The text message came through at 5:33 on Friday night; there was no name on the message and the only identification was a phone number with a 305 area code: Miami. I don’t know anybody in Miami.
“I was just fired,” said the text message. “I’ve enjoyed working with you and I hope or paths cross again someday. God bless.”
This was odd indeed; there are only two other people who work in my office and since both of them are related to me their jobs are pretty secure. Besides, neither one lives in Miami.
I figured the text message was just a wrong number, but I felt compelled to respond:
“I’m so sorry to hear the news,” I texted. “But I’m sure you’ll land on your feet. Good luck!” And I added a smiley face emoji.
I thought for a minute. “By the way,” I wrote. “Who is this?”
The response was immediate. “I can’t believe you deleted my phone number,” I read. Next came a frowning emoji. Then: “This is Adrianna.”
I scrolled through my memory bank; I don’t know anyone named Adrianna.
“I’m sorry about your job,” I typed. “But I think you’ve got the wrong number. I don’t know any Adrianna.”
“IS THIS GUY????????” came the response. I admitted it was.
“I’m Adrianna,” she texted. “I sold you the tile for your family room.”
Now I remembered Adrianna; she was very pleasant. After we chose the tile she checked the stock level, charged my Visa card and called us when the stock came in. I also remembered that she called to follow up on the sale afterwards while she was in the hospital after a hysterectomy, which I thought was quite nice. Odd, but nice. She was very pleasant, but I was not sure why she was telling me her job woes.
“Got it,” I texted. “Well, best wishes!”
But we were not done. Over the course of the next 15 minutes she shared with me, via text message, the entire story of her dismissal. Her version: her boss hated her. My interpretation: she had poor sales.
“So sorry,” I texted. “Best wishes!”
But she was not done. “You wrote a very nice letter to my boss,” she texted. “Can you send me a copy? I want to show it on my job interviews.”
“I’ll try to find it,” I evaded, remembering the letter. She had begged me to write it for her and it was a great letter, if I say so myself, but it was also fiction: I made her sound like the Madame Curie of tile.
“My boss accused me of asking you to write the letter,” she texted, with an “indignant” emoji. “Can you believe?”
Since she did in fact ask me to write the letter I was at a loss for words. “No way!” I finally texted. I thought, then added: “The fiend!” .
“Right?” texted Adrianna.
I had had enough. “Gotta run!” I texted. “Good luck!”
“I really need a job,” texted Adrianna. I did not respond. “And a place to live.” I was getting nervous. “And some cash.”
“I’m sure something will come up!” I said. “Gotta run!”
“My boyfriend kicked me out,” she texted. “It was right after my dog died.” I did not respond. “And I can’t pay for my diabetes medicine.” Another long pause. “And I’m pregnant.”
A thought hit me. “Wait!” I texted. “You told me you had a hysterectomy; You called me from the hospital.”
There was a long pause. “I gotta go,” texted Adrianna. “I’m sure something will come up!”
“Best wishes!” I said.