Still Not Melissa Hornswaggler

The voice rang tinnily from the answering machine. "This call is for Melissa Hornswaggler. This is Miss Trust. Please call me back at extension 521 by 5pm today, at 555-2398. I believe you know what this is regarding."

I hoped this Melissa did, because I sure didn't. It was a Friday evening going on 6pm. And the message was on my answering machine.

I thought vaguely I should call Miss Trust on Monday morning, when the offices of her very unamused-sounding business might be open. So I could tell her she'd misdialed for Melissa. But what with Mighty Weekendness going on between Friday and Monday, I went into work with Monday on my mind, and it completely slipped from my mental To-Do list.

I was reminded next Friday evening...

"This is Miss Trust for Melissa Hornswaggler again. Because you didn't respond in the period of time we'd discussed regarding the matter we'd detailed, I have no choice but to go through with processing the vague thing I won't actually say on the phone. We can avoid this, however, if you call me at extension 521 by 5pm today." Miss Trust's voice was like an iceberg, and Melissa Hornswaggler had large un-seaworthy luxury liner written all over her.

I wondered vaguely whether there had been some type-o in Melissa's paperwork that made them call me instead of the Hornswaggler Estates, or whether Miss Hornswaggler had given the wrong number intentionally, trying to escape debts... Feds... or a particularly pushy Music of the Month Club.

I made a mental note to call Miss Trust bright-and-early Monday morning.

Unfortunately, the Post-It went completely unsticky in the home office of my brain and clung to some tumbleweeds and bits of fluff.

So Sunday afternoon, I was home to receive a call from a robot. "I. am. calling. for.... Melissa. Horn.swaggler. If you are. Melissa. Horn.swaggler. Press 1... NOW."

Hope sprang. I waited.

"If. Melissa. Horn.swaggler. Lives here. Press... 2. NOW."

I hung on the line. Option three... option three...

"If," continued Robojeeves, getting to the good part, "this is. NOT. the residence of... Melissa. Horn.swaggler.... Press... 3. NOW."

I pressed 3.

"You chose. 3. This is. NOT. the residence of. Melissa. Horn.swaggler. If this. is correct. press... 1... NOW."

I pressed 1.

"Thank you," said Robojeeves, and he hung up.

Putting the receiver back in the cradle, I grinned.

Yes! Finally the Great Hornswaggler Misfire has been ended and I had been redeemed for my horrible laxness. The Powers That Be now knew they had the wrong number. And they could spend their efforts tracking Miss Hornswaggler down to Chile, recovering their money plus shipping for Gordon Lightfoot's Greatest Hits or whatnot.

All was right with the world!

But 8:30pm Monday night, the call was not for me.

"Hi," said the kind, warm voice of a grandmother. "I'm calling for Melissa Hornswaggler." You could almost smell the baked cookies radiating through the phone.

"I'm sorry," I said pleasantly, "you have the wrong number."

"Is this..." she paused as if rummaging for information, "555-2901?" she asked.

"Yes, but there's no Melissa here." For an instant, I thought maybe Melissa had moved and simply given everyone and her grandmother the wrong number.

"Oh," said Grandma. "Well, she won something from a radio station, and I just wanted to contact her so we could get it to her." (pregnant pause)

Ah... Riiiiiight.... Suuuuure. A radio station calling at 8:30 at night promising prizes? Clearly, this was bait and someone was hoping that the striped hornswaggler would take a very big bite of it.

"Well, I'm sorry," I told the old fisherwoman sincerely. "There's no Melissa at this number. And I've lived here for years."

Now, I haven't heard anything in the last day or so, but I know that really doesn't mean this is over. I expect in under a week, there will be a ring at my door with a man in a uniform saying, "Candygram for Miss Hornswaggler!"

There'll be beefy guys waiting out front in the car, with a net.

It's piqued my curiosity about just what our friend Melissa's defaulted on. I've had to amend my idea about Gordon Lightfoot's Greatest Hits. I mean, these people are insistent. It has to be bigger than that. Much bigger.

It must be Justin Bieber or something.

I'll let you know if I learn anything from the Candygram guy.

Hulk Versus the Telemarketers

For being on the Do Not Call list, it's incredible how they Do.

They've got their loopholes worked out to the loopholiest. So politicians can reach out and touch you...

And not-for-profits can give you a ringy-ding...

And places you only ever once bought something from six years ago can play catch-up...

Not to mention, anyone doing a survey.

"Hi, I'm from the Bielsen Ratings in BigRedTree, California? And we want to know what are the last 27 movies you've watched, in alphabetical order..."

"I don't remember what I had for lunch today. I'm sorry. I have to go."

Or:

"Hi, I'm from Gargleblatt University and we're doing a survey and want your opinions."

Swallowing a bite of the dinner that was interrupted, I'm usually full of opinions. But probably not about the topics they'd like.

Or even:

"Hi, this is a courtesy call from Bomflast about your cable. Did you know that if you combine your cable with your internet, telephone, water bill, gas bill, electricity and the tip you'd normally pay your garbage man at Christmas time--- you could get one big-giant-mondo bill from us instead? Making accepting all your hard-earned cash so much easier on our accounting department?"

"Was this that information you mailed me yesterday? And also the three messages you left on my answering machine? Oh, and also the people who stopped by personally at my door at 8pm last night?"

"Um, yeah."

"Okay, probably not interested. Thank you."

Worse is, I am becoming Not Nice about it. I mean, I usually try to treat people in these sorts of jobs with respect. After all, they're only trying to make a buck. They don't make the rules.

But I went all Hulk on a student from my alma mater last night who was just trying to get donations. Normally, I'd politely chitchat and then say I'm not interested.

But this was the second call I'd gotten that evening in a string of such calls over the week. And I'm afraid my patience was worn to "Hulk Smash" before I picked up the receiver.

She began with talking to someone else in the background, until she was sure she wasn't wasting her valuable time on dialing me. And then broke into-- "Hi!! Mr. Thorson! Er, Mrs.... Mrs. Thorson.--"

I contemplated identifying myself as the whole hoard of them, just so she'd get to the point. "Ms."

"Mrs. Thorson," she persisted, "How are you doing today?"

She waited for me to tell her how I was doing.

I waited for her to identify herself.

But she was still concerned about my welfare and wasn't about to move on because the script said, "Caller says they are fine."

I didn't. I waited some more.

She waited some more.

"What do you want?" I finally growled.

This threw off her whole spiel. I am probably now marked down in the fundraising annals of my alma mater as the meanest alumna ever.

The kind of person who'd kick the school mascot and egg passing freshman.

The conversation ended with me telling her I didn't want any, and her backing slowly away without a fight, because... well, she had to wipe the egg off before it dried, and attend to the mascot's bruised paw.

Now I know, I don't actually have to answer the phone.

But the thing is:

1. Sometimes people I actually need to talk to call, and
2. If the telemarketers do not get you for their courtesy calls, they will courteously call you every half hour for several hours each evening until they do
   

Until your eyes go red... Your skin turns green.... And eventually, you're back at "Hulk Smash" from the sheer courteousness of it all.

"Riiiiiiiiinnnnnnng!!"

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