Call Me

I must have missed it. It’s been sitting in my left pants pocket for a few months at least. These were my worn out pants, seldom used and only when its busy peers were awaiting laundry duties. I guess I just shoved it into my pocket and left quickly to consume my Ecstatic Meal Combo. Usually I throw away these receipts when I get home. But this one I didn’t. I guess I was in a hurry.

As I crumpled it up and prepared to toss the old receipt into the trash, I hesitated. My eye caught something on the back of the receipt. Opening it slowly- there it was- a phone number. I chuckled and spoke to myself- “It’s nothing- throw it away”. But I hesitated and I looked at the number for some kind of recognition. It wasn’t familiar to me. I tried to toss it again but I was restrained by some unseen force. I smoothed it out and put it on the counter. 

The next day the receipt called to me again from its new home- the kitchen counter. . As I sipped a cup of coffee- black and strong, my brain pondered the receipt. The numbers were written neatly so I knew I had not written them. I grab a quick lunch at the fast food joint every couple of weeks. I always get the Ecstatic Meal Combo. The receipt showed my usual order- so I doubt that I was given someone else’s receipt by mistake. No, this phone number was for me.

Who belongs to this number and why is it on my receipt? Maybe the clerk just wrote a number down to remind him to call someone and he had no paper handy. He may have transferred the number to another piece of paper before putting the food and receipt in my bag. But maybe he forgot to do that transfer and now he has no number. What if this was a telephone number for him to secure a heart transplant? What if it’s a number for a girl he met and now he’ll never see her again- his life may be changed forever. What if it’s a number for collecting some prize money? Now he may never collect it.

I am still thinking about that number the next day. I  confess that I have on occasion parked in the “for pickup only” spot near the door. Maybe the owner wrote his number on my receipt. He wants me to call to get my deserved punishment. I may be banned for life. No more Ecstatic Meal combos. I do deserve a harsh reprimand or perhaps no fries with my next combo- but banning would be terrible. 

It’s a long shot but that pretty young cashier may be trying to pick me up. Of course, she could try to charm me out of my retirement money and then move to Arizona with her coked up boyfriend. I’m not going to fall for that. I will insist on a pre-nup if we get to that delicate commitment topic.

Several more days passed and the receipt sat on the kitchen counter whispering new theories as I walked by. I wondered if there might be a message hidden in the phone number itself.  Looking at the three letter options for each of the seven phone numbers-  I worked out several possibilities. The seven digits, translated into letters, revealed such messages as: “Help-now!”, “hostage”, “harmful”. I also came up with “playful”, “cheerful” and “call me, ok”. This was a dead end.

Several more days passed as I considered it might not be a phone number at all. I checked out several of the same seven digit addresses on a few local streets but they were  occupied by a tattoo parlor, a bail bond company and a poodle grooming salon. I was pretty sure this too was a dead end, but I did stop by the poodle place. I can tell you that poodles don’t like haircuts, but that’s another story. 

I was running out of options. It would be a simple matter to call the number and get it settled. But I was afraid of the consequences. Who knows what doors will open in my life. My simple, well organized life could be pushed into a chaotic world with the tap of my finger. Maybe I would be held hostage at the poodle shop- guarded by a team of ten vicious toy poodles until my family came up with a big ransom. Maybe my new girlfriend would turn out to be a serial killer. But maybe I would be recruited to do a new Ecstatic Meal combo ad and I would become famous like the Aflac duck or the Wendy’s “where’s the beef?” lady. 

After two weeks of stress and endless, obsessive attempts to unravel the phone number mystery, I finally gave up and called. It rang three times and I was about to hang up when I heard- “Thank you for returning my call. This is Amy. I have reviewed your records and it appears that your car warranty has lapsed …”

Click. I will never again go to that fast food joint. I have half a mind to call Amy back to tell her what stress she has brought upon me. I’m sure my blood pressure problem is worse. She would probably tell me to reduce my stress by buying the extended warranty. If I persisted with blaming my heart condition on calls like this she would likely then transfer me to Bill at Eternal Life Supplemental Health Care. After berating Bill the next call transfer will be to Happy Valley Cemetery.

Sigh. Never mind..