Mon., July 12, 1999
"Hi. We can't come to the phone right now but if you'll leave your name, number, and a short message after the beep we'll get back with you as soon as we can. "Yes, of
course you're right. It's possible that we can come to the
phone right now but merely prefer to continue sitting, eating, cleaning
the oven, or engaging in perversions with the cat instead. Please
don't take that personally. It's not that you're not a human
being entitled to acknowledgment, respect, understanding and love - it's
just that we're not always prepared to give you all those things on the
spur of the moment, and especially not when we've finally gotten the cushions
just so, a good grip on our fork, or the leather straps adjusted for the
maximum comfort of all concerned.
"Yes, I
suppose we could just drop everything, grab the receiver while cursing
under our breath, and fake a 'meaningful' conversation like we have so
many times in the past, but really - you deserve better than that, you
really do. Just think how much more the conversation will mean when
you finally get ahold of someone who's been waiting for your ring because
of you and not merely because they were in the mood for a good,
strong buzzing from anyone at all - even a telemarketer with a mechanical
dialer.
"Of course
it's possible that you're actually not a telemarketer at all but a 'wrong
number.' Let's go with that a minute.
"If you're
actually a Russian who's calling, well, what can I say? I'm told
your culture really, really loves telephonic communications, so it's understandable
that you've eventually reached this number as a result of your dervish-like
dialing. I regret to inform you that not all cultures are quite so
easily amused by small electrical devices with mouthpieces. Mine
is one of them. This doesn't mean that my culture is better, or that
I'm a better person than you for being part of it, but it does mean I want
you the hell off this line, and I want you the hell off this line NOW.
"Regardless of whether you're someone looking for a tawdry crumb of acknowledge, a Plato-ignorant telemarketer, a deluded wrong number, or even a telephonically intoxicated Russian, it's possible that you've only reached me at all because of an acute need for remedial area code instruction. In 1991 the U.S. had a mere 119 area codes. We now have no fewer than 215, so it's easy to see how one might become confused. I sympathize with your plight. I'd sympathize even more if I wasn't crying my eyes out over the fact that, had I invested in those area codes back in 1991, I would now be almost twice as rich in numbers as I am. As it is, I seem not to have so much as a beep to my name. "Yes, the
secret's finally out. I've been shamelessly stalling for time here
as I've tried to think of some way of breaking it to you gently, but there's
simply no way of sugar-coating it - and sugar-coating it would only attract
cat hair, anyway.
"As for
me, well... I'm so terribly sorry. If there was anything I could
do to make it up to you, I would. Instead - hard as it may be - I
think it best if you just quietly hang up now and allow the healing process
to begin.
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