The Pickup Line

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