The Hang Up

Having properly installed my dentures so that I could speak properly, I lift the phone off the nightstand as my earplugs jostle about my bed cover.
        "William Palmer speaking," I spoke into the receiver. "No soliciting please."
        There's a woman on the line, and she sounds insulted, taken aback, as she grunts in an nasal way.
        "May I ask what this call is about?" I put an edge of impatience into my voice. I don't usually get up this early in the morning. And with the GO-Train line in the apartment's backyard, I sleep with earplugs in. That's why the rent's low enough for my pension.
        "Look at the obituaries," she instructs me, disgusted at something or something, with another nasal rasp that seems somehow familiar.
        "I beg your pardon, miss?"
        "Beep-beep--beep-beep--beep-beep--beeep," she's hung up on me. So, I put the wireless telephone back in its recharger.
        It was a 'miss' and not a 'mister', wasn't it? My hearing's not as good as it used to be, but I surely don't think it's gotten that bad.
        The train makes a pass. My windows are closed, but I can still hear it. A dull, thunderous roar.
        Then, I shriven up the foamy plugs and plunge them back into my ears. As I roll over and try to go back to sleep, I can hear pleasant sound, like gushing water, as the plugs expand in my ears. The train can be heard no more.
        At some point, I know the paper boy walks down the hall, and a copy of the Toronto Star hits my door with a dull thud. However, I am back asleep.

The End

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