Who is Sammy Hill?

Who the hell is Sammy Hill? And why does he get more phone calls, on my phone, than I do? These questions have haunted me for around 8 months now. Allow me to explain myself.

Around August of last year, zero reception in my apartment complex and a battery life shorter than a tsetse fly’s childhood forced me to get a new telephone. Along with this came a new service provider and a new phone number. It wasn’t long before I began receiving calls from numbers I didn’t know. 706. 225. 601. 404. 858. 390. I don’t know where the hell these area codes were from but I knew I didn’t know anyone living there. Then came the text messages. Someone I’ve never met invited me to drinks in a city I don’t live in. After I politely texted him back, asking who he was, I received this reply:

“It’s ya boy…Ian!”

As intriguing as it would have been to travel on a moment’s notice to some distant city to soak up drinks on a stranger’s tab, I declined the invitation, instead informing “Ian” I wasn’t who he thought I was.

Like a fool, I assumed the amount of wrong numbers I was getting would decrease in proportion to the length of time I had my new phone.

[Note: Just now, as I write this, I answered my phone to someone asking for Sammy Hill. I’m seriously not kidding. FYI, it was a 678 area code.]

Instead, they increased. I became fascinated by my new friend and comrade in phone number. Who is Sammy? What is he like? Does he enjoy haikus? Can he quote obscure lines from Star Wars? Has he ever found a couch or a vacuum by the dumpster and kept it (I‘ve done both)? Slowly, a picture began to emerge. At first, I took Sammy to be a drug dealer. By this time I had stopped answering the numbers I didn’t know and voicemails were rarely left. Most calls came late at night and I once got a very suspicious message that went something like, “I got that, Dawg. Thanks, man. Big ups.” That’s far from verbatim, but close enough to get the feel.

I briefly considered a little fun at the callers’ expense. Since I was still going on the drug dealer theory, I contemplated answering the phone pretending to be a cop and saying cheesy cop-speak things like, “You’ll have to get your fix somewhere else, see? Sammy is off to do a stretch in the big house, see?” I decided this would be mean though, so I never did it.

One memorable voicemail implored Sammy to come to so and so’s get together, and there was some talk of bringing a new picture (?) so “we won’t have to use that mug shot.” It remains the most cryptic and entertaining message I’ve ever heard.

As time went by, a different picture emerged. My opinion of Sammy likewise changed considerably. For the last few months, phrases like “draft day” and “head coach” have popped up more and more. One day the defensive coordinator of the Pittsburgh Steelers called me. Well, he called Sammy but got me. Apparently, Sammy is a hot commodity in the NFL draft. I’ve also had messages from the North Carolina Panthers and the Oakland Raiders.

By this time, I more or less got it figured out. Sammy is either a recent college grad that’s got skills on the field, or has just become a free agent. Either way, he’s looking for a new football home and I have the inside track on who’s scouting and courting him. Again, I briefly considered having some fun. I thought about pretending to be some type of agent or middleman, maybe trying to squeeze an extra mil into Sammy’s contract, pitting Oakland against North Carolina. Telling Pittsburgh that Orlando is offering a much better and much more comprehensive dental package, as well as total re-location expenses. Who knows? Maybe I could get some greenbacks out of this.

Sadly, I don’t think it’s meant to be. At 1:27 PM today, a “Coach Thompson” called to congratulate Sammy. He also said to say “Hello” to his mom and that he was very proud. In my little fantasy world, Coach Thompson is the wise and benevolent high school coach who kept Sammy off drugs and on the right path, using football as a medium to teach him life lessons. Kind of like Mr. Miyagi. Likewise, at 12:11 PM today I got a text reading “Congrats hme boi.” What currently has me perplexed is how all these people seem to know what’s going on in Sammy’s life yet don’t realize he got a new phone number over 6 months ago. Just this weekend, there were 13 calls for Sammy. I received 5. Three from my brother, one from my mom, and one from a friend.

Sammy: 13
Me: 5

Sammy wins. Damn.

So it would seem our boy Sammy is off to the big leagues. Now that I think about it, the college draft just happened this weekend. So I guess he’s a recent college grad who’s just hit the big time. I wonder if he needs a secretary? After all, I’m already doing the work. All I need is a little compensation. Maybe I’ll give Coach Thompson a call and see what he thinks.

Daily Haiku

Dark and sunken eyes,
Crosshatch of burns on pale arms...
The life of the Cook.

Wasn't hard to come up with this one after another late Saturday that, inevitably and relentlessly, rolled right into an early Sunday brunch. One look in the mirror and this haiku wrote itself.

Haiku of the Day

Summertime is here
bees and my allergies are
buzzing through the night.

Daily Haiku

I'm not kidding when I say I have a black belt in haiku. Seriously. I trained in Japan under the legendary haiku master Kim Chee. Anyway, I thought I'd share my talent with the world today. Get your umbrellas out, America, 'cause I'm about to drop knowledge. Here's your haiku for today. I'm going with a literary theme:

Steinbeck: blue collar,
Fitzgerald: all white collar;
I prefer the 'Stein.

Maybe in the future I'll explore John Steinbeck's thematic obsession with the downtrodden yet content versus F. Scott Fitzgerald's embracing of all things upper class a little more in depth, but for now, I hope this Steinbeck/Fitzgerald 17 syllable knowledge drop will give you something to think about. Good day. I say good day.

In A Pickle

I woke up this morning in my little hut, threw off the sleeping bag, and said to myself, "What do I want to do today?" I reached over and grabbed the empty pickle jar. I looked at it and said, "Mr. Pickle Jar, what should I do today?"

Mr. Pickle Jar looked back at me and said nothing. Yet I knew what to do today. I had to find something to put in the pickle jar.

To Be Continued?