Tuesday, November 10, 2009 (314)
On the Saturday of C.C.’s birthday weekend, Timmy C and I were in a cell phone store, because he yet again needed a new phone. We had a car full of hung-over/still drunk rowdies waiting for us in the parking lot. At one point, a sales associate approached me and said, “Excuse me sir, I believe there is a call for you.” “What.” I responded, not so much a question. “Are you Tom?” “No.” “Oh, well, the person on the phone said that she was looking for a young man in a green t-shirt and torn jean-shorts, responding to the name Tom.” “Oh . . . I’ll take the call.” “What is your name?” “Tom.” “Here, it’s your mother.” I took the phone and turned to look out the windows to the parking lot. “Hello?” All I could hear was the loud distortion of four drunken assholes laughing as I saw them in the car losing it.
Timmy C broke his new phone less than 12 hours later that night at C.C.’s party.
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