Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [54]
“Oh, great,” he said. Then he launched into his lengthy speech, which I’m sure he was reading from the computer screen in front of him.
I grinned and paid no attention, waiting only for him to stop talking. When he finally did stop talking, I said, “Hey bud, you have a good voice.”
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Your voice,” I said. “I like it.” I was trying to sound as friendly and casual as possible, not seductive or sexual. I was using a Regular Guy voice, like, “Hey, how ’bout those Mets last night?” I was doing this on purpose, to confuse him.
“Um. Okay,” he said, unsure.
I let an awkward silence well up between us. Then I asked, “Do you have a digital camera?”
“What?” he said, sounding very confused by the sudden change in direction the call had taken.
“I said, do you have a digital camera? You, personally, Paul. Do you have a digital camera?”
“Mr. Burr—”
“—oughs. Burroughs,” I said, helpfully.
“Mr. Burroughs, I just need to know if you’re interested in the MasterCard with an introductory interest rate of a low three percent.” He was sounding a little brisk, and I didn’t want to risk losing him.
“Yes,” I said, finally. “Yes, I want it. I want that card. Definitely.”
“Okay. Okay, well, good,” he said, smiling, I knew, could almost hear his lips curl around his teeth. I heard tapping at the keyboard.
“EXCEPT,” I added, “I want you to go home tonight and with your digital camera, Paul, I want you to take a picture of your penis and e-mail it to me.” I let that sink in. “I’ll give you my e-mail address. It’s AugustenB@aol.com”
There was silence. But I did hear him breathing, which was strangely intimate and surprisingly thrilling. He was no longer a telemarketing asshole but suddenly a breathing human animal, and I had momentarily short-circuited his brain.
“It doesn’t have to be hard, Paul. Soft is fine. But I want you to take a picture of your penis and e-mail it to me, then I will get this credit card. In fact Paul, if you send me a picture of your penis I will get both a Visa AND a MasterCard.”
Here, he hung up.
I thought, no, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. When I hang up on a telemarketer, they always call me back. I waited ten minutes, and I called him back.
This time he answered his phone with a slight hesitation, and there was a wariness in his voice. “This is Paul,” he said, rather suspiciously.
“Hi Paul,” I said. “It’s me. How about that penis picture? You gonna send it?”
“Fuck off, you queer,” he spat.
“Hey man, I’m not the guy calling other guys at home during the evening, okay? I’m not the guy making all these weird offers to other men.”
This pissed him off. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m asking if you want a fucking MasterCard.”
“Paul, all I know is that this is the third time we’ve talked tonight, you’re saying ‘fuck’ to me, I’m a guy, and your penis has been mentioned numerous times. Jesus, you’re acting like you’re some teenager. Work through this shit with a shrink, man. I don’t care if you’re gay.”
Here again, I achieved silence. But not for long. The breathing became heavy and then, “What the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
“It’s no game, man. You want to close a sale? I want to see your penis. It’s a fair exchange if you ask me.”
He hung up again, and I reached for my perfectly spicy, scratch-your-throat-like-a-cat-claw-hot Blenheim ginger ale and took a long swallow.
This particular credit card company has not called me again.
And, to my delight, AT&T never called me again after I asked one of their friendly Southern females if by any chance she happened to be a male-to-female transsexual, and if so, what vaginal depth her surgeon had managed to attain for her. “Four inches is pretty common,” I told her. “But if you dilate religiously, you can probably achieve five.” I even got the phrase “self-lubricating” out before she hung up on me.
MY LAST FIRST DATE
D
ennis’s superior mental health was obvious from the first date, like a cleft palate. The other thing about him that was obvious was