Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Her: You know, like when you need your best friend to tell you that your life isn’t falling apart and your boobs are normal and maybe eat ice cream while trash-talking your ex, who just got engaged to a yoga instructor.
The honesty in that message hits differently. She’s having a rough night, drunk and vulnerable and texting strangers for reassurance. Something about her rambling messages makes me want to help instead of hanging up like any sensible person would do.
Me: Rough day?
Her: The actual worst. Like if bad days were Olympic events, today would win gold, silver, and bronze.
Me: Want to talk about it?
Three dots appear and disappear several times before her response comes through.
Her: You don’t want to hear about my disaster life, trust me. You seem nice and normal and have better things to do than listen to drunk strangers complain.
Me: It’s 11 PM on a Tuesday. I’ve got nowhere to be.
Five years of peaceful mountain living and it takes one drunk woman's boobs to turn me into a chatty advice columnist. What the hell is going on with me? I’m of the mind that people should mind their own business, and deal with their own shit. Not invite conversation with a complete stranger over text messages.
Her: You’re nice for a random mountain man. Are you real, or is this some kind of elaborate wrong-number dream?
Me: Real enough. And you can stop apologizing for the photo. It wasn’t the worst thing that happened to me today.
Or the past year.
Her: That’s both reassuring and concerning. What happened to you today?
Me: Spent four hours fixing a fence that a bear knocked down. Again. Same bear, same fence, third time this month. Thinking he’s doing it on purpose.
Her: A bear has beef with your fence specifically?
Me: Apparently. Either that or he’s the world's worst construction critic.
Her: I snorted. Actually snorted at that. Thank you for making me laugh instead of making me feel like a creepy weirdo.
Me: You’re not creepy. Drunk, maybe. But not creepy.
Her: Drunk is accurate. Wine drunk, which is the most dangerous kind because it makes you think youare deep and philosophical when realistically you’re just messy.
Me: What is your non-drunk emergency contact situation like?
Her: Maya. Best friends since college. Long-suffering saint who deserves better than midnight boob consultations.
Me: Probably should text the right number next time.
Her: Probably should lay off the wine next time. But where’s the fun in that?
The conversation flows easier than it should. She’s funny in a way that doesn’t feel like she’s trying too hard, and there’s something refreshing about talking to someone who knows nothing about my history or why I ended up alone on this mountain.
My thumb hovers over her contact info. The smart thing would be to wish her luck and end this here. Clean break back to my quiet routine.
Instead, I save her number as "Drunk Boob Lady" and realize I'm smiling for the second time tonight.
Her: I should let you get back to your mountain man routine. Thank you for being sweet about my spectacular mortification.
Me: Not a problem. Hope tomorrow is better.
Her: It cannot be worse. But thank you, Beck the Mountain Man. You’re a good human.
The phone goes dark, and the cabin feels quieter than usual. Rex is still giving me the side-eye from his bed, wondering why his hermit human suddenly discovered social skills.
