Metro Pulse/Yikes!/Heeding the Call

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Sometimes it's safest to leave the ringer turned off

by Beth Brown

Writer's note: All names and places mentioned thus forward have been changed so that the innocence of the "igneraint" may be protected. Also, I do not want this to churn into a nasty lawsuit. You know how frivolous those things can be when you are dealing with "igneraint" people.

It was a glorious day. Spring had sprung and the hills were alive with pollen and dust particles from the construction maniacs who were digging fruitlessly across the street. Ahh...I breathed in deep; this would be a blessed day to relax and enjoy my asthma. But as luck would have it, the phone rang first. I peeled my lazy self off of the sofa and trekked to the most wonderful invention of all—The Caller ID Box.

Now before I go further, I warn you that I am a telephone junkie. I have every option known to humankind, splayed atop a desk that my computer attempts to share. The name section was 'unknown' but the box did announce a number I didn't recognize. Fearing if I answered I would be attacked by a telemarketer who would inflict so much annoyance I would beg for his mercy by hemorrhaging the green stuff at him, I simply chose not to answer. That is my right. No one can stop me and no one made me do it. But I digress.

I went back to my lazy spot and stared for a while. Suddenly I realized that the nameless wonder might have left a message on my voicemail, another one of those dandy services from Queen Bell. I jaunted to the telephone and punched in the number and code to check for messages. Alas! The caller had spoken, and needed to get in touch with me to discuss some important medical hoopla. Hmmm. I thought to myself. I haven't been ill. Hmmm. I do have kids though, and maybe they are searching for me. So, without any further hesitation I returned their call to me. That began the nightmare.

After vacationing on hold for approximately 12 minutes, 34 seconds, a kind lady answered and asked if she could help. She was the operator, and there to help me. Note that she wanted to help me. I told her about the message I had received and she informed me that without any information about me, she had no idea who called. Out of concern that this was some type of family emergency, I gave her my name and number, and once again restated the message left in my voicemail. She began to ask around her office to find the caller. After a few minutes, she gave up, and said it was obviously no big deal, or a wrong number and for me not to worry. I thanked her and said goodbye. That was all, or so I thought.

I had almost dozed off when the phone rang again. The wonderful Caller ID Genie sprang to life and announced it was from the same office that had called earlier. I quickly answered, fearing the worst. I began with a startled hello, and a voice leered at me:

"Mr. Johnson, this is Dr. Rogers office, and your heart surgeon is needing to speak with you as soon as possible. Can you be here at 11:25 this morning?"

To clarify, I am a woman. I am not Mr. Johnson, as our decent caller declared. Furthermore, I do not know Dr. Rogers. If I had had heart surgery, I feel sure I would recall it, as well. I let her know that I knew no Mr. Johnson, and that she had the wrong number. She apologized, and I thought it would all be over, but then she spoke again. "When will you expect Mr. Johnson to be in?" Had it not dawned on this imbecile that I did not know him? Had she heard me?

Once again, I stated she must have the wrong number, and then she said to me that I had called the office back and she was just returning the call. So, I quickly rehashed the whole story to her. Oh, and keep in mind I am a woman, was even a secretary once for a reputable firm because of my voice. She replied. "Okay, then, Mr. Johnson, we will see you at 11:25. Take care." And she hung up.

I wasn't really sure what to think. Was I losing it, or was this imbecile truly convinced I was this Mr. Johnson? I decided to forget it all, and made myself a cup of coffee. Then it occurred to me: Somewhere there was a Mr. Johnson who had a heart condition or something and his surgeon needed to speak with him today. I couldn't have it on my mind that Mr. Johnson might not find out he had an appointment, and suffer health issues in the meantime. Determined to talk to a person of higher intelligence, I called yet again. After enjoying my second honeymoon on hold, a voice graced the lines. I explained the circumstances, and was referred to another nurse. She asked a zillion and three questions, and determined that I am not Mr. Johnson, his wife, his barber, or even his gerbil. She then asked if I knew his number.

That is the end of the story. At least almost the end. In a moment there will be a large explosion. If you hear it, do not fear. It is just the dynamite I have tied to the telephone, and all of its components. Oh, by the way, if you are "Mr. Johnson," and this seems familiar to you or if you know Mr. Johnson, tell him his appointment has been rescheduled to next Friday at 3:45. I am sure he will appreciate it.