Part Two: Far From Home

Part Two

Far From Home

8. The Other End of the Line

THE OTHER END OF THE LINE

Hungover from cheap whiskey, George Bledsoe made a simple error that many people make: he mistakenly dialed his own number on the telephone. He was attempting to call a girl he knew—a homely girl, but one with the virtues of being quick and easy—and, through his customary impatience and general fogginess, let the wrong pattern of digits govern his pudgy index finger: BE-8-5883.

He did not get the busy signal. He should have; but he did not. Instead, the phone began clicking and an operator’s voice announced dimly, as if from a great distance, “That’s a ship-to-shore connection, sir.” George Bledsoe, just then realizing that he had, in fact, dialed his own number, said, “What the hell?” There was a great deal of static and then a man’s voice said, “All right. Who is it?”

George blinked. The voice was loud and arrogant. It sounded somehow familiar, but he could not place it.

But George was not by nature a deferential person. “Who in hell are you, friend?” he said.

The voice paused a moment and then it said, “This is George Bledsoe.”

“Look, friend,” George Bledsoe said, “You can take that and…” He started to hang up and then stopped. How could…?

“That’s right,” the voice said. “How could I know?” And then, “You let it sink in a minute, George, and then you get that tablet of paper out of the top dresser drawer and get yourself a pencil out of the box on the refrigerator and you get ready to write some things down. We don’t have all day.”

George was staring at the phone in disbelief. It was his voice, as if on a tape recorder. He blinked, and found himself sweating. But, unused to taking orders, he said, “Why should I?”

“Don’t argue, dammit. I’m talking to you from October ninth. I’m sitting in a boat, twenty-eight miles and two months from where you are and I’ve got a pile of newspapers, Georgie, that haven’t even been printed yet, back there in August where you’re talking from. I’m going to make you rich.”

It sounded like a con game. George’s eyes narrowed. “Why should you?”

“Because I’m you, you stupid bastard. Get that paper and start writing. I’m going to give you the names of some race-horses and of three issues of stocks. And a baseball team. You’d better get them right the first time. There won’t be another.”

George was staring around the room dizzily; the hand that held the phone was sticky with sweat. “How can…?”

“Dammit, shut up. I don’t know how. It just is.”

***