The phone rings…again. When the answering machine clicks on, a dial tone blares out. This is a sure sign the caller was a robo-dialing bill collection agency. Which one? Hard to say. We don’t answer the phone anymore. There’s no point. Well, every now and then Joe will get a wild hair and tell the Indian-accented call center rep named “Jason” or “Mark” that we sincerely wish we could help, but we simply can’t pay our bill. The rep will keep reading from his script and Joe will keep toying with him until he gets bored or the rep gets completely flustered. Then Joe tells the caller God loves him and hangs up. Joe doesn’t believe in God.
When I’m home alone—which is not nearly often enough—I just turn the ringer off completely. There’s nobody I need to talk to. My mother can whine to my other siblings and my editors can send me all the pleading or threatening emails they like and I can respond as needed. Responding within a day or two keeps them from calling the U.S. Marshals Service to see if I’ve gone into witness protection. Editors will stop at nothing.
“Can you let the dog out?” Joe calls from the screened porch. He is sitting on the porch, plugged into the internet, playing some idiotic global-access golf game. He is maybe six feet from the door he wants me to open for the dog. Why can’t he get off his fat ass and open the door? “I’m up next,” he says, as if reading my mind.
Joe has invested all his competitive energy and focus into the world of golf online. To hear him talk, you’d think he was practicing for the Masters. Sometimes, like now, I’d like to remind him that when I’m sitting on my tush at the computer, I’m earning money, meager though it may be. He’s gaining virtual dollars with which to whore-up his online avatar. So far, Joe’s golf avatar has outfits with matching caps for each holiday, kilts for Sundays and a full range of bicep-hugging golf shirts. Needless to say, Avatar Joe shamelessly flaunts the body Joe wishes he had.
“I’ve made friends all over the world,” says Joe, lobbying for his pastime. “I can visit people in Australia, the Netherlands, San Francisco and Canada. If it weren’t for golf online, I wouldn’t know any of these people!”
Fucking fabulous. I’m trying to keep the power on; he’s singing Kumbaya over an imaginary 9th hole with a United Nations of middle-aged freeloaders, PIPs (previously important people) and trust fund babies. Joe is not one of the trust fund babies. Meanwhile, I’m reluctant to get in touch with real friends because I can’t afford to meet them for a drink or lunch if they suggest it.
