1 hour after acquisition – “Natasha? That you? Gruuuul, where you been? Oh, she not there? Ok. Thanks.”
12:56 am Day 1 – “Where you at girl?”
3:45 am Day 1 – “Girl, hit me up. I need you.”
3:57am Day 1 – Hang up.
2:57 am Day 2 – “What up girl? Call me.”
3:54 am – Day 2 Hang up.
12:59 am Day 3 - “Where you at? I need me some.”
Dear AT&T, I would like to thank you for providing me with a phone number previously used for the arrangement of late-night love-fests. And cheers to you Natasha for such an active nightlife with so many eloquent suitors.
2:15 pm Day 4 - “Girl, you know where I score me 40 tabs?”
12:53am Day 4 – “Yo, you get me an ounce girl?”
Oh, I see. While these were clearly booty calls, it was the booty I’d improperly identified.
Dear AT&T, thank you for providing me with a phone number previously owned by the love child of Pablo Escobar and Tony Montaña.
Poor Natasha. I’m not certain why she needed to give up her old phone number and why I was the one lucky enough receive her displaced digits. Maybe they ‘try to make her go to rehab and she said “no, no, no.”’ Could be that the popo shut her down. Perchance she didn’t quite break bad and her meth lab blew up and left her comatose (happens every day here in Middle America –at least that’s what ABC’s investigative journalists claim). Or perhaps she found Jesus and felt that he would prefer her to live clean and thus she was forced to throw the monkey off her back. Regardless of Natasha and her new life path, there were a hand-full of people in a nearby area code blowin’ up my phone, rousing me from my well-deserved-post-multi-state-move-slumber in the wee hours of the morning looking for Natasha and her bag of booty. Clearly, they’d not yet received the message that Natasha and her medicine bag had been replaced by a 40 year old mom with recyclable grocery bags.
Initially I wasn’t overly concerned. Natasha seemed to be nothing more than a tart with bad credit who had a few people trying to hunt her down. But by day four when the messages became more specific asking for specific quantities of goods, I began to worry. It’s not unheard of for my mind to run a muck and turn the mundane into the tragic within seconds. While I have long suffered from Severe Overactive Imagination, my hubby's ability to explode into paranoia is absolutely stunning. I debated telling him about the my recent requests as I was certain he would most likely turn my phone immediately over to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.
“Honey, look at this text I got today.”
“God! What is this? That is it. We call the police!”
“Ok, calm down Sparky. I was just thinking maybe I should go get a new number.”
“What? No! What if FBI is tracking this woman? They come and they find you? They think you are doing this drug thing. I am foreign! They will take me! I can’t go to jail. Look at me!”
Every time I think that I have the market on self-centered exaggeration cornered, That Turk just blows me out of the water. I’m the one suddenly linked to the Cartel, but he’s the one in danger. Well played Turk, well played.
I tried to be rational and calm for once. The Turk was preparing to leave on a business trip and the last thing I needed before being left alone in a new house in a new city was an attack of Severe Overactive Imagination. Hours after the Turk’s departure I received a repeated request. “Where you be? I need those tabs.” Alone with only the Midget to protect me, the phone was suddenly a time bomb. Do I ignore it? Call in the ATF, FBI, SWAT -anybody else with letters? Do I just send back a friendly text:
“Hello Tweeker, I know you are jonesing right now, but you have reached a wrong number. Be a lamb and please delete this number. Best! ;)”
In the end, I took the mature option – I hid the phone in my purse and pretended I’d never seen the message. As the hours wore on, I became certain that the deafening silence received by my junkie friend in response to his request had driven him to follow my pings on nearby towers to determine my location. (I think it’s important here to note that I watch a bit too much CSI for someone with my condition.)
A few hours later, with a sleeping Midget at my side, I heard the inevitable “THUD” from an undetermined location. This was it. It was him. It took a few hours, but The Tweeker had finally found me. I’d hoped the neighborhood of well-kept ranchers (ok, except for those people on the corner who really need to make a date with the weed wacker) but overall, a very this-is-not-the-place-to-score-a-hit zone, might deter him. Clearly, I’d expected too much of my crack-head friend. He was here for Natasha and clearly she’d moved-on-up since their last encounter.
In an extraordinary moment of bravery, I decided that pulling the covers over my head was the not responsible parental response and tip-toed down the hall towards the thud. Because of my problem with CSI, I know that one should flip on every light in the house when confronting an attacker – I wanted to be certain that should I survive, I would provide an outstandingly accurate description of the Tweeker to my assigned sketch artist. And with the last flick of the light switch, there he was on the back deck. He was as shocked to see me as I him. His black eyes bugged out and he turned and ran towards the woods behind our house – his furry tail waving in the air behind him. Yes, my thud was not The Tweeker, but rather the same clumsy squirrel who falls from the tree above our deck daily. I think he’s a user.
Don’t think I was left unscarred by the incident. No, I did sleep with a knife on my nightstand for the remainder of The Turk’s business trip (which I promptly hid upon his return so he would officially ban be from CSI viewing forever.) As for the Tweeker, I think he found a new dealer as my phone’s been silent for the past few days. And as for the squirrel, well, like clockwork he thudded from the tree again this morning. Poor guy. They try to make him go to rehab and he say no, no, no.