The series of notes signalling a text message on my cell phone chimed this morning at 6:50. Because I am in the middle of a fight with the Keelhauler, I assumed it was he, saying either "say you are sorry" or "say something nice to me" and I picked up my phone.

Rather than the Keelhauler's name, I saw an unfamiliar number and the message:

So, are you in Ventura or SB? Asking because I care. Too funny! Came home in cab last night.

The question was legitimate--I alternate between those two towns. But who was asking? I assumed it was a girl, but I wasn't around any drunk girls last night, and the last shenanigans I got up to were two nights ago, so if the message was from one of my drunken friends, she would have had to lose an entire day since our night out. I wasn't sure how my location could be "too funny," but always eager for new sources of humor, I wiped the sleep out of my good eye and formed a message.

Who is asking...? I wrote back, breaking my ban against ellipses at the end of questions, but not my ban against multiple question marks. Because to be confronted with multiple question marks at the end of a question feels to me like someone standing before me, petulant-faced, gesturing impatiently for me to come up with an answer. And they say you lose a lot of meaning through e-mail! Fools.

I received an answer right away.

Just me being stupid. And caring. What's this @ caring - I don't know, just sounded good

At this point, it became clear that I was dealing with a stranger. None of my friends are that concerned with appearing to care about me. The mysterious text messager struck me as a little insistent on showing that she cares. I took it as a red flag that I should get to know her better before becoming more intimate.

Sure, caring is fine, but someone who gets up at 6:50 AM to text-message to determine your location is sure to change, over time, to someone who calls at 5:30 AM, then 4:15 AM, "just wanting to make sure you're all right," because she had a "scary dream" about you. Next thing you know, she's recording your answering machine message in her own voice, and going through your phone records. Then come the crying jags when your phone is turned off, because she was "worried" about you. I could see that this relationship was off to an unhealthy start.

Still, if my intuition served me, this girl was fragile. I had to tread carefully.

I don't recognize your number, I hedged, Who is this? It was direct without coming across too harsh, I thought. Buy me some time to think. Got to THINK!

The message came back instantly.

Stacey!

Stacey, eh? Before I could respond, my phone chimed again--she wasn't waiting to hear what I had to say. Another red flag.

See, I get your # and abuse the hell out of it

Abuse. Foul language. Possible bad self-esteem... my instincts were right. I had to get away from her clutches, but how?

My hostage-negotiation skills flooded back to me. All those hours sitting in class, the thrum of the air conditioner numbing my mind like so much novocaine-coated Good-n-Plentys. I wished I had a couple of those right now, to take away the pain of what I had to do.

Stacey. I started with her name, so she'd see I saw her as a person, and shock her back out of her frenzy. You are obviously a here, I hesitated. If I wrote "caring," would she think I was mocking her? Or would it reinforce the image she tried so desperately to create? I typed kind instead. You are obviously a kind person, but you have the wrong number.

I held my breath as I pressed "send." Would she go for it, or was I trifling with the wrong dame?

The word came down. That word was Sorry followed by a long series of exclamation points.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and took another slug of whisky. I probably should have mentioned to you that I'd been slugging whisky this whole time, to take the edge off my stress. It's a coping mechanism I learned at seminary.

No worries. I wrote back. These things happen.

They happened to me just the other night, but I didn't want to ruin my clean getaway by explaining that to Stacey through the medium of text messaging. I guess I could call her and let her know, but she's probably hung over, and might hit me up for a ride back to get her car. I'm laying 3-to-1 odds it's a black Jetta, so place your bets.

Maybe I'll call her later. I feel sorta bad for the kid, things ending the way they did. I hardly even got to know her. Sure, she woke me up, but she did it out of caring. Say what you will about Stacey, but she's a very caring person.

I'll call her in a little while, just to say no hard feelings. She's young. There'll be others.

I wish I could say the same for myself.

Well... back to bed, just me and Mr. Jim Beam.

Star of the day. . .Mr. Kruhulik