If you're new to this blog, go right here to read about ole Darryl. He's the person who had my cell phone number, before it became mine.
When I first got my cell phone, I'd get two or three calls for Ole' Darryl every day (sometimes in the wee hours of the morning), and it rather peeved me. I considered getting a different number.
But the thing is, I don't get a lot of cell calls of my own. The number of calls for Darryl tapered off, and I began enjoying the ones I did get.
"Is Darryl there?"
"No, I think they put him away for selling drugs," I'd answer.
Or sometimes I'd say, "Darryl's been put away; you'll have to find yourself a new pimp."
(Yes, I do have a mean streak.)
One time I gave this sort of answer and found out it was the Cass County sheriff's office looking for him; I explained my situation to the nice lady. She asked if I knew Darryl's last name. Of course, I did not.
But now I do. Yesterday a female asked to talk to Darryl Walliker. (I'm only guessing at the spelling.)
That name explains, at least halfway, why a guy called some time back asking for Darryl "the licker".
Anyhow. I gave the gal yesterday my stock answer: "They must have put him away for selling drugs."
"Thanks," she said, and ended the call.
Last night I noticed I had a text message on my cell. I wish I hadn't deleted it so quickly, but here's the jist of it: "Stop f***ing with my girl friend's head, or I'll whip your ass."
Thanks, Darryl, for being my own little soap opera.
I wonder if I should call the Cass county sheriff and tell him I now know Darryl's last name?
Remember, this is a cell phone we're talking about, so there's no way anyone other than law enforcement folks could locate me.