Dan

Dan. As a kid everyone called him 'Buzz' and he wasn't so much the bully as he was the friend that punched you too hard on the shoulder and thought it was funny. Fast forward to 25 and everything he says sounds so genuine, he's not afraid to look you in the eyes and tell you what he's thinking. Now 38 years old. He works graveyard shift at a Safeway distributor warehouse and his social life consists of beer and television. Today he sits in the sun on the benches, watching people until his eyes glaze over, the thoughts bigger than anything he can see.

Dan plays with two quarters. They dance between his hands as his eyes blank on the concrete, rolling through fingers and sweating in his palms. He hasn't though about anything but her for three years. He goes through this same cycle every week. Sitting on the bench with fifty cents, knowing its worthless to call but so badly needing her to need him again. Knowing its worthless to call. Needing her to need him. The quarters fall from hand to hand. His eyes don't see anything. He clenches both coins in his left fist, only an instant of staring hesitation, and he walks to the payphone. They drop forever down the endless twists and turns and slides and ramps until they hit bottom and lie dead, the same as every other quarter Dan has ever spent here. The numbers are familiar, he hits the first 10 from reflex memory but, as always, his thumb hangs over the last. This is the only number that counts. Flesh thumbprint grooves over metal four grooves. He could just pass over it, pull the lever and put the same fifty cents towards a beer across the street, but he's already this far and gravity is inescapable. Before it even starts to ring he feels sick. it goes the same way every time; by the second ring his gut is clenched and he wants to crack the phone in half, throw it into the wall or his face or anything. Hearing her voice is always the worst part, yet he always listens to the very end. By the last ring, when she still hasn't answered and he knew it all along, he thinks about how much he hates himself for this and swears never again. The message plays and the last seconds of her honey voice grow softer as he slowly lowers the phone back to its cradle. His shoulders fall limp as the metal hits metal.

Silent for a moment he bites his lip and forces himself to turn around. He used to call more than once. Now he just walks to the corner, lights his cigarette and waits for the light to change.