Brenton Booth

Last Call

In Downtown Los Angeles
I stayed in a cheap hotel.
The room was tiny and had 
one small window with a 
view of a brick wall.  The 
bed was hard and tap water 
made me feel ill. At about 9 
on my first night the phone 
rang, I thought it must have 
been the front desk compla-
ining about my visa credit
or something. “I need to see
you again Bruce,” a desperate
sounding voice said.
“He’s not here mate. I don’t 
even know who he is.”
“Don’t play games darling. I
need to see you.”
“Who are you?”
“I am coming up. I am coming
up now.”
“You have the wrong number
mate.”
“You fucker! I am coming up!
he screamed into the phone 
and hung up. It was my first 
night in Los Angeles and I 
didn’t know what to expect, 
but surely this was some sort 
of scam. I decided I’d be ready 
though. I stood next to the door 
waiting for it to be kicked in
and I’d pounce on whoever 
it was. The phone rang a few 
more times but I just ignored 
it. I stood by the door for nearly 
an hour then suddenly realized 
the real problem: he wasn’t 
trying to scam me—he was 
just lonely, which I understood 
perfectly. The phone rang again 
and I picked it up, put it on the 
bedside table and laid down on 
the bed. I could hear his voice 
coming through the receiver, it 
sounded like a whisper from 
where I was. Over the next few 
hours I listened to every tender 
word he said, pretending like 
him that I wasn’t alone.