Done in by the denim vest: phone number follies
Before I get into the grim details of this
rant, I’d like to begin by imploring anyone who may read
this column to hang onto whatever burnt-out shreds of honesty
they may have left.
My story begins on St. Patrick’s Day, the hallowed refuge
of green beer and alcohol-induced pixie sightings. I was relaxing
in The Spoke, with my feet firmly stuck to the grimy floor,
when I noticed an acquaintance of mine sitting in a booth with
her friends. I was introduced to the group, including one girl
who I thought I had fallen for.
I may well have been hallucinating (in fact I know now I clearly
was), but I could swear she and I hit it off fairly well. The
strange thing is I wasn’t drinking, so I guess I just
have too big an ego. In fact, I must have fabricated her arm
around my waist at one point in time, but I digress.
Anyway, the night was winding down at around 10 p.m., as everyone
had been drinking since 2 p.m.. As the object of my misplaced
affection was leaving the bar, I asked her for a phone number
just as a way to get in touch later, nothing more. And so she
rattled off her number without hesitation.
I felt really swell... until I tried to call her the other
It was at this point that I realized the number I had been
given was a complete fake. I first tried dialing it “straight
up” but was informed by a recording that I needed to
enter an area code for the call to be completed. I tried 519,
905, 416, 647 and so on until I just started punching in random
three number combinations. No luck at all.
I found out later from a mutual friend that she is currently
involved in a casual relationship, and thus the explanation
for the fake phone number. Now that it’s over and done
with I feel really stupid, and also just a little angry.
So here is what I propose to all ladies put on the spot for
a phone number. If you aren’t interested, just say so
and put the poor sod out of his misery — I would have
been saved a lot of grief if but for that honest reply.
That was the first time I had ever tried to take down the
number of a stranger, and I can say with equal honesty that
it will likely be the last. After all, I don’t need any
more attention from odd girls, since I seem to attract their
attention exclusively. “Like moths to a flame,” as
one of roommates accurately pointed out.
As for the girl who didn’t shoot me down, but rather
lied to my face, feel free to call me anytime. My number is “667-1111.
Call Pizza Pizza, Hey! Hey! Hey!”