“Is Ralph there?” a man barks.
“Sorry, but you have the wrong number.”
Click.
The man has hung up on me. This used to happen all the time, when I fielded dozens of calls from angry elderly women demanding Jose and screaming in Spanish. They tried to understand me, but naturally gave up after a few minutes. Those calls were entertaining; they still sneak into my daily conversation.
But this man, he’s staged a real “well, fuck you” kind of moment.
When I dial a wrong number, I am gut-wrenchingly sorry. I wasn’t whoever I was supposed to be, and I was probably calling too late at night. So even if the other person hangs up on me, I am apologizing to the dial-tone. It always catches me off-guard when someone doesn’t feel the same compassion.
I decide to amend the conversation:
“I’m terribly sorry, miss,” I say, attempting to sound both gruff and grandfatherly. My girly inflections destroy the imitation. “You must have been sitting down to tea with your girlfriends just now and I was ever so rude to interrupt. Do enjoy your afternoon.”
There, I’ve fixed his karma.
Maybe he’ll win the lottery.
