Today, during my lunch break, as I relaxed into the plastic backing of a booth at El Pollo Loco, I started reading a novel over my chicken carnitas bowl. Because of the general din and chatter of the lunch hour, I missed a call on my cell phone. I noticed this as I walked out of the restaurant, yellow book wedged under my armpit, sweaty cold Mr. Pibb EXTRA in one hand, cell phone in the other.
208. An unrecognizable area code.
A sharp intake of nitrogen rich air. A swelling of (false?) hope at the bottom left quadrant of my heart, the resultant pumping a mixture of both caffeine and excitement. My Asics threaten to speed, and I intentionally slow them down, sparking internal dialogue:
“Alright buddy, don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Shove it.”
“No, seriously, if it was a school, they would leave a voice mail.”
Dialing voicemail. No messages.
“See? Dork.”
“Shut up, you want us to get in or don’t you?”
“Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean believing in an unknown area code. It’s probably just a wrong number.”
“OK, dumbass, how many wrong numbers have we had in the past month?”
“…”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m not going to let you ruin this prayer walk because of some unidentifiable number.”
So I walk slowly back to my apartment, trying to curb wishful thinking and preserve my sanity. Back home, I take my computer out of sleep, and google the area code.
Idaho.
What the fuck.
But I don’t give up. Now that I’ve given in to my insanities, it continues to prod me. Maybe… So I google the actual number. Yes, it is in fact a man in Idaho. Fun fact #1: All of Idaho has the same area code. I don’t recognize the man’s name from any of the memorized faculty names at all the schools for which I’ve applied. Now I google the man’s name, to look for connections. I find a professor at Penn State with the same name. A surge of blood flows through my being. Computer Science. Shit fuck shit fuck (morse code for damn).
Still, Penn State. That’s closer than some average dude in Idaho. Maybe… But now I realize just how far I’ve strayed from “hopeful MFA applicant” to “hopeless motherfucker” (and I envision Samuel L Jackson calling me this with a greasy fro).
The likelihood that this number has any bearing whatsoever on my standing at any of the schools for which I’ve applied is close to nothing. Still, I cannot but help feeling that maybe it is some big, seemingly random event which appears to have nothing to do with anything, but still, somehow, is a kind of sign. Like maybe it was God accidentally giving me the first number to the winning lottery ticket. As in, maybe that crop circle really does spell my name in first century Aramaic.
I am not, by nature, a superstitious man. Yet, during this process of applying to schools, I have questioned my motives, looked for signs in the heavens, thought about my karma rating, checked my spam box for a google script misrouting my important “YES YOU ARE THE MOST WONDERFULEST WRITER WE HAVE SEEN AND WE WILL PAY YOU TO COME TO OUR SCHOOL, YOU ARE MOST ENTHUSIASTICALLY LOVED BY US, HUMANITY, AND THE UNIVERSE” acceptance letter from UC Irvine.
And if this whole process has neither been a validation or rejection of my writing ability and/or talent, it has still been an overwhelmingly clear affirmative on the presence of a tribe of Crazies living in straw huts inside my skull.
