I only answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize if I sense urgency in the ring, and, luckily for my soul mate, who decided to phone me from a random 212 area code this morning, his ring oozed importance (or was it desperation?).
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking with Marissa?” It was an unfamiliar, yet brazen, male voice.
“Yes ...” I replied, hesitantly. “And who is this?”
“The man of your dreams.” He declared it casually, as if he’d said ‘Steve’.
“The man of my what?”
“You know you’re looking for him,” he continued. “You lay awake at night wondering where he is. Lucky for you, I’m
right here.”
Amidst anxious giggles I began frantically searching my smaller-than-a-cubicle studio—under the covers, in between couch cushions, behind the TV—looking for hidden cameras, CIA-style recording devices … strange mystery men.
I found nothing.
“So does the man of my dreams have a name? Because soul-mate or not, I don’t talk to strangers.”
Good one, I thought, as I high-fived myself (yeah I’m cool like that). Mom would be proud.
“Yes. My name is ... Meant. For. You.”
Silly me, of course it is.
“So you see, Jesus conspired—“
“Jesus?” I cut in, “can we keep Him out of this?”
“What I meant to say was, God and Moses conspired. Those crazy cats heard your pleas and decided to answer your
prayers. And here I am: Your soul mate—A collaborative effort on the parts of God and Moses.”
“It’s not every day the guys upstairs conspire in my favor and send me the man of my dreams via divine phone call,” I said. “Honestly though, I’m not sure how I feel about their passing my number out to randoms.”
“But I’m not random,” he assured me. “I’m your soul-mate.”
Oh. Right.
“Let’s have lunch.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I can’t—I’m late for an appointment.”
“Then dinner.”
“While all of this sounds incredibly exciting—dates with my soul-mate whom I’ve never met and whose name I don’t know, yet oddly he knows both my name and number—I’m going to have to pass.”
“Just take this number and call me,” Mystery Man said.
As I jotted down the number I was sure I wouldn’t call the number of a man claiming to be my personalized gift from both Moses and God, a montage of New York memories began flashing before me: There was the first date who barraged me with information on his myriad of psychological disorders, then brought me home to meet his parents.
The evening my doorman professed his undying love for me in my building’s lobby. The day I witnessed a drug deal between two cabbies (mine being one of them) in the middle of a crowded Manhattan street. The ever-romantic proposal I received from a different cab driver, who, instead of dropping me off at my requested destination, drove me to the Diamond District to pick out the ring.
That’s when I burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” He asked, “I made your day, didn’t I?”
“No, that’s not it.” I didn’t want to hurt my soul mate’s feelings. “It’s just that this is far from the craziest thing that’s
ever happened to me. And that is pretty freakin’ funny.”
And with that, I concluded my conversation with my nameless soul mate and vowed, urgency or not, never to answer unknown calls again.
Unless, of course, God really is scheming in my favor—if that’s the case, I’ll answer my phone if I can request of Him this: Please send me my soul mate in the form of Jake Gyllenhaal or John Mayer. Amen.
Do you have a New York story?
E-mail nystories@nypress.com
