ALONE WITH HER DIAL TONE

She lived alone, she was on her own, she was unknown by anyone. She had a name but no one knew it. She'd had a past but not much to it. She'd had a fortune but her son went through it. What was left, her daughter blew it. She'd had a lover, Nothing to it, But love she never had. And what she had was worse than bad. She was beaten by her mom, raped by her dad. Very sad. She had an ideal childhood.

But she had a telephone. And with this phone she was not alone. She would listen to the dial tone. To most it was a drone, To her it was a moan, a groan, a crying stone, an echo bouncing in the air, crying children everywhere, begging for their share of food. At times the tone was very rude, sometimes it was even lewd, it was crude, it would brood, it would cry out for humanity, the insanity and inanity of uncaring fools who made and broke the rules.

But the telephone and dial tone welcomed her to the land of codes and populated by corn pone blacks, forced to break their backs working on the railroad tracks. The yellow-bellied Chinks, she thinks, will rule the world and feed the masses with spoiled molasses flatulent gasses and poisoned sliced Oriental rice.

And the Jews were in zones everywhere, controlling banks and corporations, enemies of Arab nations and foreign relations. Well, she had news for all those Jews. When Adolf Jesus Christ returned they would all be burned and she did believe their ashes would be scattered over Tel Aviv.

When she showed her hate her back snapped straight and she sang her praise of that fascist state, "It's not too late!" she roared to the dial tone, every zone and smashed the receiver into her breast.

My doctor says I'm insane. Something happened to my brain. Too much depression, he said. I think something happened to his head. "What depression?" he said. "Not the one where we lost our money. The one where people get dumber than a bunny." The economy never bothered me. I'm as rich as a pig on a Christmas tree.

"The kind of depression I'm talking about," he explained, "is the kind that makes the brain feel pain it can't explain and sure as rain the patient flips and takes trips to Lalaland." I didn't understand. Maybe I was nuts but he was mad. It's the last session we ever had."

Just because I talk to ghosts and telephone posts and think pumpernickel toast is a Commie plot doesn't mean I've got the insanities, Maybe it's just a bunch of bananaties. Maybe he's the one who's crazy.