Artless Dodger

There are ten voice mails on my phone right now, and six are from my brother. His message intros are unorthodox but they're a pretty accurate reflection of the often frustrating process of getting me on the phone:

"You suck. So Bad."

"Holy tits! Where are you are?"

"You're call-dodging me, aren't you?"

"Christ on a bike! Callmeloveyoubye."

It's not that I don't want to talk to people, especially my brother, who is easily one of my very favorite people. I love having conversations. I love hearing what's going on in other people's lives. And it's not like I'm always busy either-- in fact, more often than not, I'm lonely and pacing around the house trying to decide whether I should vacuum and dust or just burn the whole place down because, really,when you're this bored and lonely what's the difference? So it would follow that phone calls would be a wonderful thing for me, a convenient and comforting link to a world outside my increasingly cramped and stifling head.

And yet, it is not so. There's something about the phone, both making calls and receiving them, that makes me anxious. Calls from my immediate family mostly don't trigger this response, but sometimes they do. I took a personality test not so long ago that specifically asked how I react when the phone rings, and what surprised me was not that my exact reaction was listed, ("D. I cringe and hope someone else answers, or that it's not for me") but that there were other reactions, reactions like curiosity, excitement, anticipation, a desire to get there first and answer it. I have a friend who even thinks of it as a little victory when she gets a call, like validation.

Pants is one of these people who loves getting, making, and returning calls. We have the same model cell phone, but the "Samsung" on his is worn off to a vague "ung" from his aggressive fondling. It is never far from one of his many, many pockets, and it is always juiced up and ready to go. He returns calls promptly, and periodically calls up friends across the country just to check in. He will never take more than 12 hours to get back to you. This is how accessible he is, even when he spends up to 9 hours a day either studying in a government-secured vault where cell phones must be checked at the door, or in a giant piece of machinery far from cell phone range.

My phone is in mint condition, but takes frequent sabbaticals under the car seat or in the crack behind the bed, and is often found drained of all power after issuing its last, tiny "Battery low!" cries for help. It's little display is always reproachful: "5 missed calls." "9 new messages."

Recently I was talking to my mom (on the phone, lucky woman-- she'll never know how exclusive that club is), and she brought up something I haven't thought about it in years but that might be a clue to my phone anxiety: when we first moved to Saudi Arabia, I was one of 3 new ninth graders in a class of 79. Very few people had cable. The internet was in its infancy. Cell phones were still large enough to bludgeon someone to death with. In other words, kids my age were catastrophically bored and since we lived on a guarded compound in the Middle East, there weren't that many places to go or things to do. I had never before-- and have never since-- been so popular in my life. For an entire year, I got an average of seven phone calls a night. My mother griped about it, my brother rolled his eyes and made faces, and my dad took my picture while I leaned exhausted against the dining room wall, the flesh-colored phone cable stretched around the corner in a feeble attempt at privacy (but from whom??).

And who was it? What did they want? I can barely remember. What I do remember is the way your ear starts to feel all hot and the cartilage starts to go soft after you've been on the phone for so long.

The next year, when I went off to The World's Most Negligent Boarding School, the ringing of phones no longer haunted me. In fact, what began to haunt me was the absence of that ringing. 33 girls on my floor shared one pay phone, and since my family was still back in Saudi Arabia and we traded off having the sun on our side of the planet, there was never really a good time to call or to linger near the phone in hopes of it being unoccupied AND ringing for me. Of the few calls I made that year, none were that satisfying or capable of making me feel any more connected to the people in my life. One in particular was so weighted, and yet so flimsy-- the one where I had to tell my parents that I was getting kicked out of The World's Most Negligent Boarding School-- that if it weren't so damned depressing, the ridiculousness of having to convey so much information, and such bad information, it could have been really funny. In a dark sort of way.

The other way the phone has been a constant in my life is that it's often been the only way I could talk to my dad when he was away at work. In that respect, it represented a frustrating constraint-- it was always such a big deal when he called, and we'd all get excited, but then when it was my turn to talk, I'd realize there wasn't that much to say. How often did I summarize What's Been Going On In My Life and feel deflated at how meager it sounded? How many times did a phone call only sharpen the point of loneliness and longing I felt for someone, and underscore the fact that they're not here?

In a way I sometimes feel like the phone requires a performance from me, and that much of the time I'm not up to it. I skip completely over the point where phone calls help maintain connections with people, and jump directly to worrying about how I'm perceived, and how I perceive myself trying to connect with them, and how I'm inevitably failing at it. The times I feel the lowest are always the most difficult times to call someone who might help me feel better, or pick up when they call me. When I do call people, it's because I've reached a painful tipping point of loneliness and guilt, and I begin to worry that my silence might look an awful lot like negligence or dislike.

I realize how incredibly self involved my phone anxiety is. I also realize how lucky I am to have friends and family who are lenient and patient with my cringing call dodging habits, and have somehow figured out how to not take it personally. I just wish there was some way for me to explain all of this in my voice mail message and not scare off potential employers:

"Hi, you've reached Rachel. I have pronounced phone anxiety. What does that mean? It means that most likely I really need to connect with you, would love to do so, but I'm afraid I'll fail at it and you'll stop liking me. Which is ironic, because the fact that I'm call dodging you will likely achieve the same result. Or I could be busy! Really! Also, if you're calling about a job, I'd love to discuss my resume and how I'm not at all high-strung. I'll probably call you back, but if I don't, please don't take it personally. Have a great day--"

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