Phone Home

As soon as I emerge from the dark train station it hits me. The smells, both good and bad, the noise, the lights, the rush of colors, voices and car horns piercing through the cold air and hitting me, knocking the wind out of me. Along with the sights and sounds exclusive to New York, a realization hits me. I have done it, I have made it to New York by myself without help from anyone. Along with the pride I have I also have, a fear of whether or not I made the right decision or not. New York had always felt like a second home to me and I had always wanted to make it here, by myself, for myself. It would be such an accomplishment. Now that I did it I begin to wonder if all the work was worth it. My mind travels back to my small town in Texas, my mom, dad, sisters, and all the extra shifts at the diner I took on to get myself here. I get smacked out of my day dream when the words of a local New Yorker hit me in the ear: “Aye lady, move it, people are tryna walk here!” I feel embarrassment rush up to my cheeks, and I walk steadily away without looking back. The farther I get from the cave of the train station, the louder and brighter the streets become. My worn out duffle bag and back pack get knocked side to side and I almost fall numerous times into a puddle, or into Saturday night traffic, or into the reality that I am a young girl wondering New York alone with no idea how to maneuver the City. After an hour of wondering around aimlessly, my feet and my façade of knowing where I am going are tired, and I decide I need a break. I duck under the bright lights of a tourist store advertising snow globes, key chains, and mugs bedazzled with the Statue of Liberty and Empire State Building. Through the flashing window, I spy a family picking out matching t-shirts. Looking at them I think back to my home, still wondering if I made the right decision coming here. I even contemplate going home first thing tomorrow. My gaze is quickly broken by the piercing sound of a pay phone. At first, I think nothing of it and go back to my people watching and feeling sorry for myself. Then I realize how strange it actually is, someone calling a pay phone. I could not think of a time when I had ever heard one ring. With each blatant ring I become more intrigued and the ringing even begins to sound like my name. It was as if the phone was calling me personally, begging me to answer. Finally, coming to the conclusion that there is nothing to lose, I walk over to the phone and pick it up. Sheepishly, I muster out a, “hello” realizing I have not heard my own voice since I had been in the City. It sounds flimsy and delicate against the booming noise of the City behind me. A few silent seconds pass, feeling like an eternity, and I finally get out another, “hello.” This one is a little stronger, sturdier. Then the most surprised voice responds back. “Hello? Who is this?” a man replies, his words hanging heavy with age in my ears. I answer and say that my name is Holly, and I explain to the old man, who I undoubtedly thought must be senile, that he is calling a pay phone in the middle of Times Square. He then proceeds to tell me that he not only knows he is calling a pay phone, but he knows exactly which one he is calling. He has called this phone every night for over forty years, many times getting no answer at all. “I love when someone answers,” the old man says, “then I get to tell them my story. Would you like to hear it Holly?” Although I still think this man is crazy, I like the idea of having contact with a human in this City other than getting yelled at or pushed around like a human pin ball. I tell the old man that I would love to hear his story. I would love to know why he has called this same phone for so many years.

The old man then begins to tell me the story of his life. He grew up on a small farm in Kentucky and did not know how to do anything but work the land. When World War II began, being in good shape and the right age, the man enrolled himself in the Navy. Soon after he was deployed and was stationed on many different islands in the Pacific Ocean. He told me about how hard his time was during the war, how many friends he had lost, how many lives he was forced to take, and how alone and helpless he felt. Although describing many won battles and medals of recognition, the old man’s voice is still fringed in pain and anguish from resurfacing the horrors of his battles. He then tells me the story of the battle of Iwo Jima and the pride he and his war buddies had in raising the American flag among the ashes and smoke. After the battle had been won, the old man and his friends where sent back to the States. Before going back home to Kentucky, they were brought to New York to participate in the celebrations that were taking place in Manhattan. The old man and other heroes from his platoon took part in ticker tape parades and celebrations. He then described to me the excitement and rush the City gave him. The faces of men, women, and children outstretching their hands to him, shouting words of praise and thanks with American pride shining in their eyes. The man had never felt so proud to be an American or to have fought for his country. The young sailor, never having done anything outrageous in his life, but full of excitement and bliss, grabbed a nearby army nurse and kissed her. The old man then illustrates to me how when he kissed her, he saw and felt fireworks, but not the celebratory fireworks in Times Square. He experienced fireworks in his head and in his heart. With that one kiss, the man had fallen deeply in love with the army nurse. The old man’s words became light and full of vigor as he described the day he spent with the nurse. How beautiful she was and how he felt love for her deeper than anything else he had ever felt before. For just that day, the old man could forget about all of his worries and memories of war. He could just feel happy, a feeling he had not felt since before the War. Although their day was perfect and they were genuinely in love with each other, the nurse told the sailor that she was going back oversees the very next day. When the old man describes to me the announcement of this news and the goodbye between him and his love, his voice is full of heartache. He explains to me that at the very pay phone where I was standing, he said his goodbye, never seeing the nurse again. He then began calling the pay phone every day hoping that one day it would be the nurse who answered, retuning to the very spot where she had said goodbye to true love, in hope of finding it again. It takes me several moments before I feel the tears streaming down my face. I have never heard words of a man so in love, even after so many years. The old man then thanks me for lending my ear to him, and tells me he hopes that one day I would find a love like he did. He then says goodbye. After I hang up the phone, I spend a few minutes feeling sad and sorry for this old man, a stranger. Then, I realize how much his story truly means to me. Not only is his story one of true love, but of hope and perseverance. For over forty years this old man has called the same number every day, hanging on to a strand of hope that his sweetheart would answer. I then think to myself that if this old man can still have this type of determination, then how can I give up my dream of living in New York after just one night? I then feel a burst of fireworks of my very own inside of me. I pick up my bags, lift my head, and continue on through Times Square, knowing that this is the place for me. Full of so many untold stories of love, hopes, and dreams, New York is the perfect place for me to achieve all my goals, and is maybe even the setting of the story I may one day tell to a stranger in need of words of encouragement.