Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear. A Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. You can hear bonus and add free episodes
Speaker 1: of our show, and support what Bob and I create
Speaker 1: by subscribing to our premium or Premium Plus feeds. Join
Speaker 1: at Nothing Much Happens dot com. This podcast works by
Speaker 1: giving your mind a place to rest, a sort of
Speaker 1: nest to settle into. The story I have to tell
Speaker 1: you is simple and without much action, but full of
Speaker 1: relaxing detail. Just follow along with my voice and the
Speaker 1: gentle shape of the story, and your mind will switch
Speaker 1: from default mode to task mode, where you'll easily drop
Speaker 1: off to sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll
Speaker 1: go a little slower the second time through. If you
Speaker 1: wake in the middle of the night, take your mind
Speaker 1: back to any part of the story you can remember,
Speaker 1: and that switch will flip again and you'll drop right
Speaker 1: back off. Now, let's get comfortable. It's time to turn
Speaker 1: off the light and set down anything you've been looking
Speaker 1: at or playing with You're safe, You're done for the day,
Speaker 1: whatever you've gotten done, it's enough, and I'll be keeping watch,
Speaker 1: so you can let go. Take a deep breath in
Speaker 1: through the nose and sigh from the mouth once more.
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out good. Our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: the Phone Booth, and it's a story about a trip
Speaker 1: downtown with a forgotten envelope in hand. It's also about
Speaker 1: a table of books for sale at the library, music
Speaker 1: coming from an open window in an alley, and a
Speaker 1: message delivered years ago that becomes a way to live
Speaker 1: day to day. The Phone Booth. I'd been downtown an
Speaker 1: errand to run on a hot summer day. I stepped
Speaker 1: into the cool quiet of the big building on the
Speaker 1: far edge of the city park. It was an old
Speaker 1: brick and stone building, with arches and mullioned windows and
Speaker 1: tall wooden doors edged in white limestone. I think it
Speaker 1: had been a bank or a fancy department store when
Speaker 1: it was first built, but now it was city Hall.
Speaker 1: I'd been here to file papers when i'd bought my house.
Speaker 1: I'd come when i'd adopted my dog to buy his license,
Speaker 1: and once for a meeting at the parks Department to
Speaker 1: learn how they planned to turn the lot across from
Speaker 1: the middle school into a spot from my grading monarch
Speaker 1: butterflies to rest and drink from milkweed play as. Today,
Speaker 1: while sipping my morning tea in the kitchen, I'd spotted
Speaker 1: a corner of something that had slid down between the
Speaker 1: fridge and cupboard, and when I'd pulled it out, I
Speaker 1: found my water bill do today, and it said in
Speaker 1: small print along the bottom payable at city Hall. So
Speaker 1: I'd slipped it into my bag and decided I'd walk
Speaker 1: into town and get it taken care of before it
Speaker 1: slipped my mind again. I'd stopped at the bakery, having
Speaker 1: left the house without eating breakfast, and gotten a pastry
Speaker 1: and an orange juice. I love tea in the morning.
Speaker 1: It soothes me from sleep to wakefulness. But when I
Speaker 1: really want to feel awake, there is nothing like fresh
Speaker 1: orange juice. The baker poured me a tall glass while
Speaker 1: I sat at the counter, and after I finished every
Speaker 1: crumb of the pastry, a new type she'd made with
Speaker 1: pistachio and orange blossom water, I drained it in one
Speaker 1: long drink. I couldn't help but smack my lips and
Speaker 1: let out a contented sigh, like a little kid drinking
Speaker 1: on a hot day. I stood up, feeling like my
Speaker 1: eyes were open a bit wider, my body a bit
Speaker 1: more ready to move and walk, I thinked the baker
Speaker 1: as she cleared away my plate and cup, and she
Speaker 1: smiled over her shoulder at me, her quick hands already
Speaker 1: shifting the dishes into a bin and ringing a fresh
Speaker 1: cloth to wipe the counter. I stepped out onto the
Speaker 1: sidewalk and slipped my hand into my bag, reminding myself
Speaker 1: of my Errand it was still mid morning, and the
Speaker 1: shops were opening. Store owners were setting out sandwich boards,
Speaker 1: announcing sails and specials, and propping their doors ajar to
Speaker 1: let the summer air in. I saw a window sliding
Speaker 1: open in an apartment above the flower shop. I couldn't
Speaker 1: see the person pushing the pane up, just their forearms
Speaker 1: as they wedged a wooden dowel under the frame to
Speaker 1: keep it open. Music poured out, happy and summary. I
Speaker 1: liked having a little glimpse sometimes of someone else's day,
Speaker 1: not out of nosiness, but just because it felt good
Speaker 1: to know others were there, going about their business. Sometimes
Speaker 1: we overlapped, and sometimes not, but like the comforting hum
Speaker 1: of background music. We were there, moving in each other's periphery.
Speaker 1: At the library, they were having a bag sail, and
Speaker 1: there were tables set up on the edge of the
Speaker 1: lawn beside the door. The deal was, and it was
Speaker 1: an incredible one when you thought about it. You could
Speaker 1: fill a brown paper grocery bag all the way to
Speaker 1: the top with books and take them home for just
Speaker 1: five dollars. The possibilities, all the stories that could live
Speaker 1: in a single bag. It reminded me of the lord
Speaker 1: of the manor in some great country house, buying books
Speaker 1: by the foot to fill the shelves of a library,
Speaker 1: then done most sleeve for show. Their spines never cracked.
Speaker 1: These books bought by the bag had already been read
Speaker 1: a hundred times, but that's the lovely thing about a
Speaker 1: good story. No amount of reading wears it out. I
Speaker 1: almost headed straight for the tables to start thumbing through
Speaker 1: the titles, but reminded myself I was on foot and
Speaker 1: anything I bought would have to be lugged through the
Speaker 1: rest of my mission. So I promised to reward my
Speaker 1: present discipline with a trip back later in the day
Speaker 1: on my bike. The one with the deep front basket
Speaker 1: that I knew from experience could hold two grocery bags,
Speaker 1: possibly three. By the time I had crossed the park
Speaker 1: and made my way to city Hall, I was feeling
Speaker 1: the heat of the summer sun on my neck, and
Speaker 1: my eyes were tight from squinting at the light. I
Speaker 1: pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped into a
Speaker 1: sanctuary of quiet and cool. The floors were covered and
Speaker 1: smooth shiny tiles, and the walls held old sconces high
Speaker 1: up with dim bulbs. There was a stone bench, probably
Speaker 1: as old as the building, in an out of the
Speaker 1: way corner, and I sat down on it for a moment,
Speaker 1: just to feel the cool surface under me and let
Speaker 1: my eyes adjust. A few office doors were open, and
Speaker 1: I could hear the distant din of co workers talking
Speaker 1: across desks. There was a display on the wall beside
Speaker 1: me of art from high schoolers their end of the
Speaker 1: year projects, and I spent a few minutes looking at
Speaker 1: what they made. A self portrait painted with clumsy but
Speaker 1: honest strokes, a collage of snapshots telling a story that
Speaker 1: probably only made sense to the artist, and a charcoal
Speaker 1: drawing that reminded me of a spot I knew if
Speaker 1: you walked all the way down from the railroad tracks
Speaker 1: to the orchard. I turned on the bench, ready to
Speaker 1: stand and get on with my task. When I saw it.
Speaker 1: It was in the opposite corner for me, and I
Speaker 1: hadn't seen one in years. It was a phone booth
Speaker 1: and sidering that they didn't really exist anymore, it was
Speaker 1: still an old one. I crossed over to it and
Speaker 1: couldn't resist opening and closing its folding doors. It was
Speaker 1: built right into the wall, not with a rusting aluminum frame,
Speaker 1: but out of the same color oak as the front doors.
Speaker 1: The glass panels were clean and tinted a grayish green
Speaker 1: to give the collar some sense of privacy. I pulled
Speaker 1: the door back again and stepped inside. There was a
Speaker 1: small round stool bolted into the side of the booth
Speaker 1: so you could sit while you talked, and I turned
Speaker 1: expectantly to look for the phone itself, imagining a long
Speaker 1: metal box, a rotary dial and a coin slot beside
Speaker 1: the receiver. But the phone had been taken out, I
Speaker 1: supposed because of lack of use. They'd hung a small
Speaker 1: painting in its place of naturally, a telephone. I chuckled
Speaker 1: at it and sat on the stool that they'd taken
Speaker 1: out the phone, but not the booth that they'd left
Speaker 1: it as a place to sit, a handsome piece of
Speaker 1: history to admire. It reminded me of another phone booth
Speaker 1: i'd stood in once. I'd been in a city square
Speaker 1: and a little village in Italy with a handful of lira,
Speaker 1: wanting to phone home and hear a familiar voice. I'd
Speaker 1: lifted the receiver from the cradle, and across the screen
Speaker 1: flashed the words attendre prego, and I translated in my head,
Speaker 1: pay attention please, This polite reminder to be where I was,
Speaker 1: to attend to the moment. It was a mantra I
Speaker 1: carried still. I realized I'd been using it all morning
Speaker 1: as I tasted my orange juice, sweet and cool on
Speaker 1: my tongue, as I listened to the music coming from
Speaker 1: the upstairs window and sat on the stone bench in
Speaker 1: the dim quiet. So many moments to notice rather than lose.
Speaker 1: I said it to myself one more time in the
Speaker 1: booth before stepping out to get on with my day.
Speaker 1: Pay attention please, the phone booth. I had been downtown
Speaker 1: an errand to run on a hot summer day, I
Speaker 1: stepped into the cool quiet of the big building on
Speaker 1: the far edge of the city park. It was an
Speaker 1: old brick and stone building with arches and mullioned windows
Speaker 1: and tall wooden doors edged in white limestone. I think
Speaker 1: it had been a bank or a fancy department store
Speaker 1: when it was first built, but now it was city Hall.
Speaker 1: I'd been here to file papers when i'd bought my house.
Speaker 1: I'd come when I had adopted my dog to buy
Speaker 1: his license, and once for a meeting at the Parks
Speaker 1: Department to learn how they planned to turn the lot
Speaker 1: across from the middle school into a spot from migrating
Speaker 1: monarch butterflies to rest and from milkweed plants. Today, while
Speaker 1: sipping my morning tea in the kitchen, I'd spotted a
Speaker 1: corner of something that had slid down between the fridge
Speaker 1: and cupboard, and when I pulled it out, I found
Speaker 1: my water bill due today, and it said in small
Speaker 1: print along the bottom payable at city Hall. So I'd
Speaker 1: slipped it into my bag and decided i'd walk into
Speaker 1: town and get it taken care of before it slipped
Speaker 1: my mind again. I had stopped at the bakery, having
Speaker 1: left the house without eating breakfast. I'd gotten a pastry
Speaker 1: and an orange juice. I love tea in the morning.
Speaker 1: It soothed me from sleep to wakefulness. But when I
Speaker 1: really want to feel awake, there's nothing like fresh orange juice.
Speaker 1: The baker poured me a tall glass while I sat
Speaker 1: at the counter, And after I finished every crumb of
Speaker 1: the pastry, a new type she'd made with pistachio an
Speaker 1: orange blossom water, I drained it in one long drink.
Speaker 1: I couldn't help but smack my lips and let out
Speaker 1: a contented sigh, like a little kid drinking on a
Speaker 1: hot day. I stood up, feeling like my eyes were open,
Speaker 1: a bit wider, my body a bit more ready to
Speaker 1: move and walk. I thanked the baker as she cleared
Speaker 1: away my plate and cup. When she smiled over her
Speaker 1: shoulder at me, her quick hands already shifting the dishes
Speaker 1: into a bin and ringing a fresh cloth to wipe
Speaker 1: the counter. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and slipped
Speaker 1: my hand into my bag, reminding myself of my Errand
Speaker 1: it was still mid morning and the shops were opening.
Speaker 1: Store owners were setting out sandwich boards, announcing sails and specials,
Speaker 1: and propping their doors ajar to let the summer air in.
Speaker 1: I saw a window sliding open in an apartment above
Speaker 1: the flower shop. I couldn't see the person pushing the
Speaker 1: pain up, just their forearms as they wedged a wooden
Speaker 1: dowel under the frame to keep it open. Music poured out,
Speaker 1: happy and summary, and I liked having a little glimpse
Speaker 1: sometimes of someone else's day, not out of nosiness, but
Speaker 1: just because it felt good to know others were there
Speaker 1: going about their business. Sometimes we overlapped and sometimes not,
Speaker 1: but like the comforting hum of background music, we were there,
Speaker 1: moving in each other's periphery. At the library they were
Speaker 1: having a bag sail, and there were tables set up
Speaker 1: on the edge of the lawn beside the door. The
Speaker 1: deal was, and it was an incredible one when you
Speaker 1: thought about it. You could fill a brown paper grocery
Speaker 1: bag all the way to the top with books and
Speaker 1: take them home for just five dollars. The possibilities, all
Speaker 1: the stories that could live in a single bag. It
Speaker 1: reminded me of the lord of the manor in some
Speaker 1: great country house, buying books by the foot to fill
Speaker 1: the shelves of a library. Then done mostly for show
Speaker 1: their spines never cracked. These books bought by the bag
Speaker 1: had already been read a hundred times, but that's the
Speaker 1: lovely thing about a good story. No amount of reading
Speaker 1: wears it out. I almost headed straight for the tables
Speaker 1: to start thumbing through the titles, but reminded myself I
Speaker 1: was on foot and anything I bought would have to
Speaker 1: be lugged through the rest of my mission. So I
Speaker 1: promised to reward my present discipline with a trip back
Speaker 1: later in the day on my bike, the one with
Speaker 1: a deep front basket that I knew from experience could
Speaker 1: hold two grocery bags, possibly three. By the time I
Speaker 1: crossed the park and made my way to city Hall,
Speaker 1: I was feeling the heat of the summer sun on
Speaker 1: my neck, and my eyes were tight from squinting at
Speaker 1: the light. I pulled open the heavy oak door and
Speaker 1: stepped into a sanctuary of quiet and cool. The floors
Speaker 1: were covered in smooth, shiny tiles, and the walls held
Speaker 1: old sconces high up with dim bulbs. There was a
Speaker 1: stone bench, probably as old as the building, in an
Speaker 1: out of the way corner, and I sat down on
Speaker 1: it for a moment, just to feel the cool surface.
Speaker 1: Under me and let my eyes adjust. A few office
Speaker 1: doors were open, and I could hear the distant din
Speaker 1: of co workers talking across desks. There was a display
Speaker 1: on the wall beside me of art from high schoolers
Speaker 1: their end of the year projects, and I spent a
Speaker 1: few minutes looking at what they'd made. A self portrait
Speaker 1: painted with clumsy but honest strokes, a collage of snapshots
Speaker 1: telling a story that probably only made sense to the artist,
Speaker 1: and a charcoal drawing that reminded me of a spot
Speaker 1: I knew if you walked all the way down from
Speaker 1: the railroad tracks to the orchard. I turned on the bench,
Speaker 1: ready to stand and get on with my task. When
Speaker 1: I saw it. It was in the opposite corner from me,
Speaker 1: and I hadn't seen one in years. It was a
Speaker 1: phone booth, and considering that they didn't really exist anymore,
Speaker 1: it was still an old one. I crossed over to
Speaker 1: it and couldn't resist opening and closing its folding door.
Speaker 1: It was built right into the wall, not with a
Speaker 1: rusting aluminum frame, but out of the same color oak
Speaker 1: as the front doors. The glass panels were clean and
Speaker 1: tinted a grayish green to give the collar some sense
Speaker 1: of privacy. I pulled the door back again and stepped inside.
Speaker 1: There was a small round stool bolted into the side
Speaker 1: of the booth so you could sit while you talked,
Speaker 1: and I turned expectantly to look for the phone itself,
Speaker 1: imagining a long metal box, a rotary dial and a
Speaker 1: coin slot beside the receiver. But the phone had been
Speaker 1: taken out, I supposed because of lack of use. They'd
Speaker 1: hung a small painting in its place of naturally, a telephone.
Speaker 1: I chuckled at it and sat on the stool. That
Speaker 1: they'd taken out the phone, but not the booth, that
Speaker 1: they'd left it as a place to sit, a handsome
Speaker 1: piece of history to admire. It reminded me of another
Speaker 1: phone booth i'd stood in once. I'd been in a
Speaker 1: city square in a little village in Italy with a
Speaker 1: handful of lira, wanting to phone home and hear a
Speaker 1: familiar voice. I'd lifted the receiver from the cradle, and
Speaker 1: across the screen flashed the words attendre prego, and I
Speaker 1: translated in my head, pay attention please, this polite reminder
Speaker 1: to be where I was to attend to the moment,
Speaker 1: there was a mantra I carried still, I realized I'd
Speaker 1: been using it all morning as I tasted my orange juice,
Speaker 1: sweet and cool on my tongue, as I listened to
Speaker 1: the music coming from the upstairs window, and sat on
Speaker 1: the stone bench in the dim quiet, so many moments
Speaker 1: to notice rather than lose. I set it to myself
Speaker 1: one more time in the booth before stepping out to
Speaker 1: get on with my day. Pay attention, please, sweet dreams.