Thursday, February 23, 2017
Sometimes on Thursdays, in a vain attempt to stop a peculiar glitch that causes incoming phone calls to temporarily disable my Internet, I answer the phone.
"Hello?" I say, and I'm usually pretty cranky when I do so.
This time a gentle voice says "This is Yoko Ono."
"This is Yoko Ono?" I confusedly repeat.
"Is this the author of the essays on clerkmanifesto?" She asks.
"Um, yes." I reply with an awakening interest.
"Your account of when you heard of my husband's death, while you were on the edge of the Grand Canyon, was the most beautiful eulogy of John that I've ever read. I wanted to personally thank you."
"You're welcome Ms. Ono, but I don't believe I've written that account yet."
"What year is this?"
"2017." I replied.
"Oh. How inconvenient. Well please do so, won't you?"
"I plan on it, eventually."
"Yes, I suppose you would. Good luck to you."
"And to you Ms. Ono as well."
"Call me Yoko."
"In a couple of years, yes. I'll be in touch."
"It's been a pleasure." I said, and it was.
Plus my Internet was already working again.