“Hello Ma’am,” I had dialed the wrong number, again. But this time, I had done it deliberately.
“Hello…” The woman on the other end muttered, questioningly, “Who is this?” her tone made me cringe with anxiety.
“It’s Bill. Your friend. I met you years ago.” I was unwaveringly stern, nonetheless, in response, not to give away the falsity of what I was saying.
“I don’t know any Bill and I wouldn’t have met you. I don’t leave the house...” She trailed off, and picked back up again. “I’m afraid of the sun.” She spoke so completely even that I didn’t know what else to say.
Oh alright, she’s going to play along. There was a woman who had a phone number almost identical to my older sister’s. Sometimes, I mixed the two up by accident, but this time I meant it. The first time I called her and asked for Jill, my sister. The mysterious woman with the raspy voice on the other end replied, “She’s not home, but she’ll be back from the doctor’s any minute, however.” My sister didn’t live with a smoker, russian-accented woman. Now who would just leave this business unresolved. Not me. I had to call back.
“Oh, alright,” I hung up, mad at myself for not going in with a plan. The next times after that, I always had something more to say to try to understand this lady.
“Howdy! Cowboy Pete’s. Just calling to confirm your order for some country fried wings.”
“Oh, I’m a vegetarian. But I would love to fly.” She was a tangible image, and I couldn’t get over the accent.
It was another phone conversation. December 25th rolled around. “Merry Christmas!”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas.” of course not.
“Happy Hanukkah!” I insisted.
“Nope… I am not Jewish.”
“Kwanza?”
“Good try.”
“Well, have a happy New year!”
“Probably not.”
She always played along but I could never make her happy. It was my sole aspiration for the period of time I had her number to just get her to respond in an engaging positive way. I had never even met her, but I felt like I knew her all my life. But then she stopped taking my calls. I hadn’t conversed with her in a while. I needed closure.
I waited ring after ring, hoping with all that was in me that maybe this would be the time she would pick up. Instead her machine did...a machine that had never picked up before. “You’ve reached Susan Sopper, I’m not home right now, but if you leave your name and your number, I’ll get right back to you.” I had finally discovered her identity. It was my social studies teacher. To my dismay, the image of this russian fur-coated, heavy smoking classy woman dissipated from my imagination. Her accent was fake. I hung up the phone and stared at it, lifeless in my hand. How unbelievable it was that my own teacher had pranked me.