One of God’s greatest gifts is the cell phone because doing this gimmick in a time of payphones would have set me back a lot in coins (where the fuck do you even get coins from now?). As a child I did not focus in class and paid more attention to the writings forever engraved onto the desks at which I sat. They were riddled with spelling and grammatical errors (it’s “you’re gay” not “your”), and drawings of dicks with a ranging variety in length, girth, hair and semen spraying out. Most interesting of all, however, was the grand amount of phone numbers begging me to call for a good time. A good time for me is investigative journalism.
My first limitation was being masc-presenting so being able to go into women's bathrooms was crossed off the list. I can’t imagine they were covered in graffiti anyways because the men’s bathroom unfortunately was not. Scouring the Central Library bathrooms, only one of them had graffiti and they were only on the toilet paper things. No phone numbers, sadly – only messages asking for head, hand sex, as well as “On days like this don’t you just wanna bark like a dog?” with someone responding “woof woof”.
After pissing – because I drank some water and was in the right place – I started to feel defeated. That was until I gazed upon the old wooden desks in Central. Suddenly, phone numbers appeared, my very own mirage in the desert. Numbers were positioned next to enticing messages of “call me x” or “ring for a good time”. I admittedly felt awkward zooming through desks like a hawk looking for lunch in hope for numbers. I’m optimistic that those confused onlookers will read this piece and go, “Oh.”
I rang the first number, and was immediately put in jovial spirits. “Hello, this is Emma.” I replied saying I found her number on a des– and she hung up. To be expected, and also probably a good thing seeing as I hadn't planned out what I was going to say next. Unfortunately, that was the extent of my good luck; six of the next numbers I rang did not exist. “This is my worst nightmare,” said News Editor Hanna Varrs who bore witness to it all. The idea of calling random numbers is scary, I suppose. Mere years ago I would have hated the thought of doing such a thing. In fact, I still struggle to ring the doctor or anyone besides my parents or flatmates. I don’t know what has given me such courage to take on a task like this. Just because I can? There seems to be no consequence.
As I was explaining this, someone rang me. What a twist. I answered it and recognised the voice of Devon, someone who had not picked up my cold call, but had a voicemail. “Hey I missed a call from this number.” I eagerly mentioned that I found his number on a desk at the Central Library. “Which central library? Wellington? Auckland?” I was confused and said Dunedin, to which he replied, “I do not know why that is there. I am from Wellington.” He did not seem keen to keep chatting which broke my heart, honestly.
Day one was over and I decided my next target for number harvesting should be where students are most bored: lecture theatres. I felt my best options were Quad and Archway as they seemed to be the oldest (I watched Scarfies this year and instantly recognised Quad because it had not changed at all.) To avoid that awkward feeling I’d endured while scouring the library, I perused the timetables outside lecture theatres before entering to see whether the coast was clear so I could do what needed to be done.
The first number would not even let me ring it, even after I tried three times. The second one said I could not find its mailbox. It was now I realised that while a fun idea in concept, this would not work in the cellular age. Maybe back in the ‘90s with landlines it would have been fruitful, but now it’s phone calls ending with automated voices telling me this was dumb. Oh well. Here are some of my favourite things I saw written down:
Kid cudi>Carti
Twink
Religion is a lie god is not real
Yams
A voting poll for tits or ass (ass is in the lead)
Neil Degrasse Tyson
Among us
A spoon is not a contract caleb