Last night, as I was lounging in bed under the cozy glow of my space heater, eating instant mashed potatoes and reading Game of Thrones theories online, I received a text from an unknown number.
It read, in full: “R U #availabletomakeout”
It was about 9 PM on a Wednesday night. Not exactly prime booty text time. Also, the stylizing of the text was so bizarre – it suggested to me that the use of net-speak and hashtags wasn’t genuine, but instead a sort of ironic distancing, the kind of thing that can be passed off as a joke should things not go well. A few people have asked me who texts in hashtags after seeing the conversation, and the answer is no one. It’s a joke. And yet, “are you available to make out” isn’t really the kind of text you send as a joke.
I Googled the area code and got Austin, which is useless, because half the mustached bros in Brooklyn are from Austin or lived there long enough to get a cell phone there. There’s very high inter-migration of early 20somethings between places like Austin, Brooklyn, San Francisco, Portland – anywhere kombucha is sold in convenience stories. That didn’t help me out.
Then I thought my boyfriend, out at a party, might have gotten his hands on someone else’s phone and texted me from it as a joke. That seemed like as good an explanation as any other. A sane person would have just ignored the text, but it was too weird and glorious not to reply to. Also, I was bored.
I thought that was that, until he replied, “Ha/sorry/thanks, had multiple numbers 4 her and was trying to cover all my (depressing) bases.”
He wasn’t just randomly texting me! He was trying to find his one true Jessica! His determination piqued my curiosity, so I texted, “Do I know you or is this just a totally wrong number?” and got no reply, which I took to mean that I knew him and he didn’t want to reveal himself. In retrospect, that was a dumb question: a real wrong number wouldn’t have known my name or had it programmed in his phone. I had just taken very powerful sleeping pills that turn me into a slurring baby at the strike of 11 o’clock, so blame those for that lapse in judgement. This guy clearly had my number saved in his phone, along with quite a few other Jessies or Jessicas. Which was probably why he didn’t want to tell me, “Yeah, we went on two OKCupid dates in the summer of 2012 and then never spoke again but I didn’t delete your number, and now I can’t remember which Jessie you are.”
I truly hope this gentleman finds the Jessica he is looking for. I should text in a few weeks and ask how it went, if only so this story has some sort of ending.