For a few days last week, a girl who had been visiting her sister (from Texas) decided to stay with me. For two days and nights we lived, we loved, we laughed and then she left. It was an awesome experience, but fate will not allow me normality. So karma put on its jester hat and played another prank. At about ten last night, as I was settling in with my new Harry Potter Book (yeah, yeah, save it) I got the following phone call from her phone.
“Ashley, how’s it going?”
“This ain’t Ashley. This is her boyfriend. I’m only gonna ask this once. What’s your number doing in her phone?”
I closed my guide to the magical world of Hogwarts, and answered (only about half drunk), “probably just sitting there like a stupid digital display.”
“You’re real funny, smartass. How’d you like me to fly out there and kick your ass?”
“I’d be honored. No one ever visits in the summer.”
“Listen, Asshole. I talked to her sister. I know she spent a night out with a guy and I wanta know what happened.”
Now, it has never been said that I’m very smart, but it has also never been said that I’m a total moron, so I put two and two together, got lucky with the number four, and said the following:
“If her sister told you that she was out with a guy, that would mean that you two are either broken up or about to break up. Usually, sisters cover for each other.”
“Listen, asshole. I’m her boyfriend. I’m calling from her phone, ain’t I?”
“Put her on.”
“She ain’t here.”
“You stole her phone?”
“Listen, asshole. This ain’t about her damn phone, it’s about me wanting to know what happened?”
“But her sister already told you. Look, you’re either a shitty liar or a jealous ex or both. So, either you tell me what the hell is going on or I’m hanging up this phone.”
After about three minutes of hemming and hawing (read: threatening me with bodily harm), this Texan finally admitted that he was in desperate love with Ashley, that she had broken up with him a few months ago, and that he had stolen her phone from the locker where they both work (some restaurant or bar or something). And that he just wanted to know what happened. The guy wanted closure (though I don’t think he knew the word).
I lied. I told him nothing happened.
“Now who’s lying?” He asked.
“I’m telling you the truth, R.J. She crashed on my couch drunk, but that’s it.”
“Her sister woulda picked her up.”
“Only if she didn’t trust me.”
“Why would she trust you?”
“I once helped an old lady clean her gutters. Look man, I’m willing to forget this call ever happened if you’re willing to let it go. I know it’s difficult losing love, but man, you gotta toughen up, here. Be a man.”
And then the conversation took a Nascar-esque turn into a freaking total-stranger-therapy session. After I hung up, it was eleven thirty. That’s right, I spent the better part of ninety minutes helping a complete stranger deal with a break-up from roughly twelve hundred miles away. I just read that sentence and even I don’t believe it. By the time the call ended, R.J. thanked me for listening and for my advice on love and relationships and mentioned that he may be in Florida in the winter.
“Sure, give me a call,” I heard myself say.
I swear this kind of crap only happens to me.