Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Phone Booth

Episode Date: July 26, 2021

Our story tonight is called The Phone Booth and it’s a story about a trip downtown with a forgotten envelope in hand. It’s also about a table of books for sale at the library, music coming from an open window in an alley, and a message delivered years ago that becomes a way to live day to day. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. You can hear bonus and ad-free episodes of our show and support what Bob and I create by subscribing to our premium or premium plus feeds. Join at nothingmuchappens.com.

This podcast works by giving your mind a place to rest, a sort of nest to settle into. The story I have to tell you is simple and without much action, but full of relaxing detail. Just follow along with my voice and the gentle shape of the story, and your mind will switch from default mode to task mode, where you'll easily drop off to sleep. I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, take your mind back to any part of the story you can remember. And that switch will flip again, and you'll drop right back off. Now, let's get comfortable. It's time to turn off the light and set down anything you've been looking at or playing with. You're safe.

You're done for the day. Whatever you've gotten done, it's enough. And I'll be keeping watch so you can let go. Take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Phone Booth, and it's a story about a trip downtown with a forgotten envelope in hand. It's also about a table of books

for sale at the library, music coming from an open window in an alley, and a message delivered years ago that becomes a way to live day to day. The phone booth. I'd been downtown.

An errand to run on a hot summer day. I stepped into the cool quiet of the big building on the far edge of the city park. It was an old brick and stone building with arches and mullioned windows and tall wooden doors edged in white limestone. I think it had been a bank or a fancy department store when it was first built, but now it was City Hall. I'd been here to file papers when I'd bought my house. I'd come when I'd adopted my dog to buy his license. And once for a meeting at the Parks Department to learn how they planned to turn the lot across from the middle school into a spot for migrating monarch butterflies to rest and drink from milkweed plants.

Today, while sipping my morning tea in the kitchen, I'd spotted a corner of something that had slid down between the fridge and cupboard. And when I'd pulled it out, I found my water bill, due today, and it said in walk into town and get it taken care of before it slipped my mind again. I'd stopped at the bakery, having left the house without eating breakfast, and gotten a pastry and an orange juice. I love tea in the morning. It soothes me from sleep to wakefulness.

But when I really want to feel awake, there is nothing like fresh orange juice. The baker poured me a tall glass while I sat at the counter. And after I finished every crumb of the pastry, a new type she'd made with pistachio and orange blossom water. I drained it in one long drink. I couldn't help but smack my lips and let out a contented sigh, like a little kid drinking on a hot day.

I stood up, feeling like my eyes were open a bit wider, my body a bit more ready to move and walk. I thanked the baker as she cleared away my plate and cup, and she smiled over her shoulder at me, her quick hands already shifting the dishes into a bin and wringing a fresh cloth to wipe the counter. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and slipped my hand into my bag, reminding myself of my errand.

It was still mid-morning, and the shops were opening. Store owners were setting out sandwich boards, announcing sales and specials, and propping their doors ajar to let the summer air in. I saw a window sliding open in an apartment above the flower shop. I couldn't see the person pushing the pain up, just their forearms as they wedged a wooden dowel under the frame to keep it open. Music poured out, happy and summery. I liked having a little glimpse sometimes of someone else's day,

not out of nosiness, but just because it felt good to know others were there, going about their business. Sometimes we overlapped, and sometimes not. But like the comforting hum of background music. We were there, moving in each other's periphery. At the library, they were having a bag sale, and there were tables set up on the edge of the lawn beside the door. The deal was, and it was an incredible one when you thought about it. You could fill a brown paper grocery bag all the way to the top with books and take them home for just five dollars.

The possibilities. All the stories that could live in a single bag. It reminded me of the lord of the manor in some great country house buying books by the foot to fill the shelves of a library. Then, done mostly for show, their spines never cracked. These books, bought by the bag, had already been read a hundred times. But that's the lovely thing about a good story. No amount of reading wears it out. I almost headed straight for the tables to

start thumbing through the titles, but reminded myself I was on foot, and anything I bought would have to be lugged through the rest of my mission. So I promised to reward my present discipline with a trip back later in the day on my bike. the one with the deep front basket that, I knew from experience, could hold two grocery bags, possibly three. By the time I'd crossed the park and made my way to City Hall, I was feeling the heat of the summer sun on my neck and my eyes were tight

from squinting at the light. I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped into a sanctuary of quiet and cool. The floors were covered in smooth, shiny tiles, and the walls held old sconces, high up with dim bulbs. There was a stone bench, probably as old as the building, in an out-of-the-way corner,

and I sat down on it for a moment, just to feel the cool surface under me and let my eyes adjust. A few office doors were open and I could hear the distant din of co-workers talking across desks. There was a display on the wall beside me of art from high schoolers their end-of-the-year projects and I spent a few minutes

looking at what they'd made a self-portrait painted with clumsy but honest strokes. A collage of snapshots telling a story that probably only made sense to the artist. And a charcoal drawing that reminded me of a spot I knew if you walked all the way down from the railroad tracks to the orchard. I turned on the bench, ready to stand and get on with my task when I saw it. It was in the opposite corner from me, and I hadn't seen one in years.

It was a phone booth, and considering that they didn't really exist anymore, it was still an old one. I crossed over to it and couldn't resist opening and closing its folding doors. It was built right into the wall, not with a rusting aluminum frame, but out of the same color oak as the front doors. The glass panels were clean and tinted a grayish green to give the caller some sense of privacy. I pulled the door back again and stepped inside. There was a small round stool bolted into the side of the booth, so you could sit while you talked.

And I turned expectantly to look for the phone itself, imagining a long metal box, a rotary dial, and a coin slot beside the receiver. But the phone had been taken out, I supposed because of lack of use. They'd hung a small painting in its place of, naturally, a telephone.

I chuckled at it and sat on the stool. That they'd taken out the phone, but not the booth. That they'd left it as a place to sit, a handsome piece of history to admire. It reminded me of another phone booth I'd stood in once. I'd been in a city square in a little village in Italy, with a handful of lira wanting to phone home and hear a familiar voice. I'd lifted the receiver from the cradle, and across the screen flashed the words, attendere prego, and I translated in my head, pay attention please.

This polite reminder to be where I was, to attend to the moment. It was a mantra I carried still. I realized I'd been using it all morning as I tasted my orange juice, sweet and cool on my tongue. As I listened to the music coming from the upstairs window. And sat on the stone bench in the dim quiet. So many moments to notice rather than lose.

I said it to myself one more time in the booth before stepping out to get on with my day. Pay attention, please. The phone booth. I'd been downtown, an errand to run on a hot summer day. I stepped into the cool quiet of the big building on the far edge of the city park. brick and stone building with arches and mullioned windows and tall wooden doors edged in white limestone. I think it had been a bank or a fancy department store when it was first built. But now it was City to file papers when I'd bought my house.

I'd come when I'd adopted my dog to buy his license. And once for a meeting at the parks department to learn how they planned to turn the lot across from the middle school into a spot for migrating monarch butterflies, to rest and drink from milkweed plants. Today, while sipping my morning tea in the kitchen, I'd spotted a corner of something that had slid down between the fridge and cupboard. And when I pulled it out, I found my water bill. Due today.

And it said, in small print, along the bottom, payable at City Hall. So I'd slipped it into my bag and decided I'd walk into town and get it taken care of before it slipped my mind again. I'd stopped at the bakery, having left the house without eating breakfast, and gotten

a pastry and an orange juice. I love tea in the morning it soothes me from sleep to wakefulness but when I really want to feel awake there's nothing like fresh orange juice the baker poured me a tall glass while I sat at the counter. And after I finished every crumb of the pastry, a new type she'd made,

with pistachio and orange blossom water. I drained it in one long drink. I couldn't help but smack my lips and let out a contented sigh, like a little kid drinking on a hot day. I stood up, feeling like my eyes were open a bit wider, my body a bit more ready to move and walk. I thanked the baker as she cleared away my plate and cup when she smiled over her shoulder at me,

her quick hands already shifting the dishes into a bin and wringing a fresh cloth to wipe the counter. onto the sidewalk and slipped my hand into my bag, reminding myself of my errand. It was still mid-morning and the shops were opening. Store owners were setting out sandwich boards, announcing sales and specials, and propping their doors ajar to let the summer air in. I saw a window sliding open in an apartment above the flower shop. I couldn't

see the person pushing the pain up, just their forearms, as they wedged a wooden dowel under the frame to keep it open. Music poured out, happy and summery. And I liked having a little glimpse sometimes of someone else's day. Not out of nosiness, but just because it felt good to know others were there, going about their business. Sometimes we overlapped, and sometimes not. But like the comforting hum of background music, we were there,

moving in each other's periphery. At the library, they were having a bag sale, and there were tables set up on the edge of the lawn beside the door. The deal was, and it was an incredible one when you thought about it,

you could fill a brown paper grocery bag all the way to the top with books and take them home for just $5. The possibilities. All the stories that could live in a single bag. It reminded me of the lord of the manor in some great country house buying books by the foot to fill the shelves of a library.

Then, done mostly for show, their spines never cracked. These books, bought by the bag, had already been read a hundred times. But that's the lovely thing about a good story. No amount of reading wears it out. I almost headed straight for the tables to start thumbing through the titles,

but reminded myself I was on foot and anything I bought would have to be lugged through the rest of my mission. So I promised to reward my present discipline with a trip back later in the day on my bike. The one with the deep front basket that I knew from experience could hold two grocery bags, possibly three by the time I'd crossed the park and made my way to City Hall I was feeling the heat

of the summer sun on my neck and my eyes were tight from squinting at the light. I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped into a sanctuary of quiet and cool. The floors were covered in smooth, shiny tiles, and the walls held old sconces high up with dim bulbs. There was a stone bench,

probably as old as the building, in an out-of-the-way corner. And I sat down on it for a moment, just to feel the cool surface under me and let my eyes adjust. A few office doors were open, and I could hear the distant din of co-workers talking across desks. There was a display on the wall beside me of art from high schoolers. Their end-of-the-year projects.

And I spent a few minutes looking at what they'd made. A self-portrait painted with clumsy but honest strokes. A collage of snapshots telling a story that probably only made sense to the artist. And a charcoal drawing that reminded me of a spot I knew. If you walked all the way down from the railroad tracks to the orchard. I turned on the bench, ready to stand and get on with my task, when I saw it. It was in the opposite corner from me, and I hadn't seen one in years. It was a phone booth. And considering that they didn't really exist anymore, it was still an old one. I crossed over to it and couldn't resist opening and closing its folding door. right into the wall, not with a rusting aluminum frame,

but out of the same color oak as the front doors. The glass panels were clean and tinted a grayish green to give the caller some sense of privacy. I pulled the door back again and stepped inside. There was a small round stool bolted into the side of the booth

so you could sit while you talked and I turned expectantly to look for the phone itself. Imagining a long metal box, a rotary dial, and a coin slot beside the receiver. But the phone had been taken out, I supposed because of lack of use. They'd hung a small painting in its place of, naturally, a telephone. I chuckled at it and sat on the stool.

That they'd taken out the phone, but not the booth. That they'd left it as a place to sit, a handsome piece of history to admire. It reminded me of another phone booth I'd stood in a city square, in a little village in Italy, with a handful of lira, wanting to phone home and hear a familiar voice. I'd lifted the receiver from the cradle, and across the screen flashed the words, Atendere, prego. And I translated in my head, pay attention please.

This polite reminder to be where I was, to attend to the moment. It was a mantra I carried still. I realized I'd been using it all morning as I tasted my orange juice, sweet and cool on my tongue. As I listened to the music coming from the upstairs window. And sat on the stone bench in the dim quiet. So many moments to notice rather than lose. I said it to myself one more time in the booth before stepping out to get on with my day. Pay attention, please. Sweet dreams.