Wrong Numbers
There's always that situation, it seems, for about 2 – 10 months after moving to a new place and getting a new phone number, where one is besieged by calls for the previous owner of that number. (Why, you might ask, not 0 – 12 months? I'm not sure myself, but maybe it takes around 2 months for people to realize their friend hasn't called them lately, and, whatever the reason, everyone seems to give up after just under a year, hence the 10 month upper limit. Just one of those strange laws of averages, perhaps).
At my loft in Deep Ellum, being in a downtown area, the previous owner of my number was someone with exclusively Spanish-speaking friends and family. I don't remember her name, but, embarrassingly enough, I couldn't even eek out enough Spanish to effectively communicate with some of these people that they weren't going to talk to her by waiting. Some would ask, "uno momento?" as if confirming that I'd gone to retrieve this person and would return shortly (perhaps she always had strange non-Spanish-speaking guys around the house — I don't know), but at least they were always polite, and I had to admire their patience.
My phone number before that, I had decided, had once been the fax number for a medical insurance company, as I'd go weeks at a time with a fax squeal noise on my answering machine every single day, and the name of various doctor's offices or hospitals on the caller ID. And people wonder why that stuff never goes through. . . .
Well, this time around, my previous-number-friend is Felicia. I've never caught Felicia's full name, but apparently Felicia has been a very bad girl. As it is, Felicia seems to owe money all over Dallas.
We're not talking someone who'd fallen on hard times and couldn't pay her electric bill, either. Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Citibank, Discover, and on and on the list goes. And the thing with creditors is that 1) they do speak English (unfortunately in a way), 2) they're not polite, and 3) they're not very trusting either.
"I'm sorry. You have the wrong number."
"You don't understand, sir. It's very important. I need you to put Felicia on the phone."
I'm tempted to resort to Arsenio Hall's Amazon Women on the Moon line: "Ain't no Selma here, man! The bitch don't live here!"
Some of these people even resort to threats of repossession. The fact that my name is not Felicia seems to have no influence on them. I'd always been struck with some fear that I'd wake up to find my car gone, and it'd be this dumb chick's fault.
Well, I was talking to Kelley about it, and she's brilliant. I'm sure the fact that she lived here before I, proving that it wasn't actually the Felicia girl, had something to do with it, but she said, "Well, you only inherited this girl's phone number, not her address, so why worry?"
The epiphany was a a spectacular one. Oh my god, she's totally right! Why am I busting my ass trying to placate these people (even going so far as to call some of them back to tell them I'm not the person they're looking for and to please leave me alone), when I don't honestly care?
"Oh yeah, sure, she doesn't like that damn car anyway. Friday? That's a little long — perhaps you can drag it off tomorrow instead? Sure early morning is fine. No, no, no, you don't need her to sign for it — just take it."
I'm not a mean person, nor particularly vindictive, but everyone has their limits, and the 8th time Citibank called to ask if I was sure Felicia doesn't live here was my own threshold. Hope this girl enjoyed her little spending spree while it lasted.
At my loft in Deep Ellum, being in a downtown area, the previous owner of my number was someone with exclusively Spanish-speaking friends and family. I don't remember her name, but, embarrassingly enough, I couldn't even eek out enough Spanish to effectively communicate with some of these people that they weren't going to talk to her by waiting. Some would ask, "uno momento?" as if confirming that I'd gone to retrieve this person and would return shortly (perhaps she always had strange non-Spanish-speaking guys around the house — I don't know), but at least they were always polite, and I had to admire their patience.
My phone number before that, I had decided, had once been the fax number for a medical insurance company, as I'd go weeks at a time with a fax squeal noise on my answering machine every single day, and the name of various doctor's offices or hospitals on the caller ID. And people wonder why that stuff never goes through. . . .
Well, this time around, my previous-number-friend is Felicia. I've never caught Felicia's full name, but apparently Felicia has been a very bad girl. As it is, Felicia seems to owe money all over Dallas.
We're not talking someone who'd fallen on hard times and couldn't pay her electric bill, either. Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Citibank, Discover, and on and on the list goes. And the thing with creditors is that 1) they do speak English (unfortunately in a way), 2) they're not polite, and 3) they're not very trusting either.
"I'm sorry. You have the wrong number."
"You don't understand, sir. It's very important. I need you to put Felicia on the phone."
I'm tempted to resort to Arsenio Hall's Amazon Women on the Moon line: "Ain't no Selma here, man! The bitch don't live here!"
Some of these people even resort to threats of repossession. The fact that my name is not Felicia seems to have no influence on them. I'd always been struck with some fear that I'd wake up to find my car gone, and it'd be this dumb chick's fault.
Well, I was talking to Kelley about it, and she's brilliant. I'm sure the fact that she lived here before I, proving that it wasn't actually the Felicia girl, had something to do with it, but she said, "Well, you only inherited this girl's phone number, not her address, so why worry?"
The epiphany was a a spectacular one. Oh my god, she's totally right! Why am I busting my ass trying to placate these people (even going so far as to call some of them back to tell them I'm not the person they're looking for and to please leave me alone), when I don't honestly care?
"Oh yeah, sure, she doesn't like that damn car anyway. Friday? That's a little long — perhaps you can drag it off tomorrow instead? Sure early morning is fine. No, no, no, you don't need her to sign for it — just take it."
I'm not a mean person, nor particularly vindictive, but everyone has their limits, and the 8th time Citibank called to ask if I was sure Felicia doesn't live here was my own threshold. Hope this girl enjoyed her little spending spree while it lasted.