Dead Man's Cell Phone Read Online Free PDF

out.
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    So I said: did you have any ten minutes ago?
    And the giant said, yes.
    I said, is anyone at this restaurant currently eating a lobster bisque?
    And the giant said, well yes.
    Who?
    And he pointed to a woman in the corner. A pale-ish woman, sort of nondescript.
    So I say, I will purchase her bowl of soup.
    What? He says. I take out my wallet, pull out a hundred.
    Then I see it—she is tilting the bowl to the side to scrape out the last bite.
    I watch it go into her little mouth, slow motion.
    Son of a bitch, I say. I’ll have lentil.
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    I’m used to getting what I want. But today is not my day. So I have the lentil.
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    Lentil soup is never that great. It’s only ever serviceable. It doesn’t really make your mouth water, does it, lentil soup? Something watery—something brown—and hot carrots. Like death. Serviceable, a little mushy and warm in the wrong places, not as bad as you’d think it’s going to be, not as good, either.
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    Suddenly I feel my heart—compressing—like a terrible bird in my chest. And I think—I’m finally punished. Someone is going
to sell my heart to someone in Russia. Then I think—use your cell phone. Call your wife. Tell her to give you a decent burial, organs in tact. But the wife’s not supposed to know you sell organs for a living. So just call the wife and say good-bye. But no—she doesn’t love you enough to have the right tone of voice on your death bed. The kind of voice you’d like to hear—indescribably tender. A death-bed voice.
    Gordon having a heart attack, heaving.
    No longer holding it in—the things people hold back from each other—whole lives—most people give in at the last moment—but not Hermia, no—she’ll be sealed up—she’ll keep a little bit extra for herself—that last nugget of pride—she’ll reserve it for her tin-can spine—so she’ll have an extra half inch of height. That thing—that wedge, that cold wedge between—I can’t call her. No. A disappointment. So call your mistress. Or mother. No—mother would say—what a way to die, Gordon, in a café? No, not mother. Dwight? A man doesn’t call his brother on his deathbed—no—he wants a woman’s voice—but the heart keeps on heaving itself up—out of my chest—into my mouth—and I’m thinking—that bitch over there ate all the lobster bisque, this is all her fault—and I look over at her, and she looks like an angel—not like a bitch at all—and I think—good—good—I’m glad she had the last bite—I’m glad.
    Light on Gordon’s face, transfigured.
    Then I die.
    Gordon dies again.
    And Gordon disappears.

scene two
    Jean and Dwight in a love haze
    in the back of the stationery store.
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    DWIGHT
    I was dreaming about you. And a letterpress. I dreamed you were the letter Z.
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    JEAN
    Why Z?
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    DWIGHT
    Two lines—us—connected by a diagonal. Z.
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    JEAN
    Oh, Dwight.

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    DWIGHT
    If we are ever parted, and can’t recognize each other, because of death, or some other calamity—just say the letter Z—to me—it will be our password.
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    JEAN
    Z.
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    DWIGHT
    Let’s never be parted. I don’t need more than twelve hours to know you, Jean. Do you?
    Tell me you don’t. We exchanged little bits of our souls—I have a little of yours and you have a little of mine—like a torn jacket—you gave me one of your buttons.
    I—I love you Jean.
    The phone rings.
    Don’t get that.
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    JEAN
    It’ll just take a second.
(To the phone) Hello?
Are you sitting down?
This might come as a very great
shock to you.
But Gordon has passed away.
    DWIGHT
    Jean? Who’s on the phone?
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    JEAN
    I’m sorry, who is this?
(To Dwight) a business colleague.
( To the phone) The funeral was yesterday.

    Yes, it was a