A few years ago, Henry and I ate breakfast at this nice family restaurant in Buffalo, NY. When I was there a few weeks ago with Christina, I was delighted, absolutely ebullient, to see that we were staying in a hotel right across the street from it. I took a picture with my phone and sent it to Henry, hoping it would tug on his old, leathery heart strings. But it didn’t. It was probably tough for him to see the picture as he tried to look at his phone from around the call girl’s buoyant titties.
Anyway, after Christina and I left the scene of my broken heart, I decided that the only thing that would heal my shattered psyche would be a grilled cheese and pie, any pie, some delicious pie, from that very same restaurant.
We went back to our room first so I could remove any evidence of my previous tearshed. While there, we decided it would be a good idea to find out how late they were even open, because it was practically sleeting out there and we didn’t want to venture out in vain.
My Blackberry kept telling me there was no such establishment as the Olympic Family Restaurant and that obviously I am retarded for thinking there might be. Then I had an epiphany! “Hey, what if we check that there thingie that our parents used to use all the doggone time, what the heck is that thing called? A phone book?”
So I pulled the hotel’s complementary yellow pages onto my lap, slipped one finger in the middle of the pages and flipped it open.
“Um, Christina?” I whispered. “I opened it to the exact page, wtf?”
And I sat there, staring at this book, splayed open on my lap like some kind of magical tome, waiting for a genie or Satan himself to appear in a seductive cloak, begging to grant my wishes.
Nothing like that happened, and the coconut cream pie I ordered at the Olympic wasn’t all that, but in my mind I pretended it was baked with holy water and the breath of a mermaid and that I will never ever get the flu ever again.
Coincidentally, the page number of the phone book was 653, which is also the exchange of my old childhood telephone number. Two days later, I got two calls from two different numbers with a 653 area code. I didn’t answer, of course, because I was afraid Sadako was on the other end.
I was all about playing those numbers. I could visualize myself walking into a CoGo’s and holding up the line while I try to wrap my head around the rules of Lottery. Maybe I’d even treat myself to a Snickers. In the end, my general malaise brewed over and I went back to watching True Life on MTV. It probably would have been futile anyway, considering that I’m obviously cursed now.