The instruction for Day 7 of the 30-Day writing challenge reads:
Brief: Your character gets a call from someone asking to talk to "David." "You have the wrong number," your character says. But instead of hanging up, the caller and your character get to chatting, and they decide to meet later that night...
Beethoven’s Ninth starts playing. A typical polyphonic ringtone. Some people may regard it as cheesy, but I think it reflects my personality. After all, why should a ringing phone sound like an old-fashioned Alexander Graham Bell thing?
“Hi.” I do not believe in any formalities, before I know the identity of my caller.
“I need to speak to David, now” the caller, apparently female, obviously also didn’t believe in formalities. Her accent was a bit foreign.
“No,” I decided that two can play the game.
“Huh?”
“No. There is no David here. Not now, not anytime.”
“Oh… Is that 293-5489 ?”
“You dialled the number didn’t you? Electronics don’t get these things wrong, you know. Computers don’t make mistakes, people do. They should be more attentive.”
“Ok. Let’s start again. I can see that we’re getting nowhere fast, and I really don’t have time to waste… I’ll be the least, if you agree to o-operate…” the female voice started off.
“And?” I made it sound like a consent, without necessarily openly acknowledging the caller’s credentials, at this stage.
“My name is, and don’t you dare laugh, Morgan-Hill Rohnert,” she started.
“God, not Bill Rohnert’s daughter?” I interrupted. I was amazed at hearing the name – there surely could not be anyone else in the universe with that name combination. Bill had been travelling with a very-much-pregnant wife Barbara on holiday through California, when, according to Bill, all hell suddenly broke loose, and the fruits of Barbara’s pregnancy totally unexpectedly started shouting, “Get me outa here, now… just get me outa here,” and, as a reminder of the calamity and its happy conclusion, they named the baby after the name on the signboard on Route 101 where they stopped as the drama unfolded.
“Yeah. The one and only. But who on earth are you, if you recognise my name?”
“Well…. 1984… dum…dum… 30. If you’re about thirty, then I’ve known your parents Bill and Barabara for 30 years. They were touring through California, at the time that you were born, and they needed emergency transport from Morgan Hill to San Jose maternity facility. I was the guy who drove the ambulance the night you were born. I then emigrated to New Zealand a short while after that, and here I still am.”
“Isn’t that a huge coincidence?” Morgan-Hill seemed a bit at a loss for words.
“Are you calling me all the way from the States, or is this a local call?”
“No, good heavens, no. I am on holiday in New Zealand with my husband David, and I’m stuck on the side of the road near this place called… wait there’s a signboard… Pae … Paekaka-something, and I was hoping that David could come to rescue me…”
“You’re not pregnant and about to give birth, are you? ‘Cause here in New Zealand that ambulance may take a wee while longer than I took for your mother! I tell you what: are you at a hotel, or with friends, or what? ”
“We’re at a beautiful little place near the sea called Titahi Bay bed and breakfast.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll come fetch you and we can get your vehicle sorted, and you can bring me up to speed on all the Rohnert family. How’s that?”
“That’ll be super. I’m in a little white Toyota – the only one as far as the eye can see, ‘cause this is a sort-of main highway.”
“I should be there in about fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”
“Thanks, I’ll be waiting here,” a little giggle, “I can hardly go anywhere in the car as it is.”
“Sweet as.”
“Huh?”
“Fine, I’ll see you. By the way, my name is, and don’t you dare laugh, Joe Smith.”
* * * * * * *
[ 640 words ]
[ The brief for Day 8 reads: Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. The heartbreaking result: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Write a ghost story or a love story in less than 20 words... ]
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