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The Safe Road To Telephonic Independency

A story by
Megawacky Max

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Author's Note:
I wish to thank my friend Tronkan Trok, who suggested this idea after quite a strange chat about a quite stranger dream. These things happen… don't be surprised.

Also, and as I always do, I'd wish to thank my beloved Eve13, who wasted some time of her existence to read and correct my sometimes lousy grammar. Thanks to you, Evie. ˆˆ

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Prologue

It wasn't just another morning in Hillwood. It should have been, but it wasn't. Fate was setting the scene for a mischievous play where two not-so opposites would have to join forces. A collision of characters, a set of options, and only one goal to reach:

The Safe Road to Telephonic Independency.

–o–

Chapter 1
The banning

The sun stuck out its rays, showing samples of what would be a hot day. It had been a while since it last rained; not even clouds could be observed in the far distance. The city of Hillwood awakened from an uncomfortably sweaty night.

Life was based on the movement of the morning city critters: paperboys started their routes, shopkeepers opened their shops, the first vehicles transported drowsy workmen to their drowsy workplaces. One normal day.

Or maybe not…

Harvey the mailman waited at the post office for his morning pack of letters. Little did he know he'd be a small yet instrumental cog in the succession of events that would take place that day. One tiny, harmless little cog, and his innocent mail route would start up a whole, complex mechanism fated for disaster.

Harvey took his pack of envelopes and dumped it in his mailbag. One of those cards was addressed to Mr. Big Bob Pataki. Harvey didn't find that interesting at all; he was only interested on achieving his personal goal: to deliver mail and get out of the heat.

The tiny, little cog representing Harvey began to spin. It was the beginning of the end.

–o–o–o–

The neighborhood at large was visually the same. Only a deeper observation would have shown the great changes that took place inside its buildings. The structures hadn't changed… the tenants... had.

For instance, that purple building, home of the Pataki family, whose inhabitants were minutes away from suffering a big change in their monetary structure. The members of the Pataki family had not changed much.

Big Bob Pataki, authoritative head of a beeper company, had earned a few extra pounds and lost a few more hairs, but his personality remained as materialist as possible.

Miriam Pataki, the clueless mother with a drinking problem, was now under treatment in an A.A. group. She had improved a lot since those dark years, and now replaced alcohol with tomato juice. Along with the hobby of gardening, her health and mood was improving day to day.

Olga Pataki, the older of the Pataki sisters, graduated from University and was currently balancing her passions between acting, book writing, and her job in a small community library on a neighbor city, where she resided up to the present.

And then there was Helga Geraldine Pataki…

Reaching her current seventeen years was an odyssey for the girl. Helga was aware of the idea that everybody was born into the world with a purpose, and was almost convinced the purpose of ninety percent of the whole world was to toss sticks and stones all over her Path. Helga had lived it all in those few years of her existence, and when she reached the seventeen marker she felt like forty. Maybe more.

Her family loved her. Of course they didn't hate her. The problem was they only loved her when they didn't ignore her, and that happened once in a while. Perhaps too often once in a while. She never found much contention, there.

Her friends kept a respectful fear toward her. Her fists were known where there were two or more persons in a fight. To insult her meant to sign a Last Will, because all those feelings her family didn't know how to express, Helga released them in protecting her friends and, at the same time, protecting herself from said protected friends. The girl had become almost a shadow in the neighborhood.

She wasn't mean. Fine, deep inside of her; very, very deep inside of her; Helga was sensitive, careful, and willing to help. That is, of course, if anyone had been able to reach such a deep spot in her heart and pull out the best of her. It was known of only one person who could do that. Only one among thousands had learned to unveil the complicated existence of Helga Pataki, see in her soul, comprehend her actions and, from time to time, make her a happy woman.

But Arnold was no longer with them.

Helga felt sad whenever she thought of her beloved. Arnold had moved with his parents when he was fifteen, exactly five years after having found them in the depths of a Central American jungle; an experience of which all his friends, involuntary participants of the search, had been part of. Especially Helga.

To see Arnold depart was too hard for Helga. Along with him had gone all the contention a boyfriend could give, and those dark feelings resurged to take over her soul. However, Helga never lost hope. She knew for a fact that just because he had left didn't mean he wouldn't come back, and every now and then she phoned his home, all the way down in Central America, and told to him all her dark times. And someday, she thought, she could leave home and go live with him, away from her family and her problems.

Sometimes she was depressed at seeing her friends. Most of them had someone to love. Phoebe and Gerald… Harold and Patty… Nadine and Sid… No, it was hard to see them happy next to their loves, while she…

No.

Helga laughed, though nervously. She shouldn't think on that. She had her love. The only difference was he was thousands of miles away. But well, it was better than nothing.

What the heck, she thought, life is not bad. It was summer vacation, she was going to the swimming today and she would phone Arnold that very night. No, life was not bad at all.

So she quit thinking, got out of bed, took a refreshing morning shower, changed to fresh and cozy clothes and walked downstairs for breakfast, filled up with a happiness she hadn't felt in a long while.

And all that happiness became dust just before reaching the dinning room.

It is known sound is the sequential movement of colliding molecules starting from an emitter and arriving to a receptor. This had been like an earthquake of molecules starting from an emitter and colliding with everything else in a radius of two miles. The sound was deep, powerful, and nastily prolonged. It sounded, more or less, like this:

"HEEEEEELLLLLLLGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Helga froze in the act of putting her foot on the last step on the staircase. Shoot, she thought, this can't be any good.

It wasn't. Big Bob Pataki had learned, at last, the name of her second daughter. And he still called her "Olga". But when the reason was anger, "Helga" propelled out with the power of a champagne cork, and the problem with corks like that is, if one isn't cautious about them, they can end up hitting anybody in the eye.

In a simpler way, Big Bob Pataki's yell could be easily summarized in a simple explanation: Olga, good; Helga, bad.

"Helga, come here right now!" the Almighty Lord of the Beepers growled.

Helga sighed. So much for happiness. Now let's see what the ogre wants...

Upon walking into the dining room she saw Miriam and Bob having breakfast. Miriam was unusually attentive, and her expression quickly classified the future problem into the Run For Your Life category. Bob, on the other hand, was on his feet, seemingly attempting to ignite the paper in his hand with a glare of sheer wrath. Helga was sure he could have achieved it, if only his eyes hadn't focused toward her at the last minute.

"What is the meaning of this, young lady?" Bob shook the paper in the air.

Helga's eyes followed the brief movement warily and answered: "It means you can still move your arm."

What the heck, she thought, if I'm going to have a hard time then at least I'll have my fun before that.

"Let's see if you can explain this, since you're so smart," Bob said, placing the paper on the table with such delicacy the breakfast dishes jumped in what was an unofficial world-record.

Helga carefully positioned herself so she would be out of rage range but also able to read, not the paper on the table, but the opened envelope on the opposite end of it. It was from the phone company.

Helga closed her eyes shut. Shoot! she thought. I went too far again. Don't let it be that much… don't let it be that much… don't let it be that much…

Helga opened her eyes.

She looked down…

… to the paper on the table.

Her world shattered in a million pieces.

–o–o–o–

Let's move for a moment the focus of this story. Let's travel immediately to the bedroom of another lady about to suffer a similar commotion like Helga Pataki's, and who also happens to be the second protagonist of this story.

There you see her, laying face-down on her wide king-size bed with elegant posts and curtains. She still wears her expensive Caprini pajamas.

Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was one of the few people in the whole high school who would never worry about any topic directly linked to money. Her parents had increased the already-incredible wealth of the family fortune after a couple of well-aimed movements in the stock market. Rhonda had a bank account of her own in the city's bank, as well as Student's Credit Card and a prospective Platinum MasherCard for her eighteenth birthday, when she would be considered adult enough to use it wisely.

Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was a happy girl. Materialist, sarcastic, preppy, pompous, schizophrenically elegant… but happy.

Until today.

For now, she rolled on the comfy mattress while she laughed and expressed a jocular opinion in a perfect Spanish.

"Oh, querido, eso se oye tan genial," she said to the receptor on the other end of the line. Her internet friends used to phone her from time to time, but Rhonda was the one who really takes advantage of the marvels of technology on long-distance communication at its best.

From the other end of the line a Spanish, rather Argentinean, voice made a sympathetic comment. Rhonda laughed and rolled again, hanging her head off the edge of the bed.

Her father was at the doorframe; upside-down, or at least from Rhonda's perspective.

"Uhm, te llamaré más tarde, querido," she said, ending the communication and sitting upright.

Rhonda had always harbored a deep respect toward her parents; if the passing years changed anything of that attitude it was the fact she now took her time before paying attention to them. That didn't mean she didn't love them with all her heart, but, after all, she was nearly an adult in her own eyes. So she pretended she was stretching, got off the bed, and walked gracefully to her make-up desk. Rhonda looked at her father's reflection as her hand moved from lipstick to blush to a disguised bottle of zit concealer.

"Father, I'll ask you to knock first before walking in," she said, grabbing a brush and proceeding to the primordial task of ever morning – demonstrating to the world how beautiful and fascinating she was.

"I knocked, Princess," she heard her father say, "but it seemed you were quite absorbed in your conversation with… what was his name? Roberto?"

"Maximiliano," Rhonda corrected. "Roberto has a Mexican accent," she added, as if her father would listen to all her conversations.

There was a moment of silence, vaguely interrupted by the gentle sliding of the brush through Rhonda's short hair. The girl had already tried to let her hair grow longer, but it took her hours to wash it properly. There were always missed spots, too. She preferred her hair short and controllable; besides, that way she could show off her fabulous earrings du jour.

"Father? You're still here. Is something wrong?"

"Uhm… Princess? Your mother and I..." he paused, then resumed: "Your mother and I would like to speak to you."

Rhonda didn't show any surprise.

"Of course, father. I will go downstairs for breakfast in a few minutes."

Her father nodded and left, gently closing the door. Rhonda smiled at herself, ready to put her marvelously expensive earrings on. She opened a little bin and was almost blinded by the gleam of hundreds of models carefully arranged, separated, and organized. Her index finger calmly scanned the rows of earrings, tying to select one with an exquisitely manicured fingernail. At last she found a beautiful pair of earrings with minuscule sapphires arranged in the shape of a "smiley", a special request her father asked to a jeweler in honor of his little princess' sweet sixteen.

Rhonda checked her immaculate reflection once more, this time meticulously. She agreed with herself there was no one else in the entire World that was as perfectly perfect as she was, and then proceeded downstairs to the dinning room for breakfast.

Her parents were already there, and from the moment Rhonda entered she could feel something bad floating in the air. The television was off; her mother never lost the morning news. And her father wasn't reading the Business section in the morning paper. He hadn't even opened the newspaper.

The only thing opened was an envelope, apparently from the phone company.

Rhonda proceeded to ignore all that and had a seat on her chair. In front of her waited a delicious French breakfast that would make a novice choke on the first rich bite. Luckily, Rhonda was a gourmet.

She tried to eat, but the weight of the stares in her parents' eyes made her pause. She took a napkin and cleaned her lips in a delicate fashion.

"Oh, yes… Father, Mother, did you wish to talk to me?"

They exchanged a glance, which made Rhonda tremble within. She knew they only did that whenever there was bad news.

"Sweetheart…" her mother began, "… We know how important it is for you to keep up your friendships with inhabitants of such elegant countries, such as the United Kingdom, Italy, and so on…"

"… But," her father put in, "there are better ways of… developing the conversations… besides the telephone."

The world around Rhonda stopped abruptly. Her eyes propelled immediately to the opened envelope on the table. Something in that fancy head went click in a horrible way.

Oh, shoot, she thought.

"Princess, we comprehend your great interest for such interesting cultures, but… we are sorry to tell you your phone expenses are…"

"… quite big," her mother ended the sentence.

Rhonda tried to survive the new silence, but failed.

"Uhm," she cleared her throat, "… May I… see that bill?"

Her father nodded and carefully handed the bill. Rhonda closed her eyes and put the bill in front of them.

She opened her eyes.

Her world shattered in a million pieces.

–o–o–o–

"It's not my fault Arnold moved to Central America!" Helga protested.

"I will not pay this bill!" Bob roared.

The Pataki's phone bill had left a hole in Bob's wallet. It wasn't the first time. The bill has grown since Arnold's departure, and the problem was every new month it was bigger. Helga always said she wouldn't do it again, but the truth was she needed to talk to Arnold.

No… it wasn't the first time that bill arrived at the Pataki house… But this time, Big Bob was going to make sure it was the last one.

"Listen, young lady, I don't want you to spend that much again!"

"I'll be careful, I promise!" Helga conceded.

"You always say that, and you always spend more! That's it! No more phone for you!"

Helga was about to reply, but the words got lost inside her throat.

"Wh… Wh… What?"

"What you heard. You've spent too much already. I will not pay this much only so you can waste your time with that Alfred guy!"

Helga didn't know what to say next. Luckily, it was Miriam the one who spoke.

"And why not have her pay it?" she said. Both of the remaining gazes landed on her.

"She'll pay it?" said Bob.

"I'll pay it?" said Helga.

"Yes," Miriam replied, drinking a bit more of coffee. It was much better coffee now that it didn't have brandy. She had improved a lot since the A.A. meetings.

Father and daughter exchanged a stare that couldn't be defined in one look. It was as if a challenge had been thrown and now one of them had to seal it. Helga spoke.

"That means I could speak to Arnold, as long as I can pay the bill?"

Bob considered it, just not long enough.

"Uhm… I don't see why not," he grunted. "But you'll have to find a job for that, and I'm not gonna do it for you. Not a bad idea, actually. I believe it's time for you to learn the worth of a dollar."

Helga also considered it, taking more time to think than her father. If she worked, she could talk to Arnold. If she didn't work, she couldn't talk to Arnold.

It was quite simple, really.

"Okay, Bob," she smiled, "next one's on me."

–o–o–o–

"This can't be mine!" Rhonda cried, pacing nervously from one end of the dinning room to the other one, watching with popped eyes the telephone bill in her hands.

"We are truly sorry, sweetheart, but it's all there," her father said. "The calls to London, Paris, New York…"

"No, no, no!" she denied. "It can't be; I don't talk that much!"

"It's not how long you talk," her mother tried to calm her down. "The problem is where you talk to."

"Indeed," her father nodded, "if all those calls would have been locals, the bill would be nothing."

Rhonda checked the whole list once again. She couldn't believe it, she really couldn't.

"Are you sure this is not a mistake?" she said at last, wildly turning at her parents. "Are you sure this aren't the phone calls of some other person? I mean, this is the first month you receive a bill like this… … … I-Isn't it?"

Her parents shifted uneasily for a bit, before saying: "As a matter of fact, this is the third one."

"The… thi… t-thi… … …!"

Rhonda had to grab the table to avoid falling flat on her back. All the blood in her body seemed to have vanished, leaving her with pale skin. Her parents hurried to aid her, helping the girl to sit on the nearest chair.

"Oh my God… Oh my God… Father, Mother, I am so sorry…"

"Sweetie, it's perhaps our fault. We should have told you the first month."

"But, we can afford this… can't we?"

"Yes, of course," her mother nodded. "But the reason of this conversation is meant to be focused on some other topic."

"Which one?" asked Rhonda, fearing the possible answer.

"Princess, you know we only want the best for you, but we are a little bit worried about your… let's call it 'incapacity for considering costs'."

Rhonda blinked.

"What we are trying to say," said her mother, "is that it is time you begin to comprehend the true worth of a dollar."

Rhonda blinked, only harder.

"Your mother and I have decided it wouldn't hurt you to have a… responsibility, honey."

Rhonda blinked so hard her eyelashes pinched her eyelids.

"A… responsibility?" she said with the little air remaining in her lungs.

"We believe it'd be very good for you," her father hurried to explain. "You can learn a lot from this experience: to earn something on your own merit, to pay your own expenses, to budget your own money…"

Rhonda pinched her arm. She became even more unnerved when the action proved she wasn't having a nightmare.

"… and so we have decided," her father resumed," the continuity of your telephonic communications will be your responsibility. From this moment on, all that you spend on the phone will be paid with your money."

Rhonda fought hard not to panic. Let's see, she told to herself, I have to pay my own telephone bill. Dangit, dangit, this is not good. Uhm… Let's see… let's see… If I measure the time I talk, then I could afford it. I have money in my bank account. I can use it. I also have a credit card. Good. Very good. I just have to pay my telephone bill. I can do this.

"I accept," she said, making a colossal effort not to faint.

"Good. Just something else," said her father: "you won't be allowed to use the money in your bank account to pay the phone. Neither your credit card."

Rhonda tried to scream, but she didn't have enough air for that. She coughed a bit and then managed to say:

"And how I am supposed to get the money?"

There was a long pause, until her mother said:

"We were thinking you… you could find a job."

After ten seconds of absolute silence, Rhonda Wellington Lloyd fell faint.

–o–

(To Be Continued…)