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Approximately 2400 words

Sorry.  Wrpng #
by
Max Griffin

Monday 9AM

         Molly fidgeted on the park bench.  She was pretty sure she’d turned off the stove after breakfast.  She’d checked three times, like always.  She resisted the urge to go back home and check again.  After all, her roommate and best friend, Frankie, had been right there in the kitchen when she left.  For sure, he’d turn it off if she hadn’t. 

         She tried to savor the brilliant spring morning and the peaceful setting.  A gentle wind rustled through the treetops.  The heady perfume of hyacinths mixed with the fresh scent an overnight rain shower.  A squirrel nibbled at the nuts she scattered on the gravel walkway, and sunlight peaked through high clouds.  But worry still nibbled at her.  She started counting.  Sometimes, counting helped.  Sometimes, when she got to six, things got better.

         She’d only gotten to five when her phone started playing “Memories” from Cats. While Elaine Paige crooned about moonlight and memory, Molly re-started her count and pulled her phone from her purse.  “One thousand one, One thousand two…”    When she got to six, she closed the “You’ve got a message!!” notice, and the Elaine stopped mid-verse, in the same place as always.  She checked the message app and frowned.

         

I’m not feeling well.  Walk the dog for me?

         No name, so whoever sent this to her wasn’t in her address book. For sure, she didn’t recognize the number.  She punched the microphone thingee and said, “I’d like to help, but I don’t recognize your number.”  The phone dutifully converted her speech to text. She counted to six while she checked, just to be sure, then pressed send.  She started counting again, and at four the reply came.

         

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         She couldn’t help smiling. The poor dear probably didn’t know how to use the microphone thingee.  Molly hadn’t known how, either, until a couple months ago when Frankie had shown her.  She chewed her lower lip for a count of six, then pushed the microphone button and said, “I like dogs.  I can help if you’re close.”  The phone displayed

         

I like dogs I can help if your close.

         Near enough.  She added the heart emoji, counted to six, and pressed send.  While she waited for a response, she started counting.  When she got to six, there was no answer. 

         A dangling conversation.  Another thing to worry about, just like the stove. At least she wasn’t thinking about that any more.

         Except, of course, now she was thinking about it again.  Her shoulders slumped.  There was no getting over it.  She had to check.  She stood and headed back to their apartment.

Monday, 7PM

         Molly hummed “Happy Birthday” while washing her hands.  Two times, twenty seconds, just like always.

         From the living room, Frankie called out, “Hurry up, girl.  Name that Tune just started, and you won’t believe what Jane’s wearing tonight.”

         She grinned at his sweet, if a bit fruity, tone.  “Be right there.”

         She settled on the sofa next to Frankie while a car commercial played on their TV. He wore a black tuxedo coat with glittering sequences, fishnet nylons on his legs, and gleaming black stillettos on his feet.  His goofy-looking mop of red-orangish curls framed a cheery face that featured heavy mascara, rouge, and, of course, brilliant ruby-red lipstick.  She grinned at him and squeezed his hand.  “I see you’re channeling Jane tonight.”

         “Don’t you know it, girl friend.  She’s my hero.”

         “You should take your act on stage.”

         He flapped a hand at her. “Oh, I couldn’t do that.  I’m too bashful, and what would the guys at the precinct think? Besides, I can’t sing.”

         “You’ve got the legs for it.  And you could lip-sync.  I’ve been to Dragula.  You’re better looking than most of the acts.”

         “Oooo, that place.  It’s so camp.”  The commercial ended, and he said, “Hush now.  It’s starting.”

         Jane’s costume and makeup tonight pretty much matched Frankie’s.  Mollie mused, “You know, if you wore a blond wig, you could be her twin, except you’re too muscular.”

         “I worked hard to get these pecs.” He flexed them, wiggled his hips, and grinned. “I do kind of look like her though, donchya think?  But I like my hair. It’s my best feature.”  He primped his locks. He kept them short and regulation now,  but they still reminded her of how he looked when they'd first met: like Krusty the Clown. Those were the days.

         The first category in the ‘Spin Me’ on round on Tune was “Etta Girl.”  The truck driver contestant buzzed in after one note and guessed “At Last,” which turned out to be right.

         While the band’s vocalist sang the song, Molly’s phone started playing Elaine Paige singing “Memories”  again.

         Frankie stopped bobbing his head and lip syncing to the song and said, “What’s that noise, girl?  I wanna hear the song.” 

         Molly interrupted her count of six.  “It’s my phone.  It plays that when I get a text.” 

         He drawled, “Really.  At last, you’ve got a boyfriend.”

         She got to six, closed the notice, and Elaine stopped in the same place as always. When she checked her message, she sighed. 

         

Still sick. Out of dog food 2.  Can u help me?

         She scrolled the history and, sure enough, it was the same number that had texted this morning. “It’s Warping Number.”

         “Who’s that?  Captain Kirk?”

         “Not that asshole.  Captain Archer would be more my type. But it’s just a wrong number.”  She showed him the phone. 

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“See.  She doesn’t know how to use the microphone thingee and mis-typed ‘wrong number.’”

         “I see.  Warping Number.  Aren’t you the clever one.  But you don’t know it’s a she.  Maybe they look like Scott Bakula.  He’s dreamy.”  He wriggled his hips again.

         “He’d be a little old for us.” She frowned.  “Whoever it is, they need assistance.”  She pushed the microphone thingee and said, “I’d like to help you.  Tell me where you’re at.”  The phone translated correctly. and she silently counted to six before pressing send.  This time, she only got to two when phone answered

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         Like a lonely little sparrow.  “I wish I could help the poor thing out.”

         He peered over her shoulder at her phone and said, “It doesn’t look like they want to be found.  Besides, what if they’re a crazed serial killer?”

         Just like a cop, seeing bad guys everywhere. “What if they’re not?  They’re not feeling well, and their poor doggie doesn’t have any food.  If they live nearby, I could leave some on their doorstep.  That’d be safe.”

         “Maybe.”  He peered at her for a couple beats, then said, “You really want to do this?”

         “I do.  It’s been bothering me all day.  It’s like, I don’t know. Unfinished business, or something.”

         “It’s your OCD again, isn’t it?  I saw you counting. What would your therapist say?”

         “She’d tell me to take a Xanax.  But I hate drugs.  I try counting, but that doesn’t really help much. It would be simple if I just knew where they lived.  If it was too far, I could just have Amazon send them some dog food.  But if it’s close, then I could drop off some dog food. Anonymously. That’d be cheaper.”

         “We could do a reverse lookup.”

         “What’s that?”

         “You go online, put in the phone number, give ‘em a couple bucks with Paypal, and they’ll tell you who owns the phone and where they live.  Easy peasy.”

         “You can do that?”

         “Nothing to it.”

         “Would you mind?  I really want to help them.”

         He gave a wistful glance at the TV, sighed, and said, “Sure.  Gimme a minute.” 

         He pulled his laptop from the endtable, powered it up and held out his hand. “Gimme your phone.  I want to copy the number.”  He typed it in and mumbled, “At least it’s in our area code.”  A moment later he said, “It’ll take a minute or so while it searches.  You’re really want to do this?”

         “Yes.”  Well, it was more like she needed to do it.  Wanting had nothing to do with it.

         “Okay, then.”  He sat up and started reading from the screen.  “This says the number is owned by Oscar Scudder, age 24. It says he lives at 10061 S Sheridan Road. No police record.  That’s good.  The address is only a couple of miles from here.”  He fiddled with his mouse and peered at this screen. “Google maps says it’s Sheridan Springs Apartments.  He’s at unit 0631 according to four-one-one.”

         “Write that down for me, will you?”  She started pulling on her shoes.

         “Hold on, girl friend.  You’re not going there alone.”

         She hesitated.  “I can do this.  You don’t have to go with me.”  It’d be nice to have him along, though she didn’t want to admit it.

         “Well, I can’t go out like this.” He waved a hand at his ensemble. “Give me ten minutes to wash my face and put on my manly man drag.”

         “Okay.”  She sat back down and started to count books on Frankie's detective novels shelf while the contestants on TV bet  how few notes it would take to name that tune.


Monday, 9:30 PM

         Molly clutched the plastic bag and counted the cans of Alpo by feel.  Six. Golden twilight lit the busy street as they passed over the Creek Turnpike and headed south on Sheridan.  She turned to Frankie, who huddled over the steering wheel of his battered Camry.  He wore stone-washed Wranglers and a tight, gray Oklahoma Sooners t-shirt that showed off his muscles.  She said, “I liked the Jane outfit better.”

         “You don’t like my manly man duds? The Jane outfit is too revealing.  No place to hide my trusty Walther 380.” He jiggled his left leg.

         Right. That’s where he’d strapped on an ankle holster.  She resisted rolling her eyes. Cops and their toys. 

         He continued, “Besides, Jane couldn’t do this.”  He flexed his pecs.

         She giggled, then asked, “How much farther?”

         “Maybe half a mile. It’ll be on the left.”  He glanced at her. “Eager to see your new boyfriend?  Will you still love me after you marry him and move into your new home with a white picket fence and a pet doggie?”

         “Of course.  But I’m just trying to do a good deed.  Besides, maybe you’ll be the one who finds a husband, not me.”

         “Not likely.  Hey, maybe the two of you could keep me as a pet, too.  I could wear a dog collar.  That’d be kinky.”  He slowed.  “This is it.”

         He pulled in the parking lot and slowed to a stop.  “The place looks like a maze.”

         She peered out the window.  “I see building numbers on the walls, but it looks like they all open into a central courtyard.”

         “Yeah. It doesn’t look like we can hang out in the car to scope out whoever is this Warping Number person is.  Probably some 90-year-old redneck with a walker.”

         She counted the Alpo cans again, then said, “Or maybe he’s a lonely hunk with a cute puppy who’s looking for a boyfriend. You never know.”

         “I guess.” He started to circle the parking lot.  “It looks like that’s the building.”

         She peered at the sign and read, “Units six hundred to seven hundred.  Must be.”

         “Okay.  I saw guest parking back in the front.”

         Five minutes later they stood in front of unit 0631.  The faint sounds of music floated in the air.  Nothing’s gonna change my world.  Frankie murmured, “That’s ‘Arcoss the Universe.’  I recognize it.  I think it’s even my favorite version, with Julian Lennon, Moby, and Rufus Wainwright.”

         She let a smile play with her lips.  She had a feeling tonight might just change the world, at least for one of them.  A racing bike was chained to the railing, right next to a clay pot filled with brilliant marigolds.  She eyed the bike and whispered, “Looks like Warping Number’s a guy. He’s just your age, too.”

         He whispered back, “I’m not getting my hopes up.  That makes him your age, too.”

         “Why are we whispering?”

         He shrugged, and muttered, “Let’s do this.”

         “Okay.” She counted the cans one last time and deposited them between the pansies and the wall.  She clutched at her purse and asked, “Now what?”

         “Now we hide out and you text him. Like we planned.”

         They went down two flights of stairs to the ground floor and retreated to the far side of the courtyard.  She looked back toward unit 0631 and asked, “Can you pick it out? I’m not sure which one it is.”

         “I’ve got it spotted.  Don’t text him just yet.”  He pulled out his phone and pointed it at the unit.  “Okay.  I’ve got it.  Text him and I’ll get some shots of him when he opens the door.”

         She opened the message app on her phone, brought up Warping Number’s thread, and pressed the microphone thingee.  “There’s dog food at your front door.”  She counted to six to check the translation, then pressed send.  She counted to six again.  “No answer.”

         “Maybe we’ll have knock.  No, wait!  The door’s opening.  My god, he’s cute.”

         “Let me see.”  She peered over his shoulder.  The man on the screen wore no shirt, and she could count the six ripples in his abs. “Just your type.”

         “What makes you think he’s gay?  He could be your type.”

         “No straight man has abs like that.”

         “Maybe. Oh my god!  He’s spotted us.”

         Sure enough, the guy—Oscar, that was his name—was staring right at them.  He gripped the plastic bag with the dog food in one hand.  He held up a tentative hand and waved at them.

         Mollie waved back, while Frankie sank deep into the shadows. 

         Oscar held up an index finger and retreated into his apartment.  Mollie got to five when he reappeared, holding his phone so she could see it. “He’s going to text me.”  Elaine started to sing, and she pressed enter before Elaine finished "all alone in the moonlight." 

         

Thank you for the dog food.

         “You’re welcome.”  She let the phone translate and pressed enter.

         

How did you find me?

         “Reverse lookup. 411”  She pressed enter without waiting.

         

Clever.
I'm feeling better.  Would you like to come up and meet Charile.
He’s my dog

         “Yes.  Can I bring my friend Frankie? He’s a cop and he helped me find you.”  She could never have thumb-typed that, but the phone was flawless as always. 

         

Sure. Tell him I think cops are hot
Hope that doesn’t bother him.

         “It won’t.  Trust me.”  She pressed enter and turned to Frankie. “He says he thinks cops are hot.  Looks like your life is going to be the one that changes.”

         Frankie gave her a grave look.  “Maybe.  You’ve stopped counting. Did you notice?”

         She gave a little start. “No, I didn’t.  Maybe both our lives will change.”

         A sly grin flashed on his features. “Let’s find out, shall we?”