The Porsche, The Beetle And How I Got Here

Chapter 2

I hadn’t heard a thing from him, and after a week had gone by, I accepted the fact that I probably never would. So imagine my surprise when I one day, in the middle of The Karen Musical (me running around in my flat, singing and dancing along to a playlist, composed for the purpose.) got interrupted by my phone’s violent bibbing and vibrating, making me aware that someone with a number unknown to me, where trying to get my attention.

I stopped the music and stared at the number for a bit, before I pushed the small green “accept”-button and pressed the phone to my ear.

“It’s Karen, who is this?” I asked nervously, I’m not a big fan of phone conversations.

 “Richard.” A male voice spoke.

“Richard?” I asked, confused, browsing my brain to find out if I knew any Richards.

“Hammond. You know, the guy with the Porsche.”

“Oh yeah, Richard, of course.. Ehm..  Hi! How are you?” my cheeks started burning violently, and I felt like crashing my head into the wall.

“I’m great, thanks for asking.” He said and a slightly awkward silence followed. “I’m sorry for being this long about calling you.”

“I didn’t expect you to call at all, so that’s ok.” Idiot. Karen, you damned idiot.

A laugh made it through the phone, and I hoped that he thought I was joking.

 “No but really, I have something to ask you.”

“Ok, shoot.”

“We were wondering, James, Jeremy and I, if you’d like to eat dinner and have a chat.”

“A chat? When?”

“Whenever it fits into your schedule.”

“Ehm ok then.”

“is that a yes?”

“Yes, yes it’s a yes.” I blurt out, and received a laugh, slightly altered by the phone connection.

“I’ve got one question tho.” I added as the laughing began to stop.

“I’m listening.”

“Jeremy isn’t going to kill me, is he?”

“Of course not!”

“Ok. Give me a time and place, and I’ll be there.” I told him, and looked out at the grey London.

“Alright, I’ll talk with the guys, and text you when we figure something out.”

“You sound like a teenager!” I exclaimed and started giggling.

“Oh shit, you’re right!” he yelled, before joining me in the laughing.

We chatted a bit more, before he hung up, with a daughter screaming for his help on the other end. 

It was only after the conversation had ended I realized something: I had no clue of what was going to happen, at whatever place, whatever time I was going to meet up with them.

Yes, I knew that Richard would give me a time and place, and that Mr. Clarkson won’t kill me, but that’s it. Why do they want to talk to me? And why is it so important that a conversation over the phone or perhaps skype isn’t enough? Have I done something wrong? Is this some kind of test or maybe even prank? “hey guys, let’s make this crazy girl we just met, show up somewhere, believing she’s going to be with us, but really she’s just going to stand by herself somewhere in London!”

You’re overthinking Karen, stop that, it never ends well when you start over thinking.