Wrong Numbers From Hell

Even before I left the store my shiny new cell phone started to ring. It took me a minute to figure out how to answer it, and another minute to realize that instead of actually putting an end near your mouth you're just supposed to hold it by your ear and yell, "HELLO?"

"Hey, bro. It's me, bro," a languid male voice drawled. "You got some H, or some K, or maybe some Js for your good bud?"

This sounded like an obscene phone call from Pat Sajak. "You don't want to buy a vowel?" I asked.

Pause. "What? You got some E?"

Rather than waiting for the guy to solve the puzzle I punched "End" and dropped the phone back in my pocket. Not two minutes later it rang again. "Dude," a drunken female slurred, "can you front me an ounce of Acapulco gold, Panama red or Kentucky blue?"

This time I didn't say a word before hanging up. I mean, even if I did deal drugs I wouldn't sell them to some hop-head Martha Stewart. Jesus, I thought, do New Yorkers actually need their weed to match their drapes?

After three more drug calls in five minutes I turned the phone off, and when I checked back an hour later I had 62 messages. "Call me back! Call me back!" they all begged. "Please, please, please!"

This is crazy, I thought. It’s like being married to Amy Winehouse.

I'd bought the phone for a New Year's resolution, hoping to magically become efficient, but instead I was so irritated I could hardly think straight. Flip. Beep-bop-boop-bip-beep-bop-boop. "Hi, this is Felicia at Verizon. How may I help you?"

"Hi, Felicia. This is Roman. I just bought a phone this morning, and already I've gotten six hundred calls from strangers looking for drugs."

"We can fix that in a jiffy," she chirped before putting me on hold. I twitched involuntarily. I mean, the last time I heard that phrase I woke up with an $8,000 plastic-surgery bill and Joan Rivers' nose.

A couple of minutes later she came back sounding enthusiastic. "All taken care of," she said. "I got you a new number."

That was too easy, I thought, and three seconds later when the phone rang again I realized I was right.

"I saw your picture in the Voice," a guy growled. His voice was deep and manly but it sounded new to the neighborhood. "You're friggin' hot."

I was nearly positive he didn't really mean me, since the Voice doesn't often print photo spreads of middle-aged computer programmers. If I said it wasn't me, though, it'd be like saying I wasn't friggin' hot, which I was. I said thanks.

"No prob. Look, here's what I'm thinking. I'm lying on your table, wearing nothing but a towel, and you're standing next to me in a short, flimsy bathrobe. You're playing straight, taunting me with your hot, hairy legs. You massage me with hot oil, your fingers working their way up my inner thighs, and your robe is slowly falling open, so every time I look I see a little more of your hunky body. Finally, when I can't stand it anymore I reach up and grab your -- "

Flip. Beep-bop-boop-bip-beep-bop-boop. "Hi, this is Felicia at Verizon. How may I help you?"

"Hi, Felicia," I said. "This is Roman again. That number was better, but my boyfriend Raoul doesn't like me massaging other guys to fruition. Can we try again?"

"Sure," Felicia said, but when the next number rang I was hardly surprised. "Bud!" somebody said in Cheech or Chong's voice. "The fight's set for Friday, behind the garage at the corner of 150th and Lex. Can you bring Tiny Tyson?"

"Tiny Tyson?"

"You know. Your cock." Pause. "Is this Shuggie?"

"This is Roman. Shuggie doesn't have this number anymore."

"Hiya, Roman." Pause. "You got a cock?"

I hung up, just out of habit. I'd never done well with this conversation in the past and I wasn't about to try my luck now. Flip. Beep-bop-boop-bip-beep-bop-boop. "Hi, this is Felicia at Verizon. How may I help you?"

"Hi, Felicia," I said, after an extended sigh. "It's Roman again. Look, maybe I should explain something. I don't sell drugs, I don't massage people and I’m not interested in animal sports." Then I asked her the question that's probably been bothering all four law-abiding New Yorkers: "Is it possible to get a phone number here that hasn't been ruined by a felon?"

Felicia put me on hold for two and a half hours, and I learned the words to fourteen Billy Joel songs. I couldn't imagine how she expected to find me a good number. It's not like they ask you what you do for a living when you get a phone, and even if they did, nobody would admit to crime. But she sounded chipper when she returned. "Roman," she said, "I found one. This guy returned his phone because he couldn't afford it, so he couldn't have been doing anything illegal."

This girl was way too smart to be working customer service for some faceless multinational corporation. I thanked her profusely and hung up, but as I sat with fingers crossed the godforsaken thing shrieked again.

That was it. "Look!" I yelled. "Let me make a few things crystal-clear. First, I'm not going to sell you drugs. I don't do drugs and I don't sell drugs. Second, I'm not going to touch you. I'm not giving you a massage. I'm not running my hand up your thigh. And I'm not going to let you reach under my robe to touch me. Last, and most regrettably, my cock is out-of-service, on vacation, permanently out to lunch, and it has no interest in encountering yours behind somebody's garage."

There was a pause on the other end as someone absorbed my announcement. "Good for you, Father," a shaky voice replied. "I just resolved to watch less TV. Now, can you spare some time Saturday to baptize the baby?"