No Longer Polite
By Eric J. Bandel


He was sitting in a chair with his eyes to the ceiling when the telephone rang. A colossal black moth had been lying dormant for two days; upside down and without so much as a flap. He was sure it was alive but it wouldn’t move; it made him uncomfortable. He could think of nothing else and hadn’t left the room since it appeared. On a table to his right the phone continued to ring. Still watching the moth, he picked it up and spoke.

“Yes, who is it?”

“I’m sorry” said the caller immediately. “I must have the wrong number”.

It was the voice of a young man; confident, breezy, well adjusted. Of late the man in the chair had received numerous amounts of these calls. At first he was polite. He then began to suggest they check the numbers more carefully. For a time he considered changing his own extension. Yet somehow it felt like defeat. He didn’t like defeat. So after a month of miscalls, he was no longer polite.

“How do you know it’s the wrong number?” He asked.

“Excuse me?” Said the young man.

“I say, how do you know it’s the wrong number?”

“Because the party I wish to reach is my cousin Albert, he lives alone and you’re not him.”

“Cousin Albert.”

“Yes, my cousin Albert, is there a problem?”

A long pause then as he took half a cigarette from his shirtfront, lit it and shook the match.

“How can you be certain I haven’t broken in?”

“What’s that?

“Well, you assume a wrong number but you don’t know for sure do you? I mean I could be sitting across from Albert’s body right now, tied to a bed perhaps .”

“What are you talking about, who is this?

“That’s Right, Cousin Al, gagged, stripped and beaten. And me talking to you as I sharpen a buoy blade with the intention of carving my initials into his forehead.”

“What did you just say?” The vocal confidence had vanished.

“Good bye now.”

The man in the chair hung up. Of course it was the wrong number, same as the others. The caller would no doubt check the listing and realize this. He sat back and returned his attention to the moth. Twenty minutes later the phone rang again.

“Yes, who is it?

“Is Rita at home?” It was another young man.

“This is Rita.”

“This is Rita?

“That’s right, Rita speaking.”

“I’m looking for a Miss Rita Korvis.”

“This is she, how can I help you?”

The young sat man breathing into the phone. Seconds passed. He swallowed twice and cleared his throat.

“This doesn’t sound like Rita.”

Just then a cargo plane came low from the west. The noise being great on both ends it was imperative to let the engines fade until the line was again calm. The man in the chair shut his eyes to the moth and leaned forward.

“Are you still with me?”

“Yes.” Said the young man.

“That’s good. Listen, I lied, this isn’t Rita. I only said it was because, well, you see, right now I feel like Rita.”

The line was silent but not cold. The young man again swallowed hard, this time ending with a sneeze.

“What do you mean you feel like Rita?” He said.

“Well, I’ve tried on one of her dresses.”

“One of her dresses? I don’t---

“Yes, im wearing it now. And do you know what else I’m wearing.”

“What is this? how---

“I’m wearing the skin of her face as a mask. That’s what I mean by I feel like Rita. Learn to dial a phone and don’t call here again.”

He hung up, sat back, looked up and the moth was gone.


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Eric J. Bandel is a grocery store manager currently living in New York City. He was born in New Jersey where the mass of his fiction takes place.