Page 14 of Mr. Wrong Number

Wrong.

Because at each of the interviews, I came down with verbal diarrhea.

At the first one, I accidentally mentioned the fire. When I was asked why I’d moved, my mouth had betrayed me and dispensed the truth instead of the generalities I’d carefully practiced.

Mr. Holtings, my interviewer, looked at me over his readers and said, “Fire?”

And for some reason, trying to explain it made me giggle. I started describing what had happened, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling while I said it.

“There was a, um, a fire, and my apartment building burned down.” A stifled snort.

And sadly, with each sentence I spewed, I could hear the ridiculousness of the words and how nuts my laughing mademe sound. Which, of course, struck me as more and more hilarious and I lost all control.

“It wasn’t my fault. I was being careful.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “But that possum came out of nowhere and knocked over the bucket.”

I had to pause to wipe at my tears of laugher.

I was definitely not getting the job.

At the next interview, I accidentally mentioned theTribuneand then tried to backtrack and say I hadn’t worked there.

“Wait.” The very nice woman narrowed her eyes and said, “You worked at theChicago Tribune? How come you didn’t put that on your résumé?”

“Oh, I, um, I didn’t really work there.” I smiled and my brain short-circuited and I actually said the words “I was just kidding.”

Side note: If you ever land an internship at a major newspaper,neverengage in a conversation with your coworker about their vibrator, even if said coworker was the one to bring it up and you were just being polite. As it turns out, if someone in the lunchroom overhears and goes to HR, they will fire youboth, regardless of who owns Purple Thunder.

But I digress.

Regardless, I was killing myself with my ability to speak. If I could just get a job, I knew I’d make any employer happy. Because I was a good writer. I could proficiently communicate almost anything on paper.

But I had to somehow get through face-to-face meetings first.

At the next interview, I tripped over a chair and reflexivelygrunted out a semi-loudfuck meas it happened. But the two interviews that followed actually went fairly well. I didn’t get a callback, and I didn’t become buddies with the interviewers, but the fact that I didn’t destroy my own chances was a good sign, right?

The only good thing to occur during that series of unfortunate events was the daily communication I exchanged with the stranger. He’d sent a funny butt-dial text the night after my erroneous Starbucks message, and since then we’d been texting every night. Nothing important, just pointless, idiotic conversations about nothing.

The night before was no exception.

Me:What do you think the first guy to ever milk a cow was thinking?

Mr. Wrong Number:Come again?

Me:Ew, I doubt it was that. But was he just super curious, like I wonder what this thing does? Or did he see a calf nursing and he was all DUDE MY TURN?

I’d pictured him shirtless and leaning back against his headboard, smiling as he texted back, but I knew all the while it was pure fantasy that my anonymous bestie would be ripped.

Mr. Wrong Number:Maybe it was a bro thing, where two guys dared each other to touch the teat and then—boom—out squirts the milk.

Me:Touch the Teat. Band name—called it.

Mr. Wrong Number:It’s all yours.

Me:Am I interrupting something, btw, with my cow-teat inquiry?

Mr. Wrong Number:Nope. Just lying in bed, wide-awake.

Me:Please don’t go creeper on me now.

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