A phone call

I just got off the phone from about the weirdest conversation of my life.

“This Rory?” an American voice said, calling from an unknown number.

“Sure the hell is,” I answered. I was in a jolly, frivolous mood, having just watched some real daft comedy and got myself in that state of mind where I don’t give a damn about anything.

“Huh?”

“It’s me. Who this?”

“You right, right?” the man said.

I furrowed my brow. Who was this guy? What did he want?

“I’m sorry, man,” I said, “I’m kinda busy” – I was right in the middle of an episode, a good committed two hours into my binge – “and, I promise you, I never buy anything anyway, so –”

“No, man, you’re a writer, right? You write things? Stories, books – right?”

I laughed.

“I’ve written,” I said, “and I think about writing a lot – but I wouldn’t call myself a writer. More a failed writer, if anything. I…”

The man interrupted me. Told me he dug my stuff, liked my ‘voice’, said…

“I’m looking for a ghost writer; I want to tell my story. I want someone who can make me sound hip, put a bit o’ swing into proceedings. I can’t stand no generic crap. Not like last time. It’s time to get it off my chest.”

“Listen, man,” I said, “who is this? Where’d you get my number?”

“It’s me,” the guy said. “It’s OJ. ‘The Juice’.”

Well, I had to laugh at that, didn’t I? If I’d been drinking tea – he’d caught me in one of the rare moments when I wasn’t – I’d surely have spit it all down myself, caused an awkward wet patch on my crotch, gone walking around all self-consciously, suppressing the urge to tell strangers, “it’s not piss, it’s tea” (were there a reason to go out walking somewhere, rather than sit indoors with the curtains drawn watching hours of comedy, which of course, being currently in London, there wasn’t).

“Okay, man,” I said, “so what can I do for you?”

I really was in that kind of mood. Insane mad hoax caller on the phone. But why not have a conversation? Sometimes even the company of a nutter is better than no company at all.

Hell, pretty much all the time.

“I told you,” he said, “it’s time to come clean.”

“About the murders?” I said.

“No!” he shouted. “Goddamn. Why do people keep going on about that? Didn’t I say I didn’t do it? Why does no one believe me? Didn’t you see the TV show? I was acquitted, man: the whole world knows the news. The glove didn’t fit – so they had to a-quit. Right?”

“Sure, sure – I just thought…”

“This is something else, man: a bigger story than that. A story that’s gonna make your big toe shoot up in your boot. Make you some money, too. Make us both some money, God willing. Now you interested or not?”

A thousand thoughts went through my brain – well, I say “a thousand”; it was more like ten – and they went something like: wow, money; hey, this is exciting; oh yeah, but the guy’s a fake pretend nutter; but what if he’s not?; I like writing; I’m always saying I need a push, this could be a push; yeah, but won’t I just end up playing stupid online games and watching videos and clicking on instantly forgotten nonsense, like I always do, instead of the typing that I love?; yeah, probably – but we might as well hear him out; money’s good, I like money; cool.

“Listen,” he said, “this ain’t easy for me. But I gots to get it off my chest. And I gots to find a way to make some cashola. And the people deserve the truth; it’s time for the truth to be told.”

I heard him take a big breath. Then several seconds of silence. A little quiet whimper.

Another big breath.

“Listen, man, you know…you remember that book I wrote – that book I had written – back in the day…?”

“The one about the –”

“Yeah,” he snapped, “the one about the murders. ‘How I Did It’. Or ‘If I Did It’. I can’t even remember the goddamned title. You know I didn’t even make a penny from that book? All I got was goddamned headaches and hassle, you know? Waste o’ goddamn time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I smirked.

Smirking’s good, when you’re on the phone; better than laughing, which is what I would have been doing had we been face-to-face.

“On t’phone, no one can hear you smirk,” I thought – and then thought of Alien, and of Sigourney Weaver running around in her knickers, of how she’s old now, and of how everyone gets old, so what’s the point of marrying someone young and beautiful if you’re just going to wake up next to an old woman one day? No one young and beautiful wants to marry their grandma, right?

“Did you hear what I just said?” said OJ.

“Sure, man – but can you repeat it one more time please? I want to make sure I heard you right. That was…”

“I want a new book,” he said, “and I want you to write it. I want it to be called ‘How I Did It 2’. And with a subtitle – all goddamn books gotta have a goddamn subtitle these days – and the subtitle…”

“Hold on,” I said, “let me get my pen.”

I wasn’t getting a pen, I just felt like saying it.

“‘How I Did It 2’,” he said. “‘How I Did It 2: The Real Mastermind Behind 9/11, by OJ Simpson.’”

“You what?” I said.

“You heard,” he said.

“I heard, but…”

“It was me,” he said, “I was the brains behind the whole thing. I mean, I had some help along the way – George Bush, Osama bin Laden, Martha Stewart – and we’ll get to that in due course. But it was my idea, my plot, my plan. And I want people to know. I needs to get it off my chest. Find a bit of peace of mind, you know? I been carrying this secret too long: it ain’t good for a guy.”

He sighed.

“You know,” he chuckled, “it even feels good just telling you. You’re about the first person I’ve said it out loud to. Damn! If this is how good it feels telling just one person, imagine how good it’ll feel to tell the world!”

I had no idea what to say. Had no idea who this kook was. Was, frankly, a little bit bored by the whole thing.

“But, listen, I’m getting ahead of myself: you’re probably wondering if this is the real OJ. The main man. The Juice of legend. Well…just look out your window.”

“Huh?”

“Look out the window, fool!”

I stood up. Pulled back the curtains. Looked left. Looked down. Looked right. Looked –

“Holy shit!” I said.

OJ laughed.

“That right, man: ‘holy shit’ is right.”

“But why?” I stammered.

“For the money, bro; why else? I needed the cash – just like I need cash today; and you’re the guy who’s gonna make it for me.”

I sat down in my chair, continued to stare gormlessly into the sky.

“But listen,” he said, “that’s enough for today. I’ll talk to you soon. I’m getting out of this place. We gots work to do, you and I.”

“Okay,” I said, dumbly.

“Okay,” he said. “This is,” he said, “as they say in the movies: To Be Continued. I’ll be in touch. I trust you’re on board? This is the story of the century! Just don’t tell no one about this, right?”

But, alas for him, I was already doing it.