Wrong Number
Special agent Eric isn't helping my paranoia.
Digression: I loath SBC, or what use to be called Southwestern Bell, for crossing my phone line for 10 days with my hyper-social neighbor where we had a party line (meaning that my phone rang each time her line did and we both could hear each other's calls, including an incredibly ribald conversation at 4 am involving foot fetishes--but the details are kinda hazy). After that frightening experience four years ago, I've had only a cell phone. No phonebook listing. No telemarketers. No freaks randomly picking my number and calling me.
All was fine until Thursday when some dude called me asking for J.R. "Guess you have a wrong number," I said, thinking all was settled. When the same number rang again, and then for a second time, I let it go voicemail, figuring that when he heard my message of "Earl Knavage, get a life" and realize my name ain't J.R.
At 3am Sunday morning in the dead of sleep--I am having that flying dream with Hans Blix again--the phone rings.
"Hello"
"J.R. talk to me, I am your friend"
"I am not J.R. You got the wrong number."
"Come on J.R., let's talk about your problem, I am your friend."
"Who are you and why are you calling my number?"
"I am Eric, man, we met in the van to Laredo with Lydia."
"Never been to Laredo and don't know anybody named Lydia."
"See J.R. you are in denial."
Still in a dreamlike state, I wonder briefly if Hans Blix had put me in a van with a woman named Lydia. Then I hang up.
Further confounding, Eric calls back and leaves this cryptic message:
"Catalina 95, the mission has yet to start."
1 Comments:
That rules.
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