2440323

It’s just a seven-digit number. Nothing special about it. Until you put a dash between the four and the zero. Now it’s a phone number. 244 meant Burien. South King County. The first one I memorized at six. Dad made me learn it. Just in case. Like our home address, 3rd Avenue South. Everything else is gone.

Outside, it’s cloudy. Overcast and gloomy. The rain can’t make up its bipolar mind. Hard and heavy one second. Misty the next. Not that it mattered much at six. Your choices were go outside or stay inside. I preferred the outside. Or was it my parents who preferred that James and I play in the rain? Not that I cared. There was a lot more to explore out there. Clouds and rain didn’t matter. We could still hear the jet flying overhead, landing a few miles away at SeaTac. Besides, the empty lot next to our house was full of trees, bushes, and terrain waiting for small kids to explore.

James deconstructed my tinker toy creation, thinking he was somehow helping. “Joe, I can make it better. Watch.” He pulls most of the pieces apart. My small robot looks less like a robot and more like Frankenstein’s unfinished monster. Then he tries to put it back together, makes it worse, and hands me all the pieces. I reassemble it with the speed of an Indy 500 racing crew. James smiles the whole time. “See, Joe? I told you I could make it better.” I was not amused.

Best leave it alone next time, James.

Dad is working on building a large wooden box. The bottom and all four sides are attached. He’s trying to keep James, who’s giggling and laughing, from climbing inside. Probably not very helpful that I’m doing the same thing. Come to think of it, I probably started it. Or gave him the idea. I remember Dad laughing about it and giving up on it until naptime.

244-0323. I still know it. I don’t know why.

Seattle. That’s where we started. Today, James is a memory. Like Seattle. January 2, 1991. Jude is also a memory now. September 5, 2020. Dad remains a figure in my life, a voice on the phone, not just the man who built a toybox on a rainy day in Burien.

244-0323. The number never moved. But we did, from Burien to San Ramon. Priest River, Idaho. Beaverton, Oregon. Dad moved to Huntington Beach, while I stayed in Portland. But we always made a point to stay in touch. Today, I make a point to call every week or so.

He answers. Hello?

And we talk, picking up where we left off. Fond memories. Priest Lake. Snoqualmie Pass. Camping at Lake Shasta and fishing for rainbow trout in the summer rain. Those I remember. Others he does, but I don’t. But our first phone number? I haven’t forgotten it.

“I love you, kiddo. I’m proud of you.” Kiddo. One line from a movie Dad remembers, closing out most of our phone calls. Just like I remember our first phone number. 244-0323.

One number. Three people. Two of them are gone. One is still picking up.

I don’t know what the odds are on that. I’m not sure the math exists.