I’m sure our conversation tonight was a little confusing, perhaps even a little irritating. Trust me, I’m right there with you. For the sake of perspective, let me tell you where I’m coming from with all of this.
So there I was tonight, at exactly 6:49 PM, enjoying the marginally thrilling first quarter of Super Bowl XLIII when you sent me the same text you’ve been sending me intermittently for the past three days:
“Chicken sandwich only lettuce. Combo and a vanilla shake!”
This marked the fourth time I’d received such a message from you since 11:43 PM on Friday. You’ll have to forgive me for not responding earlier; I merely assumed you were an old friend whose number I did not save for one reason or another. Now, as many of my old friends are wont to do, you were contacting me repeatedly via text-based non sequitur.
Since I was in high spirits, I finally decided to reply. Who knows? Maybe you were a long lost blood brother. This, of course, was not the case. I’m sure you recall our back-and-forth:
ME: This isn’t Wendy’s.
YOU: Wait. Who is this?
ME: Jim Greene.
YOU: Are you near a Wendy’s?
ME: Ah, not really.
YOU: Fuck. This is supposed to be my assistant Kenny’s number. Do you also work at CAA?
ME: Nope. Sorry.
Really? Am I near a Wendy’s? We’ve already determined you have no idea who I am. Do you honestly believe the likelihood I’m going to bring you food is higher than zero percent? Do you always ask strangers to bring you food? Have strangers willingly brought you food in the past? I mean, what the hell, Kathy? What planet are you on?
Hoo boy, what a wild exchange. I really anticipated this being the end of our communication. Of course, I also anticipated that Arizona would not buckle completely in the fourth quarter and officially become Pittsburg’s bitch. In response to my “nope,” you fired back this classic rhetorical nugget:
“How did I get this number then?”
Well, shit on a shingle, Kath! I have no fucking idea how you got my number. Maybe God hates you. I think a better question is, have you really been waiting three days for that chicken sandwich? Is your assistant Kenny located in Russia or the Great Plains? Why couldn’t you just walk over to him on Friday afternoon right before you left for the day to ask him what the hell happened to your lunch? Jesus H. Tannheimer, lady. These are the REAL imponderables.
But you didn’t stop, Kath! You demanded to know where I acquired a cell phone with such a strange area code. Are you that desperate for human contact? Do you really give a tinker’s damn about the origin of Jim Greene’s cell phone? I gotta tell you, Kath, I’m not the world’s biggest football fan, but here I was trying to cheer my Cardinals on with a group of friends so I could squeeze a case of soda out of my old man, and you were ruining the experience with your senseless line of questioning.
You can take solace in the fact you had one supporter at my small Super Bowl gathering. My pal Ken thought I was blowing some kind of employment opportunity. I had to gently remind him that although my freelance writing career is not exactly “blowin’ up” at the velocity I assumed it would when I moved here in 2007, I certainly had no interest being some business lady’s fast food gopher, no matter how well it paid.
In conclusion, Kathy Kath Kath Kath, I think it’s safe to say neither one of us will ever forget this weird chapter in our lives no matter how long we live. Thanks for the memories, give my regards to Kenny, and be advised people you don’t know find it off-putting when you imply they are your chicken sandwich servants.
Peace, love, recycle,
P.S. – What did you think of the halftime show? Please text me with your thoughts immediately.