It is 1:48 a.m. EST. There is no way I am picking up the phone. And because I let it ring, I have now what I consider to be one of the better voicemails I have ever heard (not counting the legions of voicemails left by drunken friends who can't talk, begin to sing, followed by shouting, and then hangup in disgust). This is the message in it's entirety:
...Listen I don't care what time it is where you are, it's not even midnight where I am and all you need to know is that I went to a fucking jazz club tonight and our conversations were overheard about Jack Kerouac... They explain that this is where Kerouac used to come (I had a long conversation with her). You won't believe the owner - he's gonna be here soon. He hates me. So I talk to the owner. The owner hates Jack Kerouac. The owner has owned it since '52 and he knows what he's talking about. This guy honestly knew Jack Kerouac. Hates me. He hates people who wanna talk about Jack Kerouac... He said, "To you he's a hero. To me he's a drug addict I kicked out of my bar." So my friends and I worked a complex scheme out to skip the check via text message. And now...
Now that's something.