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Log Title: Calling California

Log setting: A random New Orleans payphone / A phone in a California hospice

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste

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Your phone rings. When you pick up there's a gentle swish of cars and wind beyond the receiver; telltale payphone static.'.

The phone rings two and a half times, then is picked up. It's...not Batiste that answers. A man's voice, someone in their late thirties, maybe, a gentle but resonant voice. Crisp words - someone used to speaking on the phone. "Daumas residence. Hello?" (Martin Daumas was the name of the person Batiste is staying with, if I remember right.)

'There's an uncomfortble pause and a soft sniffle before Trace says, "I, uh. I could have the wrong number. This is jest, I mean. It's the one he left, and I..." A nervous ramble.'.

A bit of a pause, before the voice speaks again. "This is Martin Daumas. Who are-" Stop. "Oh. You're one of Batiste's friends, aren't you? One moment." The mouthpiece is covered, and the man can be muffledly heard. Something about 'Batiste' and 'friend'. A few seconds pass, before he says, "Here he is," and the phone is handed over to a very soft-voiced Batiste. Tentatively: "H-hello?"

�Batiste...?� comes Trace's equally shy whisper. Hardly any voice to back up the word; it comes out like a softly exhaled breath. "S'Trace. I jest... I found where they tucked 'way yer note, and I thought..." He swallows hard.'.

Jean-Batiste laughs, very softly, and ends on a desperately relieved sigh. "Trace. God. Hey." He laughs again, coughs once, then covers the mouthpiece and says - likely quite unnecessarily - away from the phone, "It's cool, it's Trace." Wooden-creaking footsteps can be heard for a few seconds, then a door being closed, then, softly: "Hey. How are you? I'm..." He sighs. "I'm sorry I had to leave so fast."

�Yeah..." Trace agrees softly, "Yeah, woulda been nice t'say g'bye to you 'fore you went." Another pause, awkward and bashful. A silent wish that you would speak. Doesn't matter about what, he just wants to get you talking, hear your voice some more. "It's... it's real good to hear ya," he finally voices the thought. "You been out there awhile. Yer friend doin' okay?" Go ahead, tell all about it. He'd rather just cling to the phone anyway.'.

A quiet sigh, followed by silence filled only with a crooked smile. "Yeah," he finally murmurs. "Good to hear you, too. Missed you guys. How...how are you? I mean..." He fumbles with the words, trying to find the right ones. "You and Jason...you did it, didn't you? You kicked." More silence, more awkward this time, filled with several swallows. "He's...he's, um. He's okay. He was glad to see me again...it's good to see him again, too. You, um. You know."

Trace clears his throat, his hands shifting on the phone's receiver audibly. "M'doin... Well, y'should see me. Gettin' less thin each day. Been gettin' into this whole weird new three meal a day thing.." He laughs, just a touch nervous. After all, you're probably not, so he almost feels bad talking about it. Like you might feel better if he told you he was shooting up again. But, "Yeah, been clean all this time. I... well, I smoke way too much weed lately, but that's okay.� A soft, sarcastic grump. �Great time to start too, now that the city's all dried up an' flooded with coke an' shit.".

A soft sigh, the smile all but audible. "Yeah? That's...damn. That's so great, Trace. I bet you look great. I'm, um. I'm really proud of you. You did good." The phone bumps against something, and furniture creaks in the background. A yawn is muffled away from the phone. "Mmn," he comments. "Yeah? Must be someone new in town, or something."

�Dunno..." the bluecap mumbles, followed by a somewhat embarrassed pause at your praise. "So... guess I woke you up, huh? Sorry bout that... I prolly shouldn'a called. It's like..." a pause, then a little chuckle. "Dunno, it's insanely late anyway. I guess I jest... well, it'd jest been too long since I heard ya."'.

The answer is very prompt, and very firm, despite the soft-as-always voice. "No. I'm glad you called. I've been sleeping funny hours, that's all. On and off, it depends when Patrick's awake. Been sleeping at the hospice a lot, too, so...it's good you called when you did." The couch creaks again as he shifts, resettles, and asks, "How's Jason?" A twinge of hopefulness: "Is he there, too?"

Trace's answer isn't very prompt. No, he takes his good old time, cheek and shoulder pressed tight against the phone as his fingers idly play with the metal cord of the payphone. "Naw. He's out liftin' wallets, prolly. He been doin' that a lot lately. Or jest out doin' whatever. Y'know how he is." A breath is exhaled against the receiver, softly, but it still catches it just right and sends hurricaine noises through the phoneline, racing to rasp in your ear in California. "Y'stay in that hospital place alla time?" he wonders. "Never get out to see no ocean, r' redwoods like you tole me the coast gots? Gotta..." a pause, as tears are blinked away, forehead leaned against the payphone. But he continues bravely, his voice kept calm for you. "Gotta do that. See all that stuff out on the coast f'me, so..." Again, the tremble smoothed out of his voice with effort. "..so you kin' paint it real pretty f'me when you... when you get back."'.

Pause. "Well...you can see the ocean from the hospice windows...but the redwood forest is way south from where we are, and I can't just take off and go see it, not...um." He swallows, then coughs and clears his throat. "You know. I...maybe I'll get to see it again, before I come home. We'll, um. We'll see." He thinks for a few seconds, trying to find a way to make the topic a bit more upbeat, and decides on: "But, um. Just being out here, it makes it all easier to remember, you know? So...I'll paint it for you, when I get back. Don't worry. It..." His voice abruptly cuts off to a sigh - when he speaks again, it's very soft, and very strained. "What is it?" he asks you. "What's wrong? Are you in trouble? Is Ain in the hospital again?" He starts ticking off possible disasters in his mind.

�No, no, everything's cool with me," Trace insists in a rush. "Ain hasn't been round really... Got stuff he's doing, I guess. We jest, y'know. Things're." Another bout of silence. "I'm doing well," he says finally. "M'healthy, an' I.. I been taking good care of Jason. And I got to be good friends with this girl... 'Member that redhead girl, the one who draws in Jackson Square?" Okay, topic's being changed, he's pulling it together again. Almost cheerful. "Anyway, she 'n Cathy painted me this picture, fer a Christmas New Years Junk-Free Day present all in one. S'me like.. painted as this king fairy, with all these naked girl fairies draped all around, washin' in this pond. Y'should see it, it rocks." A little giggle. "An', um. An' Nadine's gonna give me'n Jason a piercin' when we stop by that Flesh Wound place t'morrow, so I hope he does a good job liftin' those wallets so--" A pause, very abruptly, and a tiny click. Then Trace's voice is back, mid-sentance, yelping, "--wait here, lemme... Shit. I don't got more change. Wait, I'm still searching, but..." Desperately, with some of his despair bleeding into his words, "Dammit. Bat, I love you, kay? I'll really miss you. Be well, n--" And then silence, heavy and mocking. Thank you for using Ameritech, have a nice day.

The silence relaxes, warms. You're talking, and he's listening - and more importantly, you're talking, and sounding cheerier. Things are getting better again, and then your voice cuts out. He's sitting up, saying, "Trace? Trace? Shit...Trace? Fuck..." until your voice cuts in again. He talks back to you, words running together, a panic to get them out before the operator cuts the connection. "Shit, wait, maybe we can reverse the...wait! Fuck, I love you too! I'll call-" Silence. And the dialtone has never sounded quite so annoying.

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