The Avenue | 2011
Man Up
By: Michael Zodda
N
athan breathed in slowly, mustering his confidence. He held his breath for a few heartbeats, then pushed the air out in a rush. “Alright,” he said. He picked up his phone and stared at the inert face for a moment, then slid his thumb under the lid to flip it open. Just as the spring-loaded hinge approached the point of no return, Nathan froze. His thumb slipped out and the phone snapped closed.. He dropped it on the coffee table and snatched his hand back as though burned. He wasn’t ready yet. Nathan stood up from the couch and ran his hands through his messy black hair. His heart pounded in his chest and his fingertips tingled. She said you should call. You’ll be fine! Driven by the nervous energy, Nathan strode down the hallway towards the bedrooms. He paused in front of the hall closet, clenched his fists, and commanded his body to calm down. Stop being such a coward. Nathan punched the closet door. The cheap, hollow metal was perfect for the occasion, making a resounding CLANG. Pain bloomed across his knuckles, releasing the tension. “Let’s do this!” he said to nobody. Nathan strode back to the living room and threw himself onto the couch. He snatched up the phone, flipped it open, dialed. He almost made it, but the momentum ran out with his finger poised over the final digit. Panic ensued. Nathan wavered and then slammed the phone closed and slapped it down on the table again. “Dammit!” For the love of . . . JUST CALL! What the hell do I say? I just call out
of the blue and ask? It’s not out of the blue. She told you to call! Nathan squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. At least he wasn’t talking to himself out loud. Yet. He concentrated on his racing heart, willing it to slow down. A wet, warm feeling under his arm made a liar out of his antiperspirant’s commercial. Stop acting like a child! You have a brand new college degree and everything. Man up and make the call! What does that even mean? Do women say “Woman up?” or “‘Grow some ovaries,” perhaps? Maybe softball players. Huh, that was kinda sexist. Or was it? FOCUS! Nathan shook his head to dislodge the distraction from his brain. He reached for the phone again, but his hand only made it halfway before he snatched it back. What do I say? ‘Hi, this is Nathan Crowley. I wanted to know . . .’ He grimaced. That was way too casual. He needed a good first impression here. Maybe, ‘Good morning. This is Nathan Alexander Crowley calling to inquire . . .’ Nathan let out a sharp bark of a laugh. Maybe what he needed was a script. Are you kidding? I just need to work out the beginning. Avoid awkward silence. This seemed like a good plan. Nathan went to the kitchen to find some paper. Okay. You’ve got your script. You’re dressed nice. Call! Nathan sat at the kitchen table, phone laid out in front of him, script in hand. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable in his khakis. His father had told him it was easier to act classy when 31