Washington, D.C., you FAIL

A tale:

I'm talking to my friend who is roaming the streets of D.C., going from an Ugly Sweater Christmas Party to Yet Another Christmas Party.

Mid-sentence, there's a weird, muffled noise ... and then the line goes dead.

Weird? Yes.

Weirder still is the non-response I get to two texts, a voicemail and ten other attempts to call my friend back.

My worst-case-scenario imagination comes up with this:

She's been robbed. She's been clubbed over the head or shot or both, is lying half-dead in the street, some junkie's got her phone and ditched its battery (which is why it goes straight to voicemail each time I've tried to call her back) and I have no idea where she was when it happened or anything. I'm a horrible, horrible friend who can't do anything for a lovely girl who's lying helpless and penniless in a dirty D.C. street. Bad, bad me. Should I call her dad? My friend Travis who lives in D.C.? The police? Crap!

Breathe. Breathe. Think.

Less-bad scenario:

She tripped, dropped her phone down one of those ginormous in-the-sidewalk grate things and can't get it back. And that's why she hasn't written or called back, because her phone is sinking in an underground puddle of city goo, kept company by dog-sized rats.

Seems a bit more likely than a mugging.

Breathe some more. Get dressed for work.

The best-case scenario:

Her battery died, and since she never carries a charger with her, I won't hear from her 'til tomorrow, when she'll laugh at me for overreacting to the whole thing. This has happened before.

Get to my office, and my phone rings.

It's my friend's dad.

She was robbed while she was on the phone with me, chased the asshole, dropped her phone in the street, and here we are. She's OK, but she's purseless and phoneless.

FAIL, FAIL, FAIL, Washington, D.C.

FAIL.