TELL ME, DO YOU REMEMBER?

I remember the times when ghosting, being left on red, being Seen with no reply, blocking, muting, unfollowing, and breadcrumbing in particular, had completely different meanings, or no meaning at all. The good old times. No cell, no gain, no pain. Or was it really like that?

 I remember when I met a guy back in the ‘90s. I was leaving a bar toilet and he took one look at me in my tight long dress with a thousand slits and went to buy me chocolate covered peanuts wrapped in a piece of newspaper from a street vendor. He presented them to “the most confident girl he had ever seen” and made me promise I would unwrap them at home and call him to tell him if they were tasty.

“How would I do that? I don’t know your number!”, I asked all confused.

“Oh, you will call me, trust me!”, he replied with a cheeky grin.

It turned out he lived across the street from my building, in the longest alley in town named after one of his ancestors. That family was like a big deal, like the oldest one in town, each generation producing a prominent member of society. It was natural, of course, that he should go home with me – the same direction. So, he escorted me safely into the elevator of my building and I crept into the apartment like a shadow.

We lived in a one-bedroom apartment, my brother and I shared the room, and my parents slept in the living room. There was a landline phone, actually two, one in the hallway leading to my room and the other – oh, the peril! – right above the heads of my parents in their bed! A couple of more steps to the left and I might have ended up right there with them!

My brother was watching TV on mute, so I was able to see our small room and cleaned my face quickly with wet wipes (very little make-up when you’re 22!). We shared the peanuts and -surprise, surprise! - there was a piece of white paper with something on it inside the newspaper shell. I turned on the lights silently and read his message: If I would please call him if I liked him too with the quotes from my favourite song. The number and name were there! I felt overwhelmed. That had never happened before. I felt a headrush followed by shallow breaths. I promised to make the call. Hell, I wanted to so badly I almost started trembling!

I was thinking how soundly my parents were really sleeping. All I had to do was sneak the phone inside the room, minding the cord, and praying that the phone above their heads was on OFF so that they wouldn’t hear me pick up the receiver. I opened the door and ever so slowly, uncoiled and pulled the cord in first, carefully, and then the phone itself. I closed the door. No sound. Phew! Operation Call Isidor was on! I picked the receiver as if I was holding a bomb, praying there was no clicking sound or anything like that. Relief again.

I gave the paper to my brother and asked him to dictate the numbers using the TV light. He was watching me as if I was deranged but complied. I started typing the numbers and held my breath when I finished. The phone started to ring. I waited with bated breath. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…. Suddenly, there was a woman on the other end!

“Who is this? Are you crazy? Do you know what time it is? It’s 3 AM!!! Who is calling at this ungodly hour?!”

I froze. As I was hanging up quickly, I heard my mom in the other room speaking!

My brother and I exchanged glances. He opened the door with lightning speed, put the phone in the hallway, I coiled the cord, turned off the TV and we ran under our sheets, I still in my dress.

My mom finished talking and came to our room. We were already professional cheats when it came to producing that famous even breathing generated by deep sleep. She stood at the door for a few seconds and whispered: „Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve done!“

I was mortified and promised myself I would never call the guy again.

The following days went by as I was writing my final thesis in my grandparents’ apartment.

Curiosity had won – during one of my study breaks, I dialled the number. This time his father answered.

„Oh, you want to talk to Isidor? He’s chopping wood in the yard, let me call him for you!“

I waited all excited and anxious. Finally, he picked up.

„It’s you!“

He sounded astonished. „I never thought you would call! I’ve been beating myself up all week for not taking your number! Then I thought I would run into you somehow but that never happened and I wanted to go to your building and go from door to door….“

I had never felt so powerful and humble at the same time. Instantly fell in love with his honesty.

„Actually, I have already called you“, I said sheepishly.

„When? I should have heard the phone!“

„Well,  you know how someone called your house at 3 AM and some woman started yelling?“, I asked.

„It was you?“, he seemed incredulous. „Oh, God, my mom went ballistic! So sorry for that! I am really sorry!“ Then he changed the tone – he sounded strangely proud!

„I have to give it to you. I had no idea you were so ballsy. You looked so ladylike in that dress and your poise…“

 I cut him off: „ Trust me, a desperate lady…especially after the call! And my mom picked up, oh, God!“

He laughed and agreed he would pick me up at 8 and take me on a proper date.

We dated for a year. He was two years older but already divorced with a small kid and I really didn’t mind any of that. We were inseparable when we were off work. Upon graduation, I worked two shifts, he held a day job and a night gig but living across the street made things easier. His parents loved me and I liked them a lot and his mom often made jokes about that "night call".

Shockingly, his ex-wife started calling me, wanting to know if I had had anything to do with their divorce though they had been properly divorced on paper before we met. Quite often my mom picked up because I was not home. In the worried parent’s fashion, or under the pretence of it, she decided I would be better off without him. She worked with his aunt and used all the weapons available at her disposal behind my back, convincing him that „his divorced status was robbing me of bright future and if he truly loved me bla bla bla“!

There was a frequent look of sadness and pain in his eyes and I ascribed it to missing his son.

One evening we were supposed to go to dinner to celebrate my Master's degree. The usual meeting spot was in front of the mall, also near our homes, a stone’s throw. I waited and waited and after an hour of meeting and greeting everybody I knew, I went home. It was still early so I called him.

„Sorry, darling, but he is not home“, his mom said. There was so much tenderness and a bit of pity in her voice that hit me right in the chest. I knew. It was over.

I changed into sweats and spent a couple of hours on the rooftop staring at his house, it was clearly visible from there. He was home, of course. I brought my dad’s binoculars and was able to see him in his room, then the yard, smoking, wiping his eyes… It was so cold after several hours and some time after midnight, my brother came to take me home.

Many years later, my mother would admit to her role in the most painful breakup of my life some time before her death. In her collection of selfish acts sabotaging her kids and our family in general, this was nothing but someone had to grieve and carry the burden of pain and I still can't forgive her.

If I had had a cell phone back then, things would have developed differently.

However, there has been some recent news! He has been living abroad for 20+ years and came back a week ago. Believe it or not, we ran into each other almost on his first day back. We exchanged numbers – take that, mom, things may be different now that you are gone! We may even get together again!

I still have my landline because my Wi-Fi operator requires one.

Honestly, when the landline rings these days, it’s usually the bearer of bad news (my older uncles call to tell me who has died), the annoying voice of those poor people offering „not only a free dinner but specially designed pillows just for you for a ridiculous price“, or survey takers („Would you set aside ten minutes for our survey about your satisfaction with various (insert industry at will) services?“). However, I don’t miss the landline phone.  Oh, the old-fashioned ghosting followed by an awkward encounter in a coffee shop where you put on a brave face while trying not to look at him with his new flame. Oh, the good old days, I may miss you so but I love my cell more!