I’m thinking about changing my phone number. Why the radical lifestyle change, you ask? It’s simple, and yet so complicated, like me, and all my favorite things. Rainbows, for example. They appear in the sky, ready to be enjoyed with no effort on my part, yet slap one on the bumper of my car, and all of a sudden I’ve opened a whole new avenue of dating possibilities.

And anyway, I was talking about my phone number. My phone keeps ringing in the middle of the night, when I’m trying to watch “Murder, She Wrote” and concentrate on my spirituality. It’s hard enough to decipher Sheriff Tupper’s fake Maine accent without the sudden chorus of “Toxic” –my current ringtone—busting in on the drama.

Can I just share with you an episode that took place a few nights ago? (And here, I’m referring to my own life, not Jessica Fletcher and the quaint denizens of Cabot Cove.) It was 3:00 a.m. I was watching Episode 45a (“Death Stalks the Big Top, part one), in which Jessica goes to extreme lengths to clear her brother-in-law, a clown at an accident-plagued circus, when he is suspected of murder. Suddenly, my phone rang. The flashing screen indicated that the caller had blocked his number, but I took a chance anyway, in case it was someone important, like Harry Hamlin.

“Hello?” I said musically, in a low tone pitched to avoid waking up the Keelhauler, who was sleeping off some Vicodin nearby. Extended, pathetic whimpering told me who was on the other end of the line, and I sighed, loudly, so he’d be sure to hear my exasperation. “Hello, Geeze,” I said, and the Geeze whimpered back a greeting.

Little back-story: The Geeze and I met years ago, when he was a struggling Boston actor and I was managing the front end of an all-night Stop and Shop in Framingham. Our seemingly disparate careers were inconsequential, as our paths really crossed in AA. He was there to find direction, and I was looking to meet guys I could easily bend to my will. We were perfect for each other. He called me “Miss Violet,” as was specified in our contract, and although his name is Ben, I called him “the Geeze,” because he reminded me of my grandfather. Together, we were “Benolet” or “Viojamin.” We both quit AA immediately, and paired our fortunes. We made it through that first long, cold winter by pimping out his body at the convention center. It was a good life we had—he was gone all night, being passed from hotel room to hotel room, and I got to stay home, working on a script I was writing on spec. It concerned a stunning, intelligent yet unfairly underprivileged math genius (closely based on me) and her superficially attractive yet dimwitted stooge (that was Geeze). We had a good run of it, the Geeze and I. We’d lie awake at night, inventing our future. He wanted to get married and have a baby. “We could name her Rock-n-Roll,” he’d say, which was weird and sweet, but one night in bed, he yelled out the name “Derek,” and I realized that it was time for him to fly. He managed to make off with my script, and I didn’t see him again until a couple of years later, when I turned on the TV and there he was with that blond dude, accepting an Oscar for “Good Will Hunting.” They’d eliminated my character, and turned it into a buddy picture—I guess, I never actually saw it—but people seemed to dig it. More power to him, I said, and sent him a note of congratulations inside a jar of Wis-Pride, his favorite entrée.

Looking back, I can see that reconnecting with him was a mistake, because almost immediately, the late-night phone calls started. First, he wanted to get back together. When I said no, he tried to bribe me with the promise of a new scooter. When I shot that down, he got together with Gwyneth, although he continually failed to pronounce her name correctly. “I don’t love Gooneth,” he would breathe huskily into the phone, “I’m just using her for her discount at the dry cleaners.” (Whatever.) He eventually moved on to J-Lo, whom he called “Jell-O,” and threatened to marry her if I refused to take him back. “Just think,” he’d wheedle, “If we got married, you’d be Miss Violet Affleck!” but no amount of argument could convince him that he was wrong. I laughed as their wedding preparations took place practically in my back yard, but of course that fell through, too.

I got a nice thank-you gift from J-Lo—a silver mesh thong trimmed with ermine—but the Geeze dropped out of sight. I remember thinking, “Thank God, he’s finally moved on,” and re-dedicating myself to my embroidery and the Keelhauler. The tabloids flew banners about his new relationship with Jennifer Garvey, or whatever her name is—I call her JenGa—and when I heard she was preggers, I figured the days of Viojamin were finally in the past.

Which brings me back to that phone call of the other night. After extended tears and whimpering, the Geeze revealed that he was calling from the parking lot, and begged me to come down and make out in the car with him, “for old times’ sake.” Exasperated, I looked over at the Keelhauler, who was still snoring away, and agreed. (I mean, the relationship with the Geeze precedes mine with the Keelhauler, so I feel that my behavior was justified.)

I can’t say it wasn’t nice to see the Geeze again. It’d been several years since we’d met, so we had a lot of making-out to do. About an hour into it, he mumbled something about just having been at the hospital. I drew back in alarm, thinking his syphilis might have returned, but no, it turns out his wife—JenGa—had had a baby. “Oh,” I said, leaning back into his arms, “That’s nice. Did you name it Rock-n-Roll?” His eyes grew misty, and he answered in the negative. “That was only for you and me,” he answered, kissing my nose in a way that has always really irritated me. “I named her Violet,” he said, “so I’ll always have you with me.” “Huh,” I said. “Creepy!” We both laughed softly, acknowledging the creepiness, and making out in the car idling there in the parking lot.

The Geeze held me closely and whispered, “The heart is a strange and inconsistent place, but not without reason.” “Whatever…” I thought, and we sat there in the dark, making out until the Keelhauler came looking for me with a baseball bat. Indeed, the heart is a strange and inconsistent place.

Star of the day. . .Cling-Clang the Vaulting Peddler