Phone 157

       "Hi Anton." It was my movie buddy, Deirdre, on the phone. She'd seen some old Bogart film, so she was all bent out of shape over the era in which she was born. 
       "Color?" I said. "What do you mean; born into color?"
       "Color films," she said. "My life would have been so much easier had I been born into the black and white of film noir."
       I offered up my two cents. "I can get on board with that. After all, I see my life callings largely in black and white." 
       "Yes, you do," she said. "And how is that black-and-white calling of yours going?"
       "Which calling is that? We old souls have so many."
       "The one where you deceive teenagers into getting a thing for you so you can screw 'em up for years."
       I checked my anger like leading men in Bogie's era checked their hat. "Coral's just fine, thank you much. And, no, none of my life-callings are based on deception. In Coral's case I'm using the wealth of insights I've commandeered over the obtuse course of my forty-plus years to help the youth of the world get a jump-start on life."
       I was dead serious, which, of course, caused Deirdre to laugh her ass off. That's what I liked about Deirdre; her imbalance. She could laugh one minute, get dead serious the next. "I know you think of yourself as insightful, Anton, but no man can climb behind a woman's eyes and see her world. Let alone, climb behind a nineteen year old girl's eyes and see her world."
       That's what I liked about myself; my balance. I could be kind as a woman one minute, mean as a man the next. "Oh, sure, Deirdre, I suppose it would be easier to direct my calling on older woman--thirty-somethings like yourself. Or, say, calling on what's even more of a piece of cake to influence--women my age. But, I don't know, I guess it's the challenge that motivates me; the challenge of spanning the chasm between youth and age."
       "Have you told Coral your age?"
       Time to get meaner still. "Say, Deirdre, that reminds me: Ezra said something the other day concerning you." I paused to give her time to develop a complex. "He said what you're trying to tell me is that I should have sex with Coral--sex for her better mental health. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
       "Sex? Hell, Anton, you haven't the balls to tell Coral your age. How are you going to have sex with the poor dear?"
       "I'd gladly tell Coral my age. It just hasn't come up."
       "And why hasn't it come up?"
       I didn't say.
       "You men these days--you're all a bunch of eunuchs. Oh, to have lived back in Bogie's day; back when men had balls--black and white balls, too."
       I shifted the phone to my other ear. "Oh, ya, Deirdre, and how's that film noir life of yours working out for you; getting involved with men who give you black eyes?"
       "Hey, how I may be screwed up is a conversation for another day. Right now we're talking how you are screwed up."
       Oh, did I ever have her now. "Deirdre, Deirdre, I know you think of yourself as insightful. But no woman can climb behind a man's eyes and see his world. Let alone, climb behind a middle-aged man and see his world."
       "Of course I can. One, I've logged 30 years in the world men have screwed up. Two, I've dated screwed up middle-aged men."
       I didn't say anything.
       "See, when I was twenty, I started dating this old guy. I thought he was it; so witty, so mature, so charming. I even dumped my infant twenty-something boyfriend at this old man's request. And I was all ready to sleep with this old man when, by chance, I learned something about him that horrified me."
       I thought of the things about myself that horrified me. Ear hole hair came to mind.
       "His age, Anton, his age. And that's what I'm saying: Your relationship with Coral is based on deception because she doesn't know your age."
       "Coral's got eyes. I'm sure she's noticed those few gray hairs, those reading glasses I have to unpocket every time she shows me something."
       "That means nothing to a nineteen-year-old. What means something is a precise number. Get some balls, old man, tell her you're forty-five."
       "Forty-six. But, still, I'm sure Coral's got me in the right ballpark."
       "That's what I'm saying, Anton: A nineteen-year-old girl has no ability to ballpark older guys. See, when I was nineteen, older men fell in two categories; over-the-hill or in their sexy thirties. But the truth was I had no frame of reference to tell a thirty-five-year-old form a fifty-year-old. But I did have a psychological reference. Thirty-five I could see myself making love with. But a forty, fifty-year-old, yech! Even if he looked thirty-five, still, the thought of having a guy my father's age doing me, well, I just couldn't get in the mood."
       With Deirdre trashing middle-aged men, I took the phone off my ear to better control my anger. No, that's how we old souls manage anger. Instead of flying off the handle, we hold the source of our anger at arm's length, do our breathing exercises. 
       Holding the phone at arm's length, I weighed the prospects of leveling with Coral--telling her I was forty-six. Truth was, I was an old soul, and we old souls were all about facing truth. Hell, as long as I was leveling with the girl, I might as well tell her I was forty-seven. For in a month I would be.  
       Phone back on my ear, Deirdre was saying, ". . . that's what I learned. I learned this man I was about to sleep with was forty-six. Well, that did me in; I quit dating him, never even talked to him, because in my eyes he was some kind of dirty old pervert."
       Again, I held the phone at arm's length. But this time so I could better fly off the handle.
      

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