“There’s an Orange 1973 Volkswagen Bus parked outside,” said the voice on the line. “The keys are under the passenger’s side mat. I want you to drive to the Stinky’s Pub on the South Side. Wait there for further instructions.”

“Why would I do that?” I said, trying not to sound rude. “I don’t even know who you are. Besides, I can’t drive a stick.”

“Put Julie on the phone,” answered the voice. “She wears the pants in the relationship anyhow.”

“He wants to talk with you,” I said, wondering how the stranger knew of my proclivity for evening gowns (only for laughs, or course). Don’t judge. Even men need to feel pretty now and then.

“Are you sure?” said Julia.

“I know, I know.”

“Already?”

“We’ll be there,” said Julia as she hung up the phone, grabbed a bottle of Ketchup, and shoved me out the door.

“What?” I said, nearly tripping on my dress as we ran down the apartment’s narrow stairway.

“We might get hungry,” was her response.

“I guess I’ll figure out the rest on the way,” I thought to myself.