The Answering Machine

Just as the sun was starting to rise a man came slowly down the street. His skin was wrinkled and folded with age, sagging around his eyes and mouth like a basset hound with no fur. He was hunched slightly, his hand holding tightly to a sturdy wooden cane that helped the hobbling footsteps stay balanced. As he passed a few other early birds waved to him, greeting him by name in a pattern so familiar it felt like it had gone on for forever.

He did not stop, only smiled a crooked smile at his acquaintances and kept walking. This was not unusual, and the people continued with what they were doing without another thought about it. The man had walked by them every day for years, and though his path had brought him new people every so often, he remained a constant on the street.

Few knew what drove him to stumble from his home so early and walk clear to the drug store three blocks away. Some whispered about his motivation, suggesting things that made little sense. A seldom few knew the real reason behind his quest, and they kept the knowledge to themselves generally. There was no harm in the old man, everyone could tell that whether they were new or old to the tradition. No one waited for him to stop and have a chat on his way, because he would not. He did not stop until he'd reached the drug store.

Pulling out change from his pocket the man went to the payphone outside the drug store and placed his money into the narrow slot. In long repeated motions he dialed the number, waiting with quiet breaths for the rings to silence at last. Finally a voice came on the other end, its tone sweetened with age and bright with cheer.

"You've reached the Stevens residence," the woman's voice said in the same tone he had heard for years, "sorry we missed you. If you'll leave your name and number after the beep we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks for calling."

The man did not wait for the obnoxious beep to ruin his moment and hung up the phone, his smile now brought into full view for the world to see. As he exited the telephone booth he stopped to talk with a mother who had recently moved to the street, smiling kindly at the two children who clutched her skirt tightly. He walked slowly back to his house, stopping every so often to tell and shop keeper that their fruit looked especially ripe, or to converse on the weather with the newsboy who seemed desperate for something to do.

The others could not see the reason behind the old man's actions. They did not know who he called every day, and the few that did thought he was mad. When he was asked who he was calling by an adventurous passerby he answered that he was simply calling his wife. It didn't take long for someone to let them know that his wife had died two years before, leaving him in his solitary treck up and down the block.

They did not understand what he gained by making the journey, and it seemed that happiness was not a large enough prize for most. Only the man knew what her voice really did. It filled his heart with warmth, made him smile the way only she had known how to. Most of all, if only for a moment he could imagine her standing beside him talking to him just like she had for more than forty years. Just for a moment, it was like he had his wife back, and that was enough to keep him going.