Every Girl's Nightmare

...that is, every 21-year old idiot girl's nightmare.

So, I happen to be in the front office when one of those annoying coupon-book-for-charity morons shows up at the window, interrupting my conversation with a co-worker. She starts yapping about free pizzas, cheap lube jobs, blah, blah, blah...all for the low, low, price of a tax-deductible twenty bucks.

I'm not in the mood so I foist her on the company upstairs.

A few minutes later, she flounces out the front door, a sour look on her face. I notice her trotting away and figure at least she's enthusiastic about her crappy job.

Cut to: An hour later...

I happen to be in the front office again, and I notice a bulging purse sitting by the reception window. "Whose purse is that?" I ask another employee.

"Oh, the people upstairs brought it down. That girl selling the Dare books left it behind."

But that was an hour ago, I think. And it comes to me: by now the chick must realize she's lost her purse, and she doesn't have a clue WHERE.

I picture the hysteria. The panic. How will I go out this weekend without my I.D.? What am I gonna do for money? Where's my Lascivious Lavender lipstick?

Her cellphone chirps and I unearth it from the bottom of the purse, hoping she's had the sense to call herself, but no. The missed call is from the wrong area code. Oh, and additional chirping indicates a low battery. If I'm gonna do something smart, I'd better do it quick.

I browse outgoing calls for one with a name instead of a number, figuring this fledgling entrepreneur has mostly friends on her contact list.

Preparing for an awkward conversation, I call someone named Bernie. "Okay," I say, "bear with me here. I have Nicki's cell phone because she lost her purse. Do you know her? Can you get in touch with her?"

A little confused, young Bernie nevertheless rallies. "It'll take some work, but I can probably track her down."

"Great," I say. "Give her my phone number and tell her she left it at..." I recite the address.

Another hour goes by with no Nicki. I picture myself losing sleep over this poor young girl who can't hit the clubs this weekend. I start wondering whether I'm more worried about this turn of events than she is.

Nicki's phone rings and I pick it up, instantly cognizant of how terrifying it might be for the caller to reach a stranger rather than their daughter/sister/friend. I immediately identify myself with something catchy like, "Hi, I'm the person with Nicki's phone."

It's her dad.

He doesn't sound too worried, so apparently Bernie (the hero in this story!) has gotten a-hold of someone who's gotten a-hold of Nicki. Sounding a little sheepish--like he's expected to reach Nicki but now realizes his error--he confirms the address and hangs up quickly.

Next, Nicki calls. "Where did I leave it?" she asks breathlessly.

Like, she still doesn't know? Didn't Bernie tell her? I rattle off the address, emphasizing that her battery's about to give out. This is a one-shot deal.

A half-hour later, she's shows up with a carload of gal pals, all sipping on Diet Cokes (well, I'm assuming the diet part). She thanks me profusely and off they go.

I'm thinkin' that tonight, across a crowded dance floor, some young stud's gonna spy Nicki and muster up the courage to buy her a drink, maybe flirt a little, and get her phone number. They'll date (under the watchful eye of Nicki's dad, of course), they'll get engaged, they'll get married and have a family.

Yep. That's me. Saving one person's world at a time.