The Man on Call. My Story

My name is Benny. I’m thirty-two, and I work in IT support for a firm in Mandaluyong. My friends call me "The Ghost" because I have this habit of disappearing right when the night is getting good. We’ll be at a bar in Poblacion, the buckets of beer are finally cold, the pulutan is arriving, and everyone is finally relaxing after a sixty-hour week. Then, my phone vibrates on the table.

I don't even have to look at the name. I know it’s Rhea.

"Benny, sorry to bother you, but my Wi-Fi is acting up again and I have a Zoom meeting tomorrow morning," she’ll say, her voice sounding just stressed enough to make me stand up. Or sometimes it’s even smaller: "The lightbulb in my kitchen flickered and it’s making a weird sound, I’m scared it might spark."

My friends—guys I’ve known since college—usually groan the second I reach for my keys. "Again, Ben? We just sat down," my best friend Marco said last Friday. "She has a brother. She has a landlord. She literally lives three blocks away from a hardware store. Why are you the one going?"

I just give them a wave and tell them I’ll be back in an hour. We all know I won't be back.

I’ve been in love with Rhea since we were interns. Back then, I thought we were building something. But then she started dating Justin, a guy who spends more time at the gym than he does answering her texts. Justin is "too busy" to fix her Wi-Fi. Justin is "out with the boys" when her sink clogs. So, I became the guy who fills the gaps.

Last night was the worst one yet. It was Marco’s birthday. We were at a private karaoke room, and it was the first time the whole group had been together in months. I had the mic in my hand, halfway through a song, when my phone lit up.

"Benny, I bought this flat-pack bookshelf from IKEA and the instructions are in Swedish or something. I’m surrounded by screws and I feel like crying. Help?"

I put the mic down. I didn't even finish the song. I ignored the boos from my friends and walked out into the rain to find a grab.

When I got to her place, she was sitting on the floor in her pajamas, looking cute and frustrated. Justin was there, too, but he was lying on the couch with his headphones on, playing games on his phone. He didn't even look up when I walked in.

"Hey, bro. Glad you’re here," Justin said, eyes still on his screen. "Rhea’s been huffing and puffing over those boards for an hour. I told her to just wait for the handyman, but she said you’d do it for free."

I spent three hours on my knees, screwing together cheap particle board. My back was aching, and I could hear the muffled sounds of my friends’ Instagram stories—they were having the time of their lives, singing and laughing. I was sitting in the corner of a room, building furniture for a couple to share.

"You're a lifesaver, Benny," Rhea said, handing me a glass of water once the shelf was standing. She leaned her head on my shoulder for a second. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You're like a part of the house now."

Justin finally put his phone down. "Nice work, man. Looks solid. Hey, since you’re here, can you take the trash out on your way out? It’s getting a bit full."

I took the trash out. I walked down the stairs feeling like the smallest man in the city. I checked my phone—Marco had sent a group message: "Benny is officially dead to us. Hope the lightbulb was worth it, simp."

I’m back at my desk today, staring at a screen. Rhea just sent me a photo of the bookshelf. She’s already filled it with photos of her and Justin. The caption on her post was: "So happy with my new nook! Thanks to my favorite helper for the heavy lifting!"

She didn't even tag me. I’m just the "helper." I’m the guy who misses his own life to make sure hers stays perfect, even if I’m just the guy who takes out the trash for the man she actually loves. My friends aren't calling me today. The silence is loud, but I know as soon as her printer jams or her faucet drips, my phone will vibrate, and I’ll be out the door before the screen even finishes lighting up.