The phone rings and Mr. P. stays on the couch and listens to it ring. It’s probably somebody calling with bad news. That’s about the only thing a phone’s good for anyway, Mr. P. thinks, to let somebody get ahold of you with some bad news. He knows people just can’t wait to tell bad news. Like if somebody dies, or if a man’s cows are out in the road, somebody’ll be sure to pick up the nearest phone and call somebody else and tell him or her all about it. And they’ll tell other things, too. Personal things. Mr. P. thinks it’d probably be better to just not have a phone. If you didn’t have a phone, they’d have to come over to your house personally to give you bad news, either drive over or walk. But with a phone, it’s easy to give it to you. All they have to do’s just pick it up and call, and there you are.

But on second thought, he thinks, if your house caught on fire and you needed to call up the fire department and report it, and you didn’t have a phone, there you’d be again.

Or the vet.

The phone’s still ringing. It rings eight or nine times. Just ringing ringing ringing. There’s no telling who it is. It could be the FHA. They hold the mortgage on his place. Or, it could be the bank. They could be calling again to get real shitty about the note. He’s borrowed money from them for seed and fertilizer and things and they’ve got a lien. And, it could be the county forester calling to tell him, Yes, Mr. Parker, it’s just as we feared: your whole i6o-acre tract of pine timber is heavily infested with the Southern pine beetle and you’ll have to sell all our wood for stumpage and lose your shirt on the whole deal. It rings again. Mr. P. finally gets up from the couch and goes over to it. He picks it up. “Hello,” he says.

“Hello?”

“Yes,” Mr. P. says.

“Mr. Marvin Parker,” the phone says.

“Speaking,” says Mr. P.

“Jim Lyle calling, Mr. Parker. Amalgamated Pulpwood and Benevolent Society? Just checking our records here and see you’re a month behind on your premium. Just calling to check on the problem, Marv.”

They always want their money, Mr. P. thinks. They don’t care about you. They wouldn’t give a damn if you got run over by a bush hog. They just want your money. Want you to pay that old premium.

“I paid,” Mr. P. says. He can’t understand it. “I pay by bank draft every month.”

A little cough comes from the phone.

“Well yes,” the voice says. “But our draft went through on a day when you were overdrawn, Mr. Parker.”