Calling

Ronny calls me when I'm at work. His message: "Curt, it's Ronny. I know it's a bit early, but ham salad sandwiches and chess?" He says his phone number, slowly, a pause between each digit. I try to come up with an excuse while washing dishes.

Sorry Ronny, I can't meet today because I'm not feeling well.
Sorry Ronny, I can't play chess because I can't find my chessboard and I only like playing chess on my chessboard.
Sorry Ronny, one of my dogs is really sick and I need to get him to the vet.
Sorry Ronny.
Sorry Ronny.
Sorry Ronny.

The truth is, I'm scared. I'm not good with friends. Even people I've considered to be my friends made me nervous. What are friends supposed to talk about when they get together? How can they keep on talking and talking and laughing and talking some more?

My short shift is over. I am walking home. I am opening my apartment door. I am feeding the dogs. The dogs don't ask me how my day went, but I am telling them,"Work is work. Belle Star was in a good mood. Oh, and Ronny called. You know, the man we met in the cemetery yesterday. Ronny."

Ronny is calling and I am answering the phone. I am saying, "Hello." I am saying, "Sure." I am saying, "What time?" I am saying, "See ya later." I am hanging up the phone. I am standing over the kitchen sink. I am dizzy. I am thinking, Chess tonight, at the coffee shop down the street. I am digging through my boxes. I am pulling out my chessboard. I am finding all the pieces. I am looking for the rook. I am looking for the rook.