For a Good Time, Call
I am too old for an imaginary friend. But I am too young for most other things. In the middle of 1999, I turn thirteen. My best friend Maria and I don’t have the internet yet to occupy ourselves with sketchy online chat rooms. We don’t have cell phones. No money. No cars.
It is summer in Las Vegas—too hot to enjoy anything outdoors—so Maria and I mostly stay inside, entertaining ourselves with Spice Girls singalongs or softcore porn on Cinemax at night. We get creative in our adventure-seeking. It’s the season of new avocations. And our distraction du jour, our escape from the realities of our fucked up homes, is the party line.
The party line is for finding dates. You call and create voice personals to connect with other lonely singles, or with married dudes on the DL. It works like this:
Sexy lady voice: After the beep, please record your personal ad. Remember ads that include more information—what you look like and your hobbies and interests—typically receive more responses. Don’t keep your next date waitiiiiing.
Maria and I record a dual message, giggling as we say that we’re sisters looking for lots of fun. We know that coming as a pair makes us more popular, but at thirteen, don’t yet understand the nature of adult men’s kinks and fantasies.
We come up with hot girl names: Hi, we’re Sasha and Margarita and it’s too hot to go outside. What’s everyone doing today? We’re ready for some fun!
Then we sift through the men, pressing 3 again and again to hear the ads of each possible suitor, while waiting for requests to chat with us to come rolling in.
This is our weekend ceremony. My mom works long hours managing housekeeping at a Holiday Inn Express, and my dad hardly works but is rarely home. He’s always at the neighbor’s, helping her fix things, even though he’s not that handy. Maria’s parents are poker dealers but have never lived together. Her mother suffers from bipolar disorder, and mine from depression. Both of our dads are drunks.
The party line is our solace. We come here for comfort—we don’t get much of it elsewhere. On the line, we can be anything, or anyone. Sometimes we’re supermodels with sexy signature moles on our faces. Sometimes we’re kindergarten teachers. Sometimes we’re bored Mormon lady-missionaries from Idaho. We’re always adults.
After some weeks on the line, pretending to have just celebrated our eighteenth birthdays while chatting with forty-year-old dudes gets
