The 555
prefix
was never real. Reserved for
every show & movie made.
I picture my mother
calling Cary Grant, or maybe
David Niven in the night. I might
have dialed Jaclyn Smith myself,
who would have passed me off
to Farrah, my saying something daft
about the billowing blonde
of her hair, the swimsuit
on my wall,
and then a tone like an electric
razor, humming as if the one
that’s used by Bond, ask him if he’s ever
gone by Jimmy, what’s the secret to
getting girls—directing me to Mr. Rogers—
555-2121, who crowed about the cardigan,
the pair of navy Converse
he’s been sliding on his feet,
suggesting I give it a try,
add a puppet to my weaponry;
then I’d ask out Mimi Jones
beside her locker, scrawling out the
digits that she’s given on my hand—
like a crib in calculus—
curious about the flick
she must be in,
and if it’s a western, will I get
her at the saloon, await the barman
to call her over, her spilling the tray of
bourbon while a cowboy flies through
glass but doesn’t bleed.
Andreas Gripp
October 6, 2026
photograph: Harold M. Lambert
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