t you just tell me if I can trust you. Why won’t you just tell me that?”
“Hold on,” I said. “Something’s burning.” I put the phone down and intercepted Jonathan as he climbed the stairs. I put my finger to my lips and whispered, “It’s the obscene caller. He’s on the phone right now.”
“The obscene caller?”
“Shhh. Yes. Remember?”
Jonathan loosened his scarf and unbuttoned his jacket. “You mean that Bill Stanton guy?”
“Shhh. Yes. He’s on the phone right now. I don’t know what to do.”
“Let me speak to that bastard,” Jonathan said striding to the phone.
“No!” I pulled Jonathan into the kitchen. “If you talk to him he’ll just hang up and we’ll never catch him.”
“Catch him?”
“Yes. I agreed to meet him and I called the police and they said they’d send a patrol car over here. I thought maybe they’d go with me and then he’d be caught.”
“Who is this guy?”
“He’s a student at B.U. Bill Stanton. I was thinking that if he got caught then he could go get help.”
“Bill Stanton.”
“You know, like the brother of that friend of mine I was telling you about, the one they caught calling people in telephone booths. They sent him to McLean.”
“Try to get that guy’s phone number,” Jonathan whispered. “Tell him you’ll call him back.”
I went to the phone. “Bill?”
“What took you so long?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to keep my dinner from getting ruined. Listen, Bill. I don’t know what to do. Could I call you back in a little while?”
“You don’t know what to do?”
“No.”
“I thought I was the one who didn’t know what to do.”
“Well, I don’t know either.”
“I thought you said you’d meet me.”
“I did say that but now I don’t know if I should. I need time to think. Let me call you back.”
“How long?”
“I’ll call you after I finish eating.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll call you back.”
Jonathan signaled me with impatient hands so I said, “I have to eat now. All the food’s getting cold. Goodbye.” I hung up.
Jonathan dialed information and got the main number at Boston University. He asked university information if there was a student enrolled named Bill Stanton. “Thank you,” he said and put the phone down. “There’s no Bill Stanton at B.U.”
“There isn’t?”
“No. Not in any class.”
I sat down hard. I’d been talking to some disgusting criminal. I’d been trying to outwit one of those bugs that scurry when you pick up a stone. Brrringgg! I stormed to the phone, yanked up the receiver and said, “You’re a liar. There is no Bill Stanton at B.U.”
“You called B.U.?”
“I certainly did.”
“You did? You called B.U.?”
“Yes. I did. And now I’m going to hang up because you’re just a liar.”
“No! Wait! That was the only lie I told you. The rest was all true. I am a student at B.U.”
“I don’t care what you are.”
“It was the only lie. I made up a name but all the rest was true.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“It is, honestly. I am a student at B.U. My name is Barry.”
“Barry what?”
“You want my last name?”
“Yes. What’s your last name?”
“I can’t tell you. That’s crazy. I can’t tell you.”
“Then goodbye.”
“Wait!”
“Why? You’re not sincere. I’m not going to waste my time.” I hung up and went into the kitchen. The pressure cooker knob was beginning to vibrate.
“He gets his kicks from calling,” Jonathan said. “He would never have met you.” Jonathan opened a cabinet and took out two wooden bowls and set them on the table. “He would have called you tomorrow and said he didn’t show up because he got scared.” Brrringgg! “There he is,” Jonathan said. “See if you can get his number.”
I picked up the phone. “What.”
“Don’t be mad at me.”
“You’re just a liar. All you want to do is annoy people. I said I’d meet you but that’s not what you want. You just want to call on the phone like an idiot.”
“I do want to meet you,” he said. “Believe me. I am sincere.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You should, that’s all. I do want to meet you.”
“Then give me your telephone number and I’ll call you back.”
“Why?”
“So I can decide what to do and so I can find out if you’re sincere or not.”
“You want my telephone number?”
“Yes.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Listen. I’m not giving you any assurances. As far as I’m concerned we can just hang up now and that’s an end of it.”
“Just tell me if I can trust you.”
“Do what you want.”
“Just tell me if you’re out to hurt me.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not out to hurt you.”
“And can I trust you?”
“Yes,” I said making up my own definition of the word. “You can trust me.”
“Okay. This is a big step.”
“Yes.”
“My number is 617...” and he told it to me.
“Okay. I’ll call you back.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes. I’ll decide by then if I want to meet you.”
“We could just get coffee or something.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Is your dinner burning?”
“Yes. Goodbye.” I went into the kitchen. “He gave me his number, said we could meet for coffee.” Jonathan and I sat there under a cloud of gloom. “I mean he thinks he’s just some immune creature who can call up and say obscene things and somehow he’s exempt from all consequences. But it’s pathetic because he’s sort of knocking on the door of the world and asking to be let back in.” I went to the refrigerator and took out salad fixings and began to tear them into our salad bowl. “I mean is asking someone to watch you masturbate obscene?”
“Sure,” Jonathan said. “That’s obscene.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s sex used in a sort of violent, angry way. It’s obscene.”
“He said it was just a simple request. He said I should just say yes or no.”
“It’s not a simple request.”
“He said women watch him all the time. Some of the ones he calls agree and some say they don’t want to. Just like that.”
“He’s lying. They all scream and hang up. You’re the only one who’s ever talked to him. It’s not a simple request. It’s a very angry thing to do. He asks you to watch and that hits you like a fist and when you hang up he keeps badgering and badgering and badgering.”
“Oh.”
“If he really wanted people to watch him he’d just go do it. In subways or something. This way he stays immune. The thrill is that he stays invisible. Only now you’ve made him visible. You’ve gone right past his bull shit and treated him like a person. He’s always pretending he has this problem about wanting people to watch him and because he doesn’t really have that problem he can see calling up as a big joke. But now you’ve challenged him to put up or shut up and he suddenly has to see himself more clearly. Suddenly he has to take himself seriously and suddenly he really hears what he’s been asking and he feels visible and realizes he’s crazy.”
“I’ll call him back,” I said. “Find out if that number was real.” I picked up the phone and dialed. “Barry?”
“Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me. God. I don’t know. I’m sorry. Really. I apologize. Really.”
“I accept,” I said. “Just don’t do it again.”
“No”, he said. “No. I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry.”
I hung up. “He apologizes,” I said. Jonathan and I sat there listening to the pressure cooker knob jiggling as the kitchen filled with the smell of cooking rice. Outside, we heard the steady hum of traffic on the Mass Turnpike. Brrringgg!
“You want me to put an end to it?” Jonathan said and without waiting for an answer he went to the phone. “Hello? Who’s this? Oh, Barry, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. This is Jonathan, Miss Dutelle’s husband. I know. Yes. Okay. Well, I suggest you go through it alone. Yes, I’ll tell her.” Jonathan came back into the kitchen and sat down. “Says he’s going through a bad scene. I said he should go through it alone. Said to apologize to you. Said he won’t bother you anymore.”
“Bother? You were right then. He just wants to bother.”
“I never heard such a frantic voice,” Jonathan said. “I’ll never forget it.”
“You think he’ll kill himself?”
“I never heard anything like it. So frantic and confused and sad.”
We continued making the salad, poured some yogurt dressing on it, dumped the brown rice in the bowls and spooned some beans on top then just sat there. “All of a sudden there’s this presence in here,” I said. “I feel responsible for him. Like God meant him to call us so he could get some help.”
“There’s some reason he called,” Jonathan said. “Those things aren’t accidental.”
“I thought it was a punishment for me because of my dirty book but maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it was fated for Barry to start on the way to being responsible for himself. I mean maybe he called not because I’m so bad but because I’m good. I mean maybe he called because I’m good. You know what I mean?” Then I started crying and Jonathan came over to me and I sat on his lap.
“You are good,” he said. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to that guy.”
“But I thought it was from being bad. I thought it was from being bad.” I sank against Jonathan and let him comfort me. After a while I pulled back and said, “You think we should call him back? You think we should offer to be his friends?”
“Like go for coffee or something?”
“Yes. Meet him and help him get through the night. Maybe be good influences on him.”
Jonathan went to the phone. “Hello, Barry? This is Jonathan. Yes. We’ve been thinking about you. Yes. We were wondering if you’d like to get together and talk. Maybe talk out your problems. Yes. Well, sometimes it helps to talk these things out. Good. Yes. That’s a good idea. Good. Okay.” Jonathan came back into the kitchen. “Says he’s going to go to the B.U. counseling service in the morning. Says he knows he needs help. Said I made him feel worse by offering to be his friend.” After that we couldn’t stay in the house anymore. We went out to a movie.
Next day I called the telephone company and told a Miss Murphy that I had received an obscene call. Now the words obscene call seemed to have new meaning. What seemed obscene was the circumstances in a boy’s life that could lead to that behavior. I told Miss Murphy the telephone number. She said the number was owned by Barry Seljan and she told me his address and there he was, pinned like a butterfly.
I phoned B.U. and asked if there was a student there named Barry Seljan. Yes. He was a senior. Student information told me his telephone number and his address and it was the same as the one that Miss Murphy gave me. I phoned the Boston University Bureau of Student Affairs and spoke to a Mr. Marini who said, “Next time he calls, Miss Dutelle, I advise you to hang up.”
“Next time he calls? You don’t understand. He’s not going to call again.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? The problem is that you have a student who is in serious trouble.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Mr. Marini asked.
“Talk to him. Care for him.”
“I suggest,” said Mr. Marini, “that you file a complaint at the police station. That would be normal procedure. We don’t even know if it’s Barry whatever his name is who called up. It might be his roommate or somebody who doesn’t even go to B.U. We don’t know. Could be some crazy guy using the name of a B.U. student. Who knows?”
“I know,” I said. “One of your students needs help. I figured you’d care enough to try.”
Mr.Marini said. “I’ll hand it over to campus security. And I suggest that you stop encouraging these callers. It’s the encouragement that keeps them talking.”
“Yes,” I said. “I encouraged him right into telling me his name and number. I meant to encourage him!”
“No doubt you did the right thing as far as your civic duty is concerned,” he said. “Still, I’d never let my wife talk to some stranger like that. You took a big risk.”
“Of what? Being stabbed through the phone?”
I was full of righteous indignation. What would the world be without people like me to save it? I was the only brave warrior on earth. So it was something of a surprise that my charitable feelings for Barry whats-his-face switched to thoughts of revenge. I’d pester him right back. Every time he picked up his phone, I’d hang up. At three in the morning I’d wake him and cluck into the phone. His heart would leap to his throat. I’d plaster posters on the bulletin boards at B.U., Beware! Barry Seljan makes obscene phone calls. He’d tear one off, find another, tear that one down, find another. His friends would say, “Hey, Barry, did you see…?” I’d leave a note in his mailbox, tell him next time he ate potato chips they would be poisoned. That seemed excellent revenge to ruin potato chips. Students live on them. Years would go by and still he’d be afraid to scoop up the party dip.
Or, I’d send an anonymous tattle tale to his parents. It was confusing to think of his parents. He was somebody’s kid. They had nagged him to finish his college application essays, had been relieved when he was accepted, had written the sizeable check that secured his place, had discussed the pros and cons of various majors, sent him allowance, and imagined a prosperous future for him. And there he was in the apartment they were probably paying for, there he was about to break their hearts again and make them look at themselves in a horrible, bald light.
I tore up the pages of my dirty book, a gesture that I hoped would release me from the realm of darkness. I hated Barry and I worried about him, I wanted to kill him and I wanted to save him. So this was the helplessness of the victim.
The chances of an obscene phone caller being caught are slim. The action is an expression of aggression and hostility toward women in general but the obscene phone caller is generally not considered dangerous. He has difficulty forming interpersonal relationships with the opposite sex, so the internet tells us.
©Diana Altman
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