iPhantom

Today there was a writing workshop at the Cultural Center (I think it's been renamed the Culture Center, but hey, they tried to rename the Sears Tower, too). I didn't want to go to this thing, not really. But I was feeling guilty about the forty-four cents my parents spent to send me an article about it; maybe not so much the money, just the whole trouble of it.
I had full intentions of going when Cable was interested, but when he dropped out I wasn't too thrilled about the whole idea anymore. When Deathlok said he might go, I had one foot on the I'm Not Going Express, but at least I wouldn't be alone. Then I remembered registration was kind've early. "You'll be up?" I asked. Skeptical for 200, please Alex.
One thing I can't stand is to not, at least, try. So, that's what I did. I got up, got ready, headed out the door with a blue, and a black pilot pen. I wore my red hat, and black boots. I had been wearing a hat with Super Mario on it, that read, "Made in the 80's," but I wanted to look older, and usually I wear slip-on Merrils, but I wanted to go for the Shit Stomper look. I was unshaven, I can't say I had a shadow because it's more of an...Irish sunset. I have an Irish sunset on my face. I wanted Salinger reclusive and Howard bombast. I also wore my wedding ring, I couldn't have these people falling in love with me, or anything-it's a constant concern.
A few years ago, actually several, I had once signed up for a creative writing class in the basement of Taylor Books. Out-of-Place. I had no idea what those circa-menopausal women were talking about and I wanted out. I was refunded my...Mom's money, and bought Neverwhere in hardback.
In the morning, Deathlok was indeed, not up. The thought of going to this thing alone had really put me on edge.
On the way there I was hoping that the snow had kept everyone home, that I'd show up with two others and we'd talk about foreshadowing. When I did get there, that turned out not to be the case. I wouldn't go so far as to say it was a throng of people, but far more than I had any intention of dealing with on a Saturday morning. But, I pressed on, and found myself at the back of the registration line.
These people needed a leader. For some reason that thought kept reoccurring to me, maybe because I'm more Leonardo than Raphael, maybe because they reminded me of sheep, not a predator among them. But the other thought that kept a steady tattoo in my head was, Out-of-Place/Out-of-Place.
I couldn't just walk out, people would see that I was just walking out. I'm so sure people are watching me all the time that sometimes when I walk in the cold, I hold my breath. The point being that if I did that long enough, someone watching me would realize, with utmost horror, that I am not human, there is no vaporous trail of breath.
So, I pulled the trick I reserve for when I see someone I don't want to talk to: I got on my phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at the screen-it's important to give an appropriate pause, no one just answers their phone. Then I decided to answer my phantom caller, quick to get it to my ear before anyone watching could see my glowing apps, tell-tale sign that no one had called, and that I'm a crazy person.
I think I'm good at the phone trick. I repeat things, because the phantom can't hear me, I use geographic reference to give them a spatial quality, and I start and stop speaking; the phantom cuts me off. All the while I sound like one helluva guy. I scan the line behind me and assure the phantom it's no big deal to step out of it, that I'll come find the phantom and make sure they get to where they're going. When I'm finished I even say, "Ok, b-," and give the phone a hurt look; the phantom hung up prematurely.
I felt that the conversation ended a little abruptly, so as I was leaving, the phone rang again. I stood out near the steps of the building, and for the denouement of the performance, I waved out to the phantom, as if it were operating a helicopter and couldn't decide where to land. I hope everyone watching appreciated all I had done for them.

Maybe I should go back. The transitions in this piece are a little choppy, and you can see I really just wanted to talk about the phone trick. I should have been a little more descriptive of the people actually there, and why I felt so tense. Was I full of foreboding because of the creative writing class all those years ago? That area's kind've unclear, I think. And why do I use vague references? Pat yourself on the back for getting "...Howard bombast," God, what's that about? There's phone tricks, and then pseudo-intellectual tricks. And then there's blatantly using conjunctions as the beginning of sentences.
I do stand behind the double-negative, though. That I'm keeping.