A Joy Call

I'm calling to tell you that...just kidding! I'm just calling. I know, weird, right?

I pulled out of Charlotte-Douglas International Airport in my rental car and made a nostalgic turn on to I-77 South. Charlotte was my nest for twelve years before my now husband swept me away to another C-city with far less curb appeal. The serendipity of landing a new writing project in a place so close to my heart made me smile.

I had thirty-three unaccounted-for minutes rolling down memory lane before arriving at my client’s house. I’ve heard rumor that texting while driving is ill advised, so I hit the other green icon on my iPhone, scrolled my Favorites, and hit a name.

After a ring and a half, her tentative voice answered “Hello?”

My smile deepened. That voice is my space holder, the friend who defines constancy, the one who believes in my best self but knows my worst self intimately and doesn’t discriminate between the two.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m okay.” I said quickly, realizing immediately the source of the hesitancy in her voice.

We don’t call each other. Not out of the blue, at least. Typically, it’s a scheduled thing that happens a few times a year for several hours and requires a week’s notice. We call each other unannounced for only one reason - something’s wrong.

But this was something different. I missed her. She knew me when I was this Charlotte person…and before that…and before that. I wanted to share where I was and why with someone who would understand the significance. I was calling to share joy. It was a joy call.

I don’t know the last time I randomly called someone just to say hello. I mean that literally…I looked, but my phone log doesn’t go back that far. All of my outbound calls, 17 in three months, were mostly to my husband or a doctor’s office or insurance company. The remaining 4 were work or to the two friends I had scheduled calls with to catch up or plan a trip.

No joy calls. In three months.

So, I did it again today. After I dropped off my daughter at school, I called my brother. He was slower to answer, as he does, and his voice carried a different assumption when he picked up.

“He-llo.” The first syllable drawn out with a sigh. He thought he was in trouble. He’s been avoiding my texts.

Normally, he’d be right. I do call out of exasperation, but berating him to answer his fucking phone wasn’t the purpose of this call.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Life has exploded on me.” Still the assumption of doghouse-status.

“Oh yeah?”, I responded. “Tell me. What’s up?”

Different call, same intention. I just wanted to hear his voice. I honestly didn’t have to have an answer for the questions I was texting him. But my brother is home. His voice is instant connection. I can be royally pissed at his ostrich approach to things he’s not ready to deal with, but the second he comes on the line, my nervous system calms. He tells me a story, one that can literally only happen to him, and I laugh so hard the dogs jump and tears pool in my eye balls. We quickly cover the necessities, agree to talk about Thanksgiving when I see him, and end the way we always do - with something he needs to do that I know he won’t do - a reassurance that I’m still the big sister and he’s still the baby brother.

A joy call. With a little business on the side.

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My husband and I dated long distance until literally the week we were married. That year, I fell in love with his voice, with the consistency of his calls, with falling asleep to his words in my ears. We texted constantly, but it was those nightly calls where I learned him. And, sometimes, myself.

I would put in my headset so I could still talk to him while I got ready for bed. Most nights, I’d turn out the light and snuggle in to the covers, dog on one side, iPhone power cord on the other. We’d talk until I was literally falling asleep. And then…

“Sweet dreams my Jess.”

We text it to each other now. If we’re apart, it’s typically because I’m working or visiting or caring for someone, which usually means by the time I can talk I’m overpeopled or under slept, neither of which results in good conversation. We also have the benefit of physical proximity with each other and our six-year old for all the other days, so in a game of opposites from our early relationship, its sometimes a treat NOT to have a voice in my ear at bedtime.

But those calls from the early days were joy calls. Intentional love bombs of time and voice that were both expected and not, as I somehow knew that he wasn’t dialing out of decency, but desire.

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Lest those of you with my number read this as a plea for spontaneous, unplanned, drop in phone-a-friend sessions, allow me to bring you back to reality. You don’t have time for that. I surely do not have time for that. We are not in high school. The phone is not attached to the wall, and BellSouth no longer charges by the minute. If I’m not comatose by 9:30pm, I will certainly not answer your call…unless you call me twice in which case you or your child or your parents better be bleeding, at a hospital or needing a hospital, or just bat shit crazy. Otherwise, text me. It’s unlikely I’ll answer even then, but at least I’ll see it and be up to date on where you are in life.

I like to hide behind the convenience of a text message too. Hell, now I can send photo updates, GIF’s, and voice texts without even having to make facial expressions. Oh, right, emojis for that. But with that convenience, and, frankly, lack of energy exertion, comes a trade off.

I miss you. I’m kinda sorta hoping you miss me.

And in missing out on the full you, I’m only getting about five eighths of the joy, which feels like cheating but its not. It’s energy algebra.

I don’t want the only motivation to answer my call to be pending disaster or anger avoidance. But, if that’s the only reason I ever call you, your neocortex will call a spade a pattern, and then will pull up a conditioned response the second my name pops up on your screen. I have to start calling for other reasons besides just those. Like joy. Like loneliness. Like fun. Like love.

I will admit to being someone who appreciates a voicemail. It’s akin to a courtesy “Can I call you?” text, which I can also ignore if the answer is 🙄. Of course, I adore the transcribe feature on the iPhone because then I can read your need or want while still on a conference call or doing something entirely unrelated to you. It’s triage at its finest. Probably explains the abject irritation I felt at an old friend who would call me and not leave a voicemail. His point was that he obviously wanted to talk to me so seeing the missed call, I should just call him back. In case its not obvious, I don’t do well with shoulds, so for years we played a pitiful power game where I told him I don’t return calls when I don’t know what they’re about. You know what happened? We just didn’t talk on the damn phone. The joy potential of those calls got suspended in a semantics bubble somewhere in the AT&T ethers.

Okay, not this old, but you get the idea. And thanks to Alexa from Pixabay for the nostalgia.

This has turned in to a bit of a meandering that probably has a point, but maybe not a well-defined one. Perhaps its just that I liked the feeling of those two calls, and I want more of that. The relief in my friend’s voice on my behalf that life has not dropped its awful on me once again. The “remind me to come back to that” that prefaced one of my brother’s whoppers when he finally figured out I wasn’t calling to bitch at him. The depth of relationship allowed to roam freely while our thumbs rested and our brains relaxed in to the easy conversation of connection.

I want more of that.

A joy call. Or two.

Let’s make time for that. You and me. Just we.

Text me first, if you must, but try to just call. And I’ll try to just answer. And eventually, we might have a one phone call solution to joy.

Or we won’t, and then we can just go back to texting, and nothing will have changed and nobody will be the wiser, so just try it, okay?!? Sheesh!

Love you, mean it. 😘