12/6/97

Allo? Allo? ALLO! Yalla. OK, yalla. OK, bye.

    At first it was an irritation.
    "Allo. You hear me? I'm on the bus. To Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv, you hear me? Tel Aviv. Yeah, it's Roni. Yalla."
    Then it became a downright nuisance.
    "Allo. Allo. You hear me? No, I'm on the 405. To Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv. What's up? Yeah. Yeah. OK, Maybe tomorrow. Moshiko there? Send regards. You hear me? Moshiko. Regards from Roni. Yalla. Bye."
    When it became an unmitigating chutzpah, I decided something had to be done: either grab the cell phone out of his hands and sit on it the rest of the journey, or let him carry on, and play sleuth, to learn as much as possible about this fascinating individual in the seat next to me.
    For the record, during the 45-minute journey, he made six calls (two unanswered) and received five more.
    "Tov, b'seder. B'seder. B'seder. You hear me? B'seder."
    Aha! He's planning a rendezvous on the first night of Pessah. But with who? Why? Where?
    "Shimon? You hear me? I'm on the Pelephone. The Pelephone. I'm on the bus. Yeah, the bus. I'm going to the beach. The beach, yeah, the beach. I dunno. No, I dunno which beach. Where there's sun. Allo. Allo! (expletive deleted)" 
    So. He's going to the beach. And talking on the Pelephone. Now we're getting somewhere.
    "Allo. Who's that? Hi, what's up? No, I took the day off. I have to go see a lawyer. Yeah, I'm on the bus to Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv. You hear me? No, I told the boss I'm seeing a lawyer. Don't know when I'll be back. Yalla. Bye. What? No. Bye. Bye."
    Hmmm... so he's not going to the beach after all. Or if he is, then he's not seeing a lawyer after all. But we can say for certain that he is on the bus, and he is going to Tel Aviv, and he's not at work in Jerusalem.
    At this point, Mr. X (sure, he let slip his name is Roni, but without having seen his ID card, we can't be sure) sits and thinks hard for a few moments, a finger poised above the phone's "On" button. He seems to be going through his mental phone book, going from alef to tav, deciding who he should call next.
    Suddenly, he springs to action.
    "Allo. Allo. Yochi? Where are you? Where are you? The bus. No. Yeah. To Tel Aviv. The bus. None of his business. The bus, yeah. I'm on the Pelephone. A lawyer, I have to see a lawyer, I'm meeting him on the beach. I got a ticket. Nah, nothing serious. Never mind. Yeah, on the beach, because that's where the lawyer is. The bus. No, the car's at home. The bus, you hear me? Tov, yalla."
    After a few minutes, the phone tinkles again. Instinctively, Mr. X answers, but it's not his phone. This annoys him. Then a Russian lady nearby makes a call on her phone. Two other phones ring before Mr. X's next call.
    "Ma? It's Roni. [Could be his name is Roni.] You hear me? Roni. RONI. Tell Dad I'll be home later. No. I'm not at work. I dunno, tell him what you want, just not that I'm going to Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv. Never mind. No, I'm not going to the beach, I'm going to Rehov Fin. Fin. FIN. What's for supper? Aw, Ma, again? No, I'll eat in Tel Aviv. Yalla. OK. OK. Ma, OK! Bye."
    A well-dressed man directly in front of me is reading a newspaper. Trying to read a newspaper. Every time Mr. Roni X starts a new conversation, our front-seat neighbor says "tsk" and puts down his newspaper. I don't believe he turned the page even once throughout the journey. I think he, too, is eavesdropping. Seems he can't help himself.
    "Allo. Yael? Yael there? Yael. Yeah, Yael. Yael? Roni. You going out tonight or what? Where are you? Where are you? You going out? I'm on the bus. We're passing Lod. Lod. No, LOD. Yeah. OK. Nu? I'll think about it. What time is it now? Nu? What? Yeah, I'll pick you up at eight. Allo. I can't hear you. Can you hear me? I can't -- (censored expletive)"
    By now I'm bursting with questions about Mr. Roni X. I want to know all about him. But I don't want to interrupt. I think of borrowing the Russian lady's phone to call him, but I don't have his number.
    "Allo. Miri? Is that Miri? Can't hear you. Miri? What's up? I'm on the bus. The bus. Should be on Fin soon. Dunno, soon. What's new? What's up? Where are you? Yeah. Uh-huh. Where? Tov, b'seder. Be in touch. Allo. Bye. Gotta go, gotta make a call. Bye. Yeah, bye."
    "Allo. It's Roni. You got on the bus? Not yet? Nu. Nu. Yeah, so? I'm going back later. On the bus. The bus. Be in touch when you get to the station. Yeah. Nu. Be in touch. When you get there. He doesn't want to talk to me. Avi Friedman [or Freedman; I couldn't be sure]. He's always out. He's always not there when I call. I don't know why. He's always out. Always. Alright. I'll try again. Yalla."
    I can pretty much guess his next call.
    "Allo. Avi Friedman please. This is Roni. He's not there? Tell him Roni called. Roni. RONI. Thank you. Yeah, Roni. thanks."
    I could have spent the entire day with Roni, who I'm now convinced that's who he is. But as always seems to happen when one is hot on the trail of a great story, we arrive in Tel Aviv Tel Aviv Tel Aviv, and my quarry slips away.
     "You wouldn't believe the nerve of some people," I imagine he told Yael later that evening. "There I was, trying to talk on the phone, and this inconsiderate bald guy next to me spent the whole journey scribbling in his little notepad. Incredible how some people behave on a bus."