Page 6 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Me: Needed a job that wouldn't make me hate mornings more than I already do. Turns out decorating other people's joyous occasions while your own life falls apart is its own special kind of torture, but the pay is decent and I get to eat broken cookies.
Beck: What would you rather be doing?
The question catches me off guard. Most people don't ask about dreams, just assume you're where you want to be.
Me: Food truck. I know, I know, everyone and their cousin wants to start a food truck. But I have this whole concept worked out. Comfort food with a twist, rotating locations, decent prices. Been planning it for two years.
Beck: What's stopping you?
Me: Money. Courage. That I can't even successfully text the right person, so maybe I shouldn't be trusted with a business that involves fire and the public. And let's not forget the fact I’d be behind the wheel of a TRUCK. Very smashable.
Beck: You're talking to me, aren't you?
Me: That's different. You're nice. And you've already seen me at my absolute worst, so there's nowhere to go but up.
Beck: This was your worst?
Me: Please don't ask me to elaborate on that. Some stories require more wine than I can handle today.
Beck: Fair enough.
The conversation flows easier than it should with someone I've never met. Something about his dry humor and steady responses makes me want to keep talking. Like he listens instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. He also bypasses my craziness, which most people don’t do. Sometimes when I talk with people, they end up reacting to my off the wall comments, and the conversations sail far off in a different direction. He keeps the conversation on track.
It’s nice, since I have a feeling it would get very annoying talking to somebody like me. And this is how I function.
Me: I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm glad I texted the wrong number. You're much better at crisis management than Maya would’ve been. She would’ve just sent me ice cream emojis and tell me to drink water.
Beck: Sound advice.
Me: Don't you start. I get enough practical wisdom from Maya.
Beck: Someone's got to keep you from drunk texting the entire phone book.
Me: Hey! I’ve NEVER drunk texted the entire phone book. Just one innocent mountain man who probably thought his peaceful evening was about to get very complicated.
Beck: Wasn't wrong about that.
Me: But was it bad complicated or good complicated?
The three dots appear and disappear again. For a moment I worry I've pushed too far, gotten too comfortable too fast.
Beck: Jury's still out.
Me: I'll take that as progress. By the way, I should know what to call you besides Beck the Mountain Man. Unless that's your legal name, in which case your parents were either very optimistic or very specific about your career path.
Beck: Just Beck. And you're not Drunk Boob Lady?
The callback to last night makes me snort with laughter, which hurts my head but feels worth it.
Me: Sunny. And before you ask, yes, it's my real name, and no, my parents weren't hippies. Just overly optimistic about my disposition.
Beck: Sunny suits you.
Me: Even after witnessing my spectacular meltdown?
Beck: Especially after.
Something flutters in my chest at the way he says it. Maybe being a disaster isn't the worst thing in the world if it leads to conversations like this.
