Dyslexic Drug Dealer

I have this habit from when I was running product of writing phone numbers on tiny scraps of paper, holding it in the palm of my hand, staring at it, memorizing it, and then throwing the paper away. To this day I don’t have a contacts list, or an addy book on my phone. Thing is, I’m dyslexic so sometimes I memorize the number with the digits the wrong way around. After a fucked up round of dialing various combinations, I’ll get the right one and make a mental note. The problem is that a mental note is like post-it that keeps falling off the side of yr flat screen—I will always initially remember the number the wrong way and THEN remember that I have to switch some of the numbers around, which works, but there will of course be a million times that I don’t remember to turn the numbers around, and I’ll dial the wrong number so often that I’ll get to know the person on the other end.

ha…yeah…I just texted with one now:

hey TRUE…me again...think u meant this for ____

oh. sorry man.

not a problem, grrly grrl.

Wrong number conversations remind me of some of the emails I get—they’re like, excuse me, I’m sorry to bother u, but I read yr post the other day and…

I love wrong number conversations.

I love emails from strangers.

When I was growing up our phone number was one number different from the chicken place down the highway, Cluck U. We’d get calls at all hours…

“Cluck U?” they’d say, with that special note of urgency that comes from the promise of honey dipped, fried chicken.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY?!?” my half-deaf father would scream back.


I once started a short story about a girl whose number was one off from a suicide prevention hotline.

But of course I never finished it.


No comments: