Most of the day I spend sitting by the window, looking out at my billboard. They did a terrific job on it. Below a six-foot-tall likeness of my face, looking as lonely as I could manage, the simple message: Still waiting for your call. THE PERSONALS ■ placed an ad that read: 45 yr. old WM seeks sensitive woman, 35-45, for companionship, fun, possible commitment. You should like moonlight walks and hunting, koto music and salad bars. I’m an average guy with a heart of almost pure gold and I’ve got a lot to give to the right lady. I think love is more important than money. Tell me about you. P.O. Box 40181, etc., etc. After waiting a couple of months and not getting any response, I placed the same ad again, leaving out the part about thinking that love was more important than money. A couple of months went by and when no response came, 1realized the ad hadn’t been changed enough. Girls who read the first version and were turned off by the money thing probably remembered seeing and mentally rejecting this ad before. What I needed was a new ad. I poured a glass of grapefruit juice, sat down and wrote: Listen up bitches, this hung stud will take you places you’ve never been and your mother’s never heard of. Let’s party down tonight. Call Joe: 555-7117. For three days Iwaited by the phone—ordered all my meals in, never left the room. No calls. So I found a store that would bring me a phone answering machine for a ten-dollar Didn’t leave my room for two-and-a-half months. I stopped shaving, started pissing in the sink, pretty much let myself go to hell. Still no calls. delivery charge and ordered one of the economy models. After it arrived, I set it up, turned it on and went outside for some fresh air. Walked around the city for an hour and a half. I felt pretty good. Got some smokes, bought a Playboy, sat on a bench in the park and went home. A message was waiting on my new machine. 1hastily rewound the tape and put the machine on play, but there was not a sound. Nothing. I was very upset. Looking more closely at the machine I realized I had pressed the reverse/erase button. I had erased my message! The next ad I wrote went like this: Whoever called on Saturday afternoon between 12:00-1:30, 1accidentally erased your message. Please call again. I have a very good feeling about you (about us). And 1had this ad boxed—outlined with a bold, black border. I unplugged the phone machine and waited. Didn’t leave my room for two-and-a-half months. I stopped shaving, started pissing in the sink, pretty much let myself go to hell. Still no calls. The longer I waited in vain, the worse my attitude got. I found it was possible to watch three-and-a-half hours of Hollywood Squares a day (I get sixty-four channels). I began •talking to myself, feeding myself straight lines and delivering appropriate punch lines. As my personal hygiene and mental attitude declined, my ads became more and more stunning. I moved from the boxed ads to display ads with finely wrought graphics, then to full-color, and finally to an elegantly designed full-page ad in Variety that cost me thirty-two hundred dollars. It all came to naught. Looking back, I can see now that I had become obsessed, or pretty near. I’m feeling a lot better now. I’ve shaved and done the dishes, and even go out every few days (the phone machine is hooked back up for when 1do). Most of the day I spend sitting by the window, looking out at my billboard. They did a terrific job on it. Below a six-foot-tall likeness of my face, looking as lonely as I could manage, the simple message: Still waiting for your call. And of course, my phone number. Despite becoming something of a celebrity in the neighborhood, there are still no calls. People do recognize me when I go out. Sometimes they smile. Sometimes they share a good-natured laugh. Sometimes they just point. It does make me feel pretty important and 1have a hunch that I’ll be tying the knot within a year. Writer Roger Margolis lives in Portland, Zak Margolis is an artist living in Portland, where he teaches screenwriting. He’s still waiting by the phone. Clinton St. Dec. '89-Jan. ’90 19
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