To the Tavern

There was still a telephone booth on the corner of Antony Street. Down the road from Welling Drive, a sharp right at the faded stop sign, straight until the second left. This was the corner of Antony Street. 

The booth was blue, its paint peeling, revealing metal beneath. Rust lined the word “Telephone” at the top of the booth. 

That’s what Tom Hudson had said - in Leo’s tattered copy of Tales from the Tavern. He said the payphone would ring each year on the twenty-second of February at dawn, with another tale from the tavern. 

It would ring three times, but only once. 

Tomorrow.  

“Nonsense,” grunted Leo’s father, helping himself to another serving of cauliflower. 

Leo had been fingering the book beneath the dinner table. In protest, he brought it out, and the dusty volume made a loud thud on the dining table. He flipped to the very last page. “It says right here —” 

“The phone won’t ring,” his father interrupted curtly. He did not even look up.   

“But Tom Hudson said —” 

“Tom Hudson does not exist.” 

There was silence. Leo bit back tears. He closed the book and kept it once again on his lap. He fingered the fork and took a bite of cauliflower. It was hard. “If Mommy was here…” he toyed with the cauliflower, didn’t know how to finish. “If Mommy was here she’d say… she’d say it was real! She’d say Tom was real!” 

Then he cried and ran to his room. 

His father hissed before he could stop himself, “Your mother does not exist.” 

Bessy the cocker spaniel began to bark. 

Then he broke down and wept. 

The book was too heavy. Once Leo had finished crying, he lifted Tales from the Tavern from his bed and dropped it on the desk. It was too heavy for a nine-year-old boy to carry all the way to Antony Street. Wherever that may be. 

Instead he wrote down in his notebook the directions from Tom Hudson, and the poem written just below them, the final words of the book: 

On the twenty-second at dawn 

Stifle your yawns

For if you seek an adventure 

From a world that is gone, 

I will give you one. 

Leo set his alarm for early the next morning. He fumbled with the knob on his alarm clock, turning the alarm hand back and forth between “three” and “four.” He settled on “three.” 

That would give him about three hours to find Antony Street.

Then, he lay in bed with his hands under his head, staring up at the ceiling with a glimmer in his eye. Tomorrow he would speak to Tom Hudson. He stroked Bessy the spaniel to sleep.

The alarm rang at three the next morning, and Leo was up to stop it within its first shrill brrriiing. He smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring out into the dark, sleepy morning. Just like that later, he thought. Within the first ring.

After all, the phone would only ring three times. 

Leo sprung from his bed, sliding his pen and notebook over the edge of the table into his backpack. He slipped his hands into mittens, threw on a woollen coat, and pulled earmuffs over his ears. Then, he left his room, closing the door gently behind him. 

His father’s room lay between him and the front door. His snores broke the thick silence of the morning. Leo felt Bessy’s soft tail curl about his leg and took a sharp, determined breath. He began to tiptoe across the hall, resting his feet as softly as he could on the wooden floorboards. 

When he was almost at the door, a floorboard creaked. Leo stiffened. The toes of his front foot stayed on the floorboard, hardly daring to withdraw lest the board should creak again. For a few painful moments, the snores in his father’s bedroom stopped. 

Only when his snoring was regular did Leo dare to leave the house, heart pounding in his chest. 

It felt like Tom Hudson’s adventure had already begun. 

Or, it would begin, when the bus service started. Leo sat at the bus stop down the road from his house for what felt like a very long time. Unbeknownst to him, the bus service in his part of town did not start until half past four. 

When the first sleepy bus rolled up the street, announced by glaring headlights on the otherwise dark road, Leo was quick to wave it down. The doors opened, and before the young unshaven bus driver could even protest that dogs were not allowed, Leo asked urgently, “Do you go to Antony Street?” 

The bus driver’s confused expression was answer enough.  

“It’s down the road from Welling Drive, a sharp right at the faded stop sign, straight until the second left,” Leo offered, quoting Tom Hudson. 

“What in —” was his initial bothered response. Then, the bus driver furrowed his brows, as though trying to remember something. “Kid, that sounds mighty familiar,” he muttered. Then he shook his head to rouse himself. “Nevermind,” he said, irritated. “No, we don’t go there and that isn’t allowed on buses,” motioning to Bessy. He sighed. “Get on home, kid. You’re wasting all my warm air!” 

The bus doors were still open to the chilly air outside.  

Leo was persistent. “But I need to get there before dawn.” Before the bus driver could protest again, Leo had opened his bag and was spilling its contents on a nearby chair. He found his notebook, and showed Tom Hudson’s poem to the bus driver. “See?” 

Perhaps if the bus driver had been older, he would have sternly ordered Leo off his bus and closed the door in his and Bessy’s faces. Perhaps, if he had been older, he would have asked “Where are your parents?” or the like, and called the police to have Leo sent home. 

Instead, he read Leo’s instructions and understood. Massaging his temples, he muttered, “Tom Hudson… Today the twenty-second, is it?” There had been a time, before dropping out of college, starting work, and learning the hard way that fairy tales weren’t real, that the bus driver read Tales from the Tavern. 

“Exactly!” Leo said, exasperated. “We don’t have much time! It’s almost dawn, and the phone only rings three times!” 

Still, the bus didn’t move. On the tip of the bus driver’s tongue were the words, “Tom Hudson does not exist.” Then, his eyes fell on the “kid” standing before him with his cocker spaniel, and he felt his own heart stir against his will. 

He checked that his bus was still empty, and made a choice. He covered his eyes, so he wouldn’t see his hand flick off the bus number, and grumbled, “Fine. Fine, fine, fine.” 

The bus door closed and the bus driver pulled out a paper map of the city, muttering under his breath something along the lines of “lucky the author’s local” and “if this don’t work, I ain’t ever believing in fairy tales again.” 

Leo didn’t hear him. 

Then, the bus sped off along the empty roads. 

When the sky started to lighten only slightly, and more cars appeared on the road, the bus driver began to sweat and turned down the heater. 

Leo leaned over the side of the driver’s compartment, holding his notebook. “The sky’s becoming lighter, Mister! Are we almost there?” 

“Nearly,” said the bus driver between gritted teeth. In an undertone, he couldn’t help but add, “And don’t call me ‘Mister,’ kid. If I was your ‘Mister,’ I wouldn’t be…” 

He didn't finish. Presently, he began checking the map, and looking out the windshield. “It looks like… we’re here?” He stopped the bus uncertainly, and compared the map with his surroundings again. The blue street sign read “Welling Drive.” Behind it was a forlorn, rough street.  

“We’ve got to go! Hurry!” said Leo, zipping his backpack, “The booth is down the road!” 

The bus driver parked the bus at the side of the road. Then, he opened the bus doors.  Leo sprang out, and the bus driver followed on shaky legs, muttering about being “in a lot of trouble” and needing to “find a new job.”

As per Tom Hudson’s instructions, the two ran down the road, made a sharp right at a faded stop sign, and ran straight until the second left. 

Then, they arrived on the corner of Antony Street. True to the book, there was the blue telephone booth. 

“We’re here! Quick, get in!” shouted Leo, an urgent and excited look on his face. 

The bus driver simply stared. He steadied himself on the walls of the booth. “Good heavens,” he said. “A telephone booth. It’s here.” 

Leo pushed the bus driver and Bessy into the tight booth. 

Then, they waited; Leo, with his hands ready above the receiver; the bus driver wincing occasionally at the thought of his bus parked carelessly along a single white line on Welling Drive. 

They waited a long time. Birds chirped overhead, the first light of the day began to creep slowly into the sky, and still Tom Hudson did not call. 

The bus driver blew into his mittens, and swiped his finger several times over the coin return hopefully. He found nothing, and slumped down the wall of the booth. “It’s past dawn,” he said, finally. Neither of them had spoken for over twenty minutes. He stood up, put his hand on the sliding door. “Give it up, kid. He ain’t calling.” 

For the first time, staring into the bus driver’s empty, disillusioned eyes, Leo was scared.

“Wait.” 

The bus driver paused. He had slid the door open.

“He’ll call. Just - just wait,” Leo pleaded. 

“He won’t.” The bus driver spat.

Leo was taken aback at the anger in his tone. He started timidly, “Yes, he will. He said —” 

“It’s just a fever dream, kid,” the bus driver panted, holding on to the door of the telephone booth and keeping his eyes on the pavement. “It’s not real. Never was real.” He winced at his own words, as though saying them himself made it final. “I’m sorry, kid,” he muttered, “I-I really am.” 

Then he left. 

Leo never saw him again. 

 When Leo was alone, he found himself thinking a treacherous thought. He found himself wondering whether Tom Hudson was real. 

It was long past dawn. Bessy the spaniel had curled up in a corner of the telephone booth. Leo, finally tired, was about to curl up next to it. 

That was when the payphone rang. 

At its first shrill brrriiing, Leo started and Bessy’s ears perked up. 

At its second ring, Leo gasped, remembering it would only ring three times. He stood up, lunged forward, tripped over himself, and fell.

It rang for the third time. Leo stood immediately, bumped his head on the hanging phone book case, fumbled above him for the receiver, and knocked it loose. It hung by its coiled wire, and Leo put it to his ear, heart pounding in his chest. “Hello?” he said.

There was a silence – a dreadful silence.

Then: “So you made it, did you?” The voice on the other end was slow, deep, almost threatening. Leo gulped; he had always imagined Tom Hudson would be a boy, just like him. But Tom had never revealed his age; he had only been the “faithful scribe” of tales he heard in the tavern. 

“Tom?” 

“Correct.” 

In spite of himself, Leo gasped. His hand on the receiver trembled, but not with fear. “I-I’m —” 

“Leo, isn’t it?” 

“How-how did you know?” 

Leo could almost imagine the corner of Tom’s lips curl upwards in a knowing smile as he said what he had written many times, “One hears many things in the tavern.” There was something about Tom’s deep, resonant voice that kept Leo hanging on to his every word. Leo almost believed it sounded familiar, although he could not place it. “My days as the tavern’s scribe are over. If you’d like to hear one more tale from the tavern, you must write it yourself.” 

Leo found his pen and notebook quickly, then said, “I’m ready.” 

There was a silence, as though Tom was thinking. Then, he began, “I have one more tale I haven’t told yet. Just one more. It goes something like this:

“Once upon a time, there was a young man and his wife. The man’s name was Thomas Dikory Hudson. His wife’s name was Emelie. 

“The man and his wife loved stories almost as much as they loved each other. This was a love they promised never to let die, and a love they wanted to share with a child one day. So they went faithfully to the tavern week after week, month after month. After many journeys, they had written a volume called Tales from the Tavern. 

“But the tavern still had more tales to offer that Thomas and Emelie could not write down; they were about to have a son, and could not go to the tavern as often as they had before. 

“Emelie had an idea. They would go only once each year, and come back with a story. But neither of them would write it down. Their days as the tavern’s scribes were over. To whoever dared to pick up a ringing payphone on Antony Street on the twenty-second of February, they would give their story, and also the key to the tavern.

“They had promised never to let their love for stories die. But Thomas could not keep that promise after Emelie’s death. He stayed at home day after day, year after year, raising their son by himself, and slowly forgetting the world of the tavern. 

“That is, until his son discovered the younger Thomas – who went by ‘Tom Hudson’ — in a dusty, forgotten book on the shelf. Thomas didn’t like that, but at least he was keeping his promise to his wife. 

“His son would grow up with a love for stories. 

“And his father would give him the key to the tavern.” 

The Payphone’s Parables was published twenty years later, written by a certain Leo Hudson. The volume was addressed “to the bus driver of the earliest bus 106 on the twenty-second of February 2023, who I hope to meet again.” It finished with a poem, in the style of his father: 

When the lights in your eyes

Have faded with years

And you are too old 

For the tales written here, 

I ask you to wait.

Pick up a payphone. 

Go back to the tavern.