International Crisis, Narrowly Averted

My phone has four missed calls. They mysteriously differ, but they are clearly all from One Man in Baghdad.

"Shit," I think. I send a text: "You ok?"

The phone rings.

"OMiB?" I say. "Hello?"

"Hello?" I hear. Then, nothing.

In the background I hear voices. A man, a woman, others. What language are they speaking?

"Hello? Hello, OMiB?" I say. I wait. I listen. Is this English they are speaking? Arabic? "Hello?"

I wait longer. I don't want to hang up. What if this is it? Kidnapped, OMiB has somehow dialed my number, repeatedly, and now can't talk, but won't hang up the line? "Hello? Hello? I can't hear you. Can you talk? Hello?"

My nerves are rankled. I wait longer, unsure if he is even there. The line goes dead.

It rings again.

"HELLO?" I shout.

"Hi," he says.

"ARE YOU OK?" I ask, heart pounding.

"Yeah," he says. "Getting drunk with friends," he says.

Thank you, OMiB, thank you for that. I now have managed to dramatically freak myself out, laughed at you, attempted to hear through the phone the "cool music" you guys are listening tonight (no, I really couldn't hear it), pledged to be your BFF and now I drink heartily from the bottle of scotch newly given to me by TCNKIK (let's say "KIK" for short). Fucking hell. And the night has just begun.