When I lost my job last spring, I was forced to relinquish the company supplied Blackberry and laptop from which I derived my (false) identity as a "Road Warrier Executive." Because I'm cheap, I replaced the Blackberry with a basic cell phone that came with nothing but a phone number.
And that phone number used to belong to a guy named Darren.
I know this because the minute I activated my phone, I began to receive text messages addressed to Darren. Often the messages contained obscenities. They invariably contained at least one of the following words: Yo. Dude. Beer. (And sometimes all three).
The texts often arrive in the wee hours of the morning and I don't see them until I wake up - which means that I'm missing out on an awful lot of keg parties somewhere.
Last month, my phone rang while I was standing at the edge of the Hoover Dam. It was for Darren and the caller wanted to wish him a happy birthday. I explained that Darren no longer had this number, but asked his friend to send along my very best wishes for an awesomely rad day.
I like to fantasize that when Darren's friends hear my voice on the other end of the line, they can't help but think that Darren is one lucky dude.