Dan, ‘The Man’, Can - Volume 14: Phone Home

1

 Gerald Johnson’s home phone rang. The caller ID, peculiarly enough, displayed his own cellphone number.

 “Hello,” Gerald answered

 “Hello?” His aging son, Ryan, replied.

 “Hello-o,” Gerald sang.

 “Hi.”

 “Yes. May I help you?”

 “You called me.”

 “I call you?”

 “Yes Pops, it’s my phone again. Let me pull the battery out. Maybe that’ll fix it.”

 “No it’s not. It’s our house phone.”

 “Ok, but, eh, that’s, uh, eh, that’s, uh,” Ryan stammered.

 “Did you call me or did I call you?”

 “Well,” Ryan stopped and croaked. “I don’t know.”

 “Guess we got the runaround phones again.”

 “Yeah.”

 “O-kay.”

 “Ok.”

 “I said, ah, the phone, my phone is callin’ me. Who’s this?”

 “This is Ryan!”

 “You call me?”

 “No!”

 “Did you call me or did I call you?”

 “I - I don’t know.”

 “Who. Call you.”

 “My phone said Bean’s calling me.”

 “I call you?”

 “We keep saying that,” Ryan fumed. “You called me ten times in the last twenty minutes. Ten times at least!”

 “You called me twice!”

 “Hello-o?” Momma Jeannie’s voice entered the fray.

 “Mom?”

 “Oh, well hi Ryan,” Momma Jeannie chuckled weakly. “My phone said Gary Baldy was calling me. This time it was in my pocket. Crazy.”

 “Hon?” Gerald said.

 “Flo’s Number Two on Riverside Drive,” another voice appeared.

 “What?” Momma Jeannie asked.

 “Ah, got-dammit,” Ryan hissed. He wiped the rage into his gnarled face. “God-dang phone.”

 “There goes those voices again,” the confused Flo’s waitress said.

2

 Dan Jordana sat hunched at his grand work desk. A typewriter clicked and clacked before his flying fingers with such a fury that, coupled with the steady ticking of his grandfather clock, it sounded as though a tiny drummer was bashing out an extended, manic solo. Dan paused and drew a contemplative fist to his mouth. He squinted at the words on the page and his cellphone rang. Without checking the front screen, he answered.

 “Hello,” Dan said. He listened for a moment. “What account,” he muttered suspiciously. 

 Ryan Johnson entered the study with a question regarding the grout work that Dan had assigned him. Seeing that Dan was in the middle of a phone call, Ryan locked his palms behind his hips and lightly rocked in place, looking the room over. Dan hung up after a few frustrating seconds of futile argument.

 “Hi, Ryan,” Dan said, glaring at his phone curiously. “Sorry. Phone’s goin’ screwy again.”

 “They do! I’m tellin’ ya,” Ryan said. “I just had fifteen people on the line. Fifteen at least!”

 “Tryin’ to get my credit card this time. Lucky for me it don’t always work.”

 “They said it was a ‘homeowner’s association’ yesterday,” Ryan said. “They were gonna fine me for smoking. I said, ‘What! I don’t smoke, for starters!’”

 “It’s a damned scam,” Dan observed. “Illegals fishing for numbers.”

 “I hate ‘um,” Ryan moaned.

 “Anyway, Ryan,” Dan said. “I’m just finishing up my memoirs. Why don’t you look ‘em over?”

 “Ok,” Ryan replied, obsequiously canceling his question. 

 The paper read:

  ‘Childhood: I forget.

  Youth: Drinkin’ & Fightin’.

  Middle Age: Same.

  Present: Smokin’ & Eatin’.

   Dan Jordana’

 “Cool, Dan,” Ryan stated. Dan beamed with pride.

 “It’s my life’s work,” he said. “After I run it past an editor it will hit bookshelves everywhere. Follow me.”

 Dan produced a tobacco pipe from a bottom drawer and rose. Placing the unlit pipe in his mouth and pocketing a book of matches, Dan folded his hands behind his back and proceeded toward an open doorway. Ryan trailed him somewhat hesitantly, trying his best to keep the work question fresh in his withered mind. They traversed a long hallway and turned into a small, domed room. There was one window, two ornate leather chairs, and an elevated ashtray. The door was airtight. After closing it, Dan set his pipe on the clean ashtray and tried to pry the wide window open. It only budged a few inches after much effort. Dan grunted with dissatisfaction. 

 “I was hoping I could get you to come and fix this window one of these days, Ryan,” he said. He sat and lit the pipe. “Had a couple wetbacks put it in a few months ago. Did a piss-poor job. Mickey Mouse-ed it. Caught ‘em drinkin’ beer outback, too. I told ‘em, ‘If I catch you drinkin’ in my puffin’ parlor, I’m gonna come out whoopin’!’” 

 “Yuck,” Ryan winced childishly. “Mexican beer. Tastes like sand. I don’t get it.” He shook his head, trying to remember his grouting question.

 “Anyhow, Ryan,” Dan digressed, puffing on his pipe. “There’s a reason why I brought you here.”

 “Yeah?”

 “I was hoping you could fix this window one of these days,” Dan accidentally repeated.

 “Ok,” Ryan said uneasily.

 “There’s a Bucky’s Big Bubba Steakhouse gift card in it for you.”

 “Oh cool Dan,” Ryan said with false gratitude. He pulled out a new pack of cigarettes and began packing them.

 “No,” Dan said.

 “What?” Ryan stopped.

 “No.”

 “I can’t smoke in here?”

 “No,” Dan repeated, blowing out a large smoke ring with the word. “This here’s my own puffin’ parlor, not some dismal crap-hut. If I wanted the walls stained with cigarette smoke, I’d of remarried that damned oaf Jolandala.” Dan grunted again. “No. Absolutely not.” He puffed some more.

 “Ok,” Ryan hesitated. He pocketed the cigarettes against his pangs of withdrawal.

 “No.” Dan repeated again. “Never again. Not after what she did to m’toothbrush.”

 “Girls are dumb.”

 “Sure are.”

 Dan took a sharp breath and began hacking into his fist. Harsh coughing fits overtook him. His chest heaved and bounced ferociously. Dan set the lit pipe on the ashtray just before dropping it.

 “Dan?” Ryan asked. 

 Dan gradually regained his composure. He shook his head softly.

 “Doctor said I’m gettin’ senile,” he said.

 “What?” Ryan asked nervously.

 “Said I’m gettin’ senile. I asked ‘em, ‘Well how do y’ figure?’ He said, ‘Sir, this is a Sunglass Hut. Can I help you?’ Didn’t care for the fuckin’ attitude one bit. Cursed ‘em out. Then the manager came over. Called me a dumbass, like he’s my dad and shit.”

 Words failed Ryan. He attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction, but his mind was gridlocked after yet another failed go at remembering the grouting question. They each dimly scrutinized a piece of the room in total quiet. A small breeze entered the window and the tree branches outside undulated in the sunlight. They cast strange, crawling shadows over Dan’s face. Both of their cellphones began ringing. They picked them up.

 “You’re callin’ me?” Dan said, eyeing the screen.

 “No I’m not,” Ryan said dejectedly. “It says Jolandala is calling me.”

 “Why is she callin’ you?” Dan asked. He answered. “Hello?”

 “Hello?” Ryan answered. He heard it echo in his earpiece.

 “Hello?” Dan repeated. Ryan heard it echo again.

 “We’re calling each other Dan,” Ryan said.

 “Who’s this?” Dan asked.

 “It’s me Dan,” Ryan said.

 “Who is ‘me’?”

 “This is Ryan!”

 “Ryan? Why’re you callin’ me? Aren’t you puttin’ grout in?”

 “I’m right here, Dan.”

 “What!” Dan blurted “If you’re smokin’ in my puffin’ parlor, you just signed your death warrant.”

 “U-ugh!” Ryan seethed. He hung up and wiped his face.

 “Hello?” Dan said into the phone. “Hello?” He hung up and shook his head. “Ne’er-do-well bastard.”

 “I’m right here Dan,” Ryan muttered angrily.

 “Ryan? What the hell are you doin’ in my puffin’ parlor?”

3

 Gerald Johnson, Momma Jeannie, and Ryan sat at a big, curving booth inside Bucky’s Big Bubba Steakhouse. The atmosphere inside was dark and chilly. Every time the front door opened, the unadjusted eyes of the patrons were blinded by daylight. The Johnson trio looked their large menus over.

 “What are you having, Gerald?” Momma Jeannie asked.

 “Gruts n’ puddard plate,” Gerald burped. “What about you, hon?”

 “Filet mignon. Medium rare.” Jeannie replied. “What are you having, Ryan?” She asked like clockwork.

 “Donk steak with a side of pork holes and gravy,” Ryan said.

 “Sounds yummy,” Momma Jeannie cooed. 

 A waitress headed towards the kitchen with an armful of menus passed by.

 “Young lady,” Gerald said, holding a finger up. “Young lady.”

 “Yes?” The halting waitress said with a pained smile.

 “I think we’re ready,” Gerald said. “Are you ready?” He asked the table. They were.

 “Ok, what were we thinking today?” The waitress asked, shifting the menus to one arm and readying a new page on her order pad.

 They gave their order and the waitress hurried into the kitchen. Gerald glared at the cup of iced tea before him, which was three-quarters full. He looked over at Momma Jeannie’s half empty cup, and at Ryan’s, who had taken two sips from his soda. 

 “We’re not getting very good service today,” Gerald grumbled.

 “They must be killing the chickens in the back,” Jeannie replied.

 “Where she go?” Gerald inquired about the waitress, looking over his shoulders.

 After a few minutes passed, the waitress appeared from the kitchen with a platter of food and a collapsable stand which she prepared at a nearby table. Gerald eyed the food with folded arms. He frowned.

 “I suppose they’re just more important than us,” Jeannie said snootily, neglecting to acknowledge that the offending party had been seated well before the Johnsons had even parked. 

 “No tip,” Gerald proclaimed. 

 After speaking for a moment with the other table, the waitress returned to the Johnsons.

 “And how are we doing over here?” She asked.

 “No tip,” Gerald said.

 “I’m sorry?”

 “No tip.”

 “We need refills,” Jeannie clarified bitterly.

 “No tip,” Gerald repeated.

 “Ok, I’ll be right back with those refills,” the waitress said, trying her best not to fan any more mysterious flames. She returned with a pitcher of iced tea and filled Gerald and Jeannie’s cups gingerly.

 “What about his cola?” Gerald griped, pointing at Ryan.

 “Oh, sure, did you need a refill, sir?” The waitress asked nervously.

 “No. I’m fine, Pops, it’s fine.” Ryan murmured, avoiding eye contact with his near-full cup.

 “Ok. I’ll be right back with your food, just let me know if you need anything else,” the waitress said.

 “No tip,” Gerald spat.

4

 After jadedly eating their meals and reveling in an enlightening one-sided political conversation, the Johnsons crept out of the dark steakhouse with plastic bags filled with styrofoam to-go containers. They crouched into Gerald’s car, which was parked in the handicap spot directly facing the front door of the restaurant. Getting into the car, Ryan suddenly remembered the question he meant to ask Dan earlier in the day.

 “Goddammit,” he thought.

 “How was working with Dan today, Ryan?” Gerald asked coincidentally. He turned the ignition.

 “Oh it was good,” Ryan said. “Got a lot done,” he lied. “He’s going senile, I think.”

 “Really,” Gerald said.

 “Yeah,” Ryan said, suddenly realizing how laborious explaining the inane details would be.

 “Mm,” Gerald grumbled. “He’s a good guy, Dan.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Got a lotta money.”

 “Yeah, he does.”

 “Workin’ at those bridges.”

 “Yep.”

 “Why don’t you put in for that? Workin’ on the bridges.”

 “I don’t know, Pops.” Ryan rubbed his face.

 “You’d make a lotta money.”

 “I know.”

 “Probably need a degree.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Oh! Ryan,” Gerald said, suddenly remembering something.

 “Yeah?” Ryan asked.

 “Are you killin’ dogs outback?” 

 Waves of ice spilled through Ryan’s hirsute nape. His arms tingled and his fingers stung in terror. The question hit his brain like a cold bullet.

 “What?” He blurted.

 “Yer not killin’ dogs, are ya?” Gerald asked sternly. “And brandin’ em?”

 “No,” Ryan responded with a ghostly emptiness.

 “O-kay!” Gerald sang, turning out of the parking lot.

 The remainder of the short journey home was uneventful. Ryan dissociated through his parents’ conversation about their malfunctioning phones. After pulling into the brick-lined driveway, Gerald and Jeannie turned in for the night to watch their programs. Ryan carried his to-go boxes out to his backyard fortress and entered its side door. He flicked the hanging lightbulb on and placed his hat on a hook in the wall. Opening the small, old fridge, he pulled out leftovers from a previous meal. He unthinkingly tossed them into the trashcan and forgot his new food on top of the fridge. Plopping heavily onto his worn couch, Ryan moaned dispiritedly. 

5

 Ryan ran into the same snag with his grouting work the following day, and, by pure luck, remembered to ask Dan about it. Ryan entered Dan’s study, where he found Dan back at his typewriter, revising his memoirs with zeal. Seeing Dan once again erased the question from Ryan’s consciousness. Ryan groaned, which caught Dan’s attention.

 “Hello, Ryan!” Dan said. “How’s it going up there?”

 “Fine, it’s fine,” Ryan replied sadly. “I had a question though. I can’t remember, just gimme a sec.”

 “Ok!” Dan said. “Just gimme a holler.”

 Dan resumed typing. The pendulum of the grandfather clock rocked glacially. The ceiling fan strobed above the bright lights fitted just below its paddles. Ryan glanced out the side window, where he saw Dan’s chocolate lab pounce a flapping bundle of feathers in the back yard.

 “Uh-oh, Peanut’s got a bird, Dan,” Ryan said grimly. “He’s munchin’ ‘um.”

 “Oh! I love peanuts!” Dan said, ceasing his writing. “You got peanuts?”

 “No, outback, Dan, look out the window. Quick,” Ryan urged. “Oh no, he’s really got ‘um.” Ryan grimaced.

 “Peanuts outback?” Dan asked. “I got ‘em right in here.” He opened a drawer. “Don’t tell nobody.”

 “Aw jeez,” Ryan jeered. Peanut had totally eviscerated the fallen dove. Ryan averted his eyes.

 “Peanut, Ryan?” Dan offered.

 “Yeah, he’s outback killing a dove, Dan,” Ryan droned.

 “No. Want one?” Dan held his jar of peanuts to Ryan.

 “Sure.” 

 Ryan gummed a small handful of peanuts, trying to avoid the grisly sight in the corner of his eye. Dan’s house phones started ringing, a digital symphony chirping the same tune out of sequence.

 “Hello?” Dan answered. He listened for a moment. “What account,” he grunted. “What account,” he repeated after a few seconds. He hung up, turning his head to the window. “What the hell is that,” he asked, referring to the bloody mess outback.

 “Peanut got ‘um,” Ryan replied. “It happened just now.”

 “Oh! I love peanuts!” Dan said, popping some more into his mouth and smiling.

 Ryan eyed Dan strangely, suddenly noticing the heavy vest Dan was sporting.

 “Is that a bulletproof vest you’re wearing Dan?” 

 “No,” Dan burped. “It’s m’pummelin’ vest. Punches the lungs around.”

 “What?”

 “Hurts.”

 “It punches your lungs?”

 “Doctor said I been huffin’ and puffin’ on the pipe too much,” Dan said. “Gotta pummel me. Get the tar out.”

 Ryan winced. The chocolate lab appeared at the glass door beside Dan and reared up excitedly to claw at it.

 “Go on,” Dan said, swatting air toward the dog. “Go on, Biscuit.”

 “I thought his name’s Peanut,” Ryan said.

 “Oh! I love Peanuts!” Dan replied, putting another handful in his mouth as Biscuit, or Peanut, barked longingly and clawed at the door. “Go on,” Dan said to the dog, swatting more air at him. “Go on, Duke.”

 Ryan froze in his already still tracks. The house phone rang again. Dan picked up the wireless handset on his desk, looking at the screen.

 “Hmph. It’s my sister.” Dan told Ryan before answering. “Hello?”

 “Yes, Gary?” Gerald Johnson said on the other line.

 “No. Who’s this.”

 “Gerald Johnson.”

 “Gerald Johnson. I’m with your boy right now.”

 “How’s he doin’ over there?”

 “Good. It said my sister was callin’ me.”

 “Your sister? My phone said the ah, the phone, ah, the undersheriff was callin’ me.”

 “Hm,” Dan said. “Afraid not.”

 “How is your sister, Dan?”

 “Vodka.”

 “O-kay!”

 There was a pause and Gerald dropped the phone. It bounced off the armrest of his couch and hit the floor before his disheveled Yorkshire terrier, who promptly attacked the fallen handset. On the other end, Dan heard what sounded like a bellowing demon ripping apart its mortal prey. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked it over.

 “Got a monster over there,” Dan said gravely.

 “What?” Ryan cringed.

 “Devil or somethin’ on the phone. Should probably go home. Save your father.” 

 “Ok, yeah,” Ryan agreed. Dan put the phone back to his ear.

 Ryan left his tools in Dan’s bathroom and raced home. He found Gerald sitting contently on the blue couch in his den. A murder mystery program boomed from its cranked speakers. Ryan muttered and rubbed his face. Gerald saw his son in the doorway and turned the volume down.

 “Ryan? Back already?” 

 “Yeah Pops, he said you were getting killed.”

 “Say what!” Gerald piped, raising his eyebrows. 

 “When you called him he said he heard something, or something,” Ryan groaned.

 “No.” 

 The crazed terrier on the floor came into Ryan’s attention. It was still viciously attacking the phone, which was now utterly covered in teeth marks, and missing buttons below its cracked screen. A voice could be heard from the little earpiece.

 “What account,” Dan grumbled.