Happy birthday, Mr. Tony!

Today is Mitchell’s birthday. We met (officially) when I was 18 and he was 19, although he knew OF me before that time, and basically stalked me through the Wakefield Mall, hiding in a potted plant outside of Cherry Webb & Torraine. We were destined to be friends. And when it happened, when we clicked, we very quickly became insufferable to pretty much anyone who knew us. It was as though NOBODY HAD EVER BECOME FRIENDS BEFORE since THE DAWN OF TIME. We would literally hold hands and SKIP through the lobbies of our college campus. We were out of control. We fell in love. And we’re still in love. He’s one of my best and dearest friends.

Our adventures are beyond number. Yes, he ripped Jackie’s brown wool leg-wraps, and that was a bitter pill for both of us to swallow. But we moved on. We are all still friends. After college – David, Maria, Jackie, Mitchell and I all ended up in Chicago together. To say we “wreaked havoc” is to misuse language.

But why the title of this post?

That is an old old OLD joke (and it has spawned many other jokes) from when we all first met in college. So it’s ancient history yet it is the gift that keeps on giving.

Mitchell was calling his mother at work. I can’t remember where she worked – but it was a situation where an intercom would announce the call (Mitchell, do I have this right?) – as in: “Millie, your son’s on line 2.” So Mitchell, naturally, could never call and just say it was him. He made up names, identities – so that his mother would be called to the phone for “Mr. Zamboni on line 3.” (This spawned another game where we would try to come up with the most ridiculous names and it always had to be in the context of a business call. “Mr. Slingback Pump is on line 2.” “Yes, can I tell him who’s calling?” “Mr. Shrimp Marsala is returning his call.” Mitchell and I STILL play this game.)

But one day, Mitchell found himself unable to think of a name under fire. “May I tell her who is calling?” asked the secretary?

Brief horrifying pause where Mitchell went blank, and he then said, “Mr. Tony.”

Mr. TONY?? That’s the best you can do? Mitchell was like, “I couldn’t think of anything! And out came ‘Mr. Tony’!”

Of course his mother was now used to this rigmarole, and she came to the phone, picked it up and said, “Fuck you, Mr. Tony.”

“Mr. Tony” has so entered the lexicon of our friendship that it is hard to remember where it all started. Everyone is Mr. Tony. Mr. Tony is ubiquitous. It is helpful if you give yourself an adenoidal sound to your voice and an uptight British accent. “Yes, hello, this is Mr. Tony.” You can even draw out the “Mr” for extra fun.

How “Mr. Tony” eventually gave birth to “Mrs. Barney” will have to be left for another day.

So, my dear Mr. Tony, I have known you before I knew who I was. You knew who I was. You knew me at my worst, my best. And we’re still here. (“A to Z!”)

Happy birthday, spacetwin.