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12/15/09 - (1)
Clara Mae
Six years ago from this silent, empty evening, You answered the last call your telephone, Squatting on a countertop in the kitchen, would receive.
The voice was unidentifiable, almost unintelligible, A housing-project patois wanting to talk to someone you didn't know — "Lemme speak at Clara Mae."
"Who?" you asked cautiously. "Clara Mae Jones. Ain't she there?" "Who wants her?" you heard yourself asking;
It was as if you were taunting this stranger. But why? "Ain't none of yo business, neither! Never you mind! Jez put her on!" "There's no one here by that name."
"Then who is there, there, by that name?" the voice bated you. Just then, a chill that still shivers you filled your veins. You began to quake — a victim of your own making.
"You jez put Clara Mae on, now, or I'll git you, hear? Tell her to get her black ass on the phone, now! I'll deal with you later, see, whoever you is!"
You slammed the phone into its cradle, bit your lip, fidgeted, Braced yourself against the fridge, to keep from falling. You'd just violated, raped, molested yourself.
And to make things worse, the caller knew who you were Or certainly could know, if he had one of those gadgets That lets you trace numbers, connect them to addresses, real people.
For six years, your phone has stayed unplugged. You've remained totally incommunicado, Completely convinced that this strategy will continue working.
12/15/09 - (1)
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