So I finally phoned the number in the bathroom, the one that promises a good time. I’d been going to the pub for several weeks before I got up the courage, drinking pints of amber and working through this biography of Stephen Hawking. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing. I wanted to be out running, but I’d injured my ankle and the pub seemed to be a good backup activity until I’d healed. I saw the number on my third or forth visit, my preferred stall being OUT OF ORDER. I looked at it, the number, scrawled just above the toilet paper dispenser along with the words for a good time call and it made me realize I wasn’t having a good time. Not at all. I was actually very depressed. About the ankle and the breakup. Here I was sitting in some pub by myself while the love of my life went on with our running group and was probably going to do her best half-marathon yet.
Shortly after 8 p.m. I got to the end of the biography, which had inspired me to do something bold, to make my fate my own, so I shuffled into to the second stall and brought my phone out of my pants.
“Hello,” a female voice said. She sounded impatient. I didn’t know how old she was, only that she wasn’t a child or an elderly person and that she probably wasn’t in her twenties either—her impatience sounded more of the “I’m tired of this” variety rather than the impatience of youth. Which meant she was somewhere in the ballpark of 30-60.
“I’m calling from the bathroom of the Sylvia,” I said.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No,” I said, trying to convey how serious I was with my tone. “Your number is written here.”
“Yeah, and?”
“I’d like a good time.”
“I’m sure you would,” she said. “You and every other drunk.”
“Look, I’m not drunk, I promise.” I wasn’t lying; I’d only had two thirds of my pint at that point. I’m not really much of a drinker, I’d just been sipping to pass the time.
“I’m sure you’re not.”
“I promise. I’m only here because my girlfriend has left me. And I may never run again. I’ve only had half a pint. I can send you a photo.”
I could hear the ragged edge of desperation in my voice and, evidently, she could too because her own voice seemed to soften somewhat. “So you’re looking for a good time?”
“Yes,” I said, finally we were getting somewhere.
“Ok,” she said. “Give me a minute.”
I waited. Through the line, I could hear a variety of sounds. First it was like she was beating a stack of DVDs with a hairbrush. Then it was like someone sorting through a giant bin of cutlery. Finally there was the brief droning of a leaf blower. As I listened, I became more and more excited about my good time and what it might entail: balloons and cake, or whips and insults. Maybe a gentle hike, I mused, rubbing my ankle.
“1:47 p.m..” she said, the line suddenly quiet except for her voice.
“What’s the address?”
“No address.”
“Ok, well, what day? Should I wear anything in particular?”
“Look, maybe you don’t understand. There are other numbers I can give you if you’re looking for a date or an adventure. But this is the time line. I give people good times.”
“Ok,” I said.
“So, should I put you down for 1:47 p.m.?”
I ran my mind over the time. “It’s kind of in the middle of the day,” I said.
Her voice grew harsh again—“Do you want a good time or not?”
“Yes, sorry. Absolutely. I’ll take 1:47 p.m..”
“Ok. Good,” she said.
She walked me through entering my credit card information. Once the transaction was complete, she said, “Have a good time,” and the line went dead.
It’s just past 1 p.m. now, a day later—1:03, actually—I’d expected the weather to be better, but maybe rain is good, it means I won’t miss it, that my good time won’t be competing with the sunshine. It almost feels like it’s here already, but I know it’s not. It could’ve been any number of times—4:11 p.m. or midnight or half past nine, but it isn’t, it’s 1:47 p.m..
Buy Kayla Czaga’s books, Dunk Tank and For Your Safety Please Hold On, at bookshop.org.