So I’m at home this afternoon, just coming in from walking the dog, and the phone rings. I check the caller ID: the name is blocked, but there’s a number with a local area code, so I pick up. They ask for D.
“She’s unavailable, can I take a message?”
“Is there another number where we can reach her? A cell phone? A work number?”
“Whoa whoa whoa whoa—may I ask who’s calling, please?”
“I’m calling from 100.5, the Drive—she entered a contest with us, and if I can’t get in touch with her we’ve got to go to the next name on the list…”
Contest? D never told me about a contest. This seems kind of weird. I don’t know if I want to give out her work phone number—I mean, even I don’t feel comfortable calling while she’s at the clinic. What if she’s with a patient? Wait; she’s got her cell-phone with her. That should be okay.
So I give the muppet D’s cell-phone number, and she rings off, and I almost forget about it.
D gets home four hours later, and I ask her, “Did the radio station people ever get in touch with you? About some contest? I gave them your cell number…”
“My phone wasn’t turned on,” she sez, staring at me with dawning horror.
Because the grand prize of this contest, as it turns out, was a trip to Boston.
To see U2.
On SAINT PATRICK’S DAY.
With a BACKSTAGE MEET-AND-GREET.
With the band that D has LOVED MORE THAN ANY OTHER SINCE SHE WAS 14 YEARS OLD, a band that we both still love despite ourselves, that looms large in our shared history—and now Claire is discovering them, unprompted by us, and getting into them deep as only a 12-year old can. Dawning horror.
On the other hand, her prize might have been just a copy of the new CD. Still, I reckon I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.