There is no caller ID. It's a private number, and the girl on the other end, I already know, is somewhere between thirteen and fifteen. She thinks that my name is Philip and that I am refusing to talk to her, since the first time she called me, she was quite drunk. But we're beyond that now.
The ringing continues, growing louder because I was once stupid enough to set the tone to 'ascending' and can never remember to change it in the morning.
I grab the phone, and the squeaky but rough voice of the girl says, "Hello."
"Hello," I reply.
"Who is this?"
It's always the same. Her name, when I bothered to ask, was either Jade or Christina (or was it Christy?). I imagine that she's blonde--but not that true blonde, blonde from a bottle. She's skinny, runty, and with a splatter of pimples. I think of her as white, but that's just a cultural thing and if, at one o'clock, I was feeling more creative, I'd perhaps think of her as Egyptian and Asian.
"It's Roger," I say.
"Sure, it's Roger. I'm an eighty five year old degenerate with a bag of piss strapped to the side of my leg."
It frustrates her, I think, because I've kept this up for a month now. Once she spoke to me for an hour while I had nothing better to do, telling me all about her apparent sexual episodes. The reason she was telling me this, apparently, was because I had either a) a small penis or b) no penis at all.
I told her I had no penis, and that my fetish was for golden showers. Or, in Roger's case, golden bags, because there was nothing better than unstrapping my bag of piss and just emptying it upon the face of teenage girls who call me in the middle of the night.
She screamed and called me a pervert and calls me every weekend. Most of the time I'll just let the screen flash green but occasionally, I'll pick it up. These days she isn't even drunk.
I don't understand it, but it's better than watching the television and slowly dying, isn't it?