Flotsam

The ringer on the phone in my apartment is off. It often is. This is because, when the phone does ring, it is the beginning of one of two possible scenarios:

Scenario One:

PHONE: Brrring, BRringg!
ME: Hello?
TRANSPARENTLY INTOXICATED MALE: S’Billy there?
ME: I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
PHONE: Dial tone.

Scenario Two:

PHONE: Brrring, BRringg!
ME: Hello?
TRANSPARENTLY INTOXICATED FEMALE: S’Jeanie there?
ME: I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
PHONE: Dial tone.

This has been going on for a year and a half, now—since the Nearly and I moved into this particular apartment. Always the same Transparently Intoxicated Male, always the same Transparently Intoxicated Female. They have become like family—or at the very least, furniture.
It is little things like this that add color to our hum-drum lives. Not as much color, surely, as the two fine citizens the Nearly found sitting inside our dumpster the other night when he was taking out the cat litter, one of whom had a knife and the other of whom examined the bag the Nearly placed in the trash before saying, in an accusatory tone, “Cat Shit!”–as if it were the soiled litter that was out of place in the dumpster—but I digress. Anyhow, the point is that I have been entertaining fantasies of a matchmaking scheme—of bringing Billy’s friend together with Jeanie’s friend and letting nature take its course. After all, they have common interests—drinking and the telephone—and successful relationships have been predicated upon less.
It is possible that they already know each other—Billy and Jeanie could very well have the same number, implying that they are, if not lovers, at least roommates, and surely that would mean that Billy’s friend and Jeanie’s friend have met—providing either of them ever managed to get ahold of Billy or Jeanie via telephone. Still, I have found that it is best not to leave these things up to chance. I haven’t gotten very far, just yet—I finally got up the nerve to say something to Jeanie’s friend, and here is how it went:

PHONE: Brrring, BRringg!
ME: Hello?
TRANSPARENTLY INTOXICATED FEMALE: S’Jeanie there?
ME: No, sorry. Hey, do you know Billy?
TIF: Jeanie?
ME: Billy.
TIF: S’at Jeanie?
ME: No, no, this isn’t Jeanie.
TIF: Sorry.
PHONE: Dial tone.

So—no, I haven’t been wildly successful as a matchmaker thus far. But I am only a beginner. How hard can it be? I’ve seen “Fiddler on the Roof” and that Law and Order episode about arranged marriages. Maybe tonight I’ll rent “Hello Dolly.”
And turn the ringer back on.