“Ma’am,” I start, “I’m not calling to gossip, I’m calling because some psycho lady just set my lawn on fire and I need you to send someone!”
“Help is on the way,” she says. “So, what’s he like? Is he nice in person—he really seems like the kind of guy who’d just be really nice to you if you met him on the street or in a coffee shop or something, is that true?”
“‘Is he nice in person?’” I ask. “This is a practical joke, right?”
“I don’t know, he just seems like he’s got that humility to temper the confidence, you know?” she asks. “Is he doing a nude scene?”
“Is there anything I should be doing?” I ask. “Should we be staying away from windows or something?”
“Probably,” she says. “Did you ever see that movie he did, Eastland, the one where you get a 10 second look at that cute behind of his?”
Help’s on the way and I’m really just so tired of fighting things that I just give up.
“Yeah, that was quite something, wasn’t it?” I ask.
Damian’s moved away from the door now and he’s pacing in my front room, occasionally stopping to look out the window at the burning patch of lawn. Whatever she did, the fire seems very well controlled.
“I wore out that DVD,” the operator laughs. “Between you, me, and the lemon tree, I must’ve watched that part of the movie about a couple hundred times, and you know what?” she asks.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve still never seen the ending,” she says, and erupts in laughter.
I’m starting to hear sirens in the distance, and, thanks to what I’m assuming is my utter exhaustion, I just start laughing with her.
“Do me a favor?” I ask her while I sit down.
“What’s that, hon?” the dispatcher asks.
“Is there any way we could just keep this conversation between you and me?” I ask her. “To tell you the truth, I think I’m about done with all the attention for the more screwed up things in my life.”
“That isn’t really my call,” the woman says. “I think if we’re contacted, we have to release the tape. I really don’t deal with that, though.”
“Huh,” I say. “Well, maybe with all of this I can be the first person to actually break the internet.”
“Things happen,” the woman says. “Things get better.”
“I hope so,” I tell her. “Things are pretty crappy right now.”
A fire truck and an ambulance—for some reason—pull up to the front.
“They’re here,” I tell her. “I should probably let you go.”
“All right,” the woman says. “Keep that chin up.”
“I’ll try,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”
“Doreen,” she says.
“It’s been nice to talk with you, Doreen. I’m Emma,” I say.
“Well, you go on and h
ave a better evening now, all right?” she says.
“All right,” I tell her. “Thanks, bye.”
I hang up and release Damian, who’s been eyeing that front door for the last five minutes.