This is very stupid. Incredibly so.
You were just a voice in a sea of voices, a terrible moment of clarity. I was a telemarketer from Seattle that tried to sell you an auto-warranty. I’m glad you didn’t buy it. It seems like a scam to me, really. (I do what I have to.) My name was Anthony.
I wish I could say that the day I called you was a good one, full of sunshine and people not telling me they were going to find and hurt me. As you might imagine, it was not. In fact, here, was the normal Seattle rain that seemed to hang over the city like an unusually wet and sad blanket. I don’t know how it was in Missouri. I hope it was nice. I usually find the distance between me and the people I call to be comforting, but this is not one of those times.
I did not think they made people like you in Missouri. I didn’t think they made anything in Missouri besides soy beans and white privilege, really, but I’m not here to bash your home state. I’m sure Missouri is very nice. I hear you have an impressive… uh, arch or something. I think the first ever parachute jump was in St. Louis.
Your name was Summer and you drove a 1990 Chevrolet Camaro IROC-Z and you spoke with a slight Southern accent – nothing extreme, but it was certainly cute. I fell in love with you the only way you can fall in love with a disembodied voice – quickly and with no small measure of insecurity of your own mental well-being. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know what you looked like, what your hobbies were or even why you were going to school. All I knew is that you were kind, intelligent and drove a pretty bitchin’ car.
I asked you the mileage twice just so I can hear the way the words rolled from your lips (“Ninety-Eight Thousand”) and I melted as you laughed when I stumbled over my introduction. “My Anthony is name and I’m calling in, uh, in regards to your…” I’m such an idiot. You probably think I’m an idiot. We talked on the phone for a five minutes that seemed more like five-thousand years. I didn’t tell you much about warranties, instead I asked you about the weather. You told me talking about the weather was stupid. I agreed, really, I did, but I’m not good at talking to people and it’s amazing I managed to sell anything at all. But you didn’t judge me. You didn’t seem to mind that I was fumbling over my words or that I called you, randomly, at 10:00 am. I fell in love with you the stupid way that people do: with absolutely no idea who the other was at all, based on a mental projection of you. I picture you have red hair and freckles, maybe wearing glasses. I picture you as outgoing and trustworthy, maybe a bit mischievous. Summer from Missouri, I know you’ll never read this, but if you do… well, I’m sorry I tried to sell you something you didn’t need and I’m sorry I fell so in love with you. I didn’t say, couldn’t say, bye to you by the time you hung up. I thanked you for your time and you thanked me. Before I heard the click on the line that changed my life, you put your phone to your lips one more time and you said to me “Don’t be sorry, Anthony. You have a voice like a hurricane.” And then you hung up.
Her Two Cents
The sounds of a hurricane are wild, strong, and without restraint. A powerful force that cannot be stopped by any man-made means – regardless of how we try otherwise. While our poet may have the voice of the hurricane it’s the sounds of Summer that have laid waste to an unsuspecting heart…