I Got your Number
By Andrea Rennick

I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my phone number.

When we moved into our house and called for a phone hook-up, we totally forgot the advice from my aunt, who had also recently moved and received for her new phone number that of some city-wide famous hockey players who had groupies calling at odd hours, leaving strange and sometimes lewd messages. She told us to ask for a number that had not been used previously, or shut off recently.

We forgot, of course.

As it turns out, the number we got was not only changed recently, I have also concluded that somewhere these people have their old number floating around on paperwork they are still handing out.

No, we didn’t get the number for hunky hockey players; we got a number that used to be a lawyer’s office. A lawyer who also owned a local pub (maybe he still does) and used the same number for that office.

The phone rings. The caller asks, in a very professional voice, to speak with Mr. Lawyer, please. I say this is no longer their number. No, I don’t know their new one. And no, there are no other lawyers here — this is a PRIVATE residence. One night Ron picks up the phone in the middle of the night to tell some poor soul that no, his one phone call is no good to him now.

I wonder if they can hear me roll my eyes?

The phone rings again. Is Elsa there? Elsa is, apparently, in charge of the pub. Coca-Cola was on the line, set to deliver. I am tempted to tell them to come on over. Elsa calls a lot of people and orders a lot of stuff.

The bus station calls and is surprised to hear this is not her number anymore. They just spoke to her last week. I suggest they call Elsa with that other number they have and gently suggest they ask her fix up some of her paperwork.

This goes on a few days a week for about six months, but then gradually peters out to about a call a week. When we pass the one-year anniversary of our house ownership (and consequent change of phone number), the calls, at least these particular wrong numbers, dwindle down to about once or twice a month.

Until this week.

This week I have had at least three calls. One for the lawyer, two for the pub. Yesterday, a very friendly man from some company whose name I forget, is utterly shocked to hear this is not Elsa. Nor is it her number. Nope, I tell him. It’s been our number for over a year.

"Shut yo’ mouth!" he exclaims.

I fill him in on the scanty details I know. I would not have been surprised had he called me girlfriend, but I think he did call me honey. It was an entirely pleasant conversation. Most of them are.

For the rest of the day, I am exclaiming, "Shut yo’ mouth!" at the kids and collapsing in a fit of giggles while the children try to decide whether or not to call certain authorities in white coats.

Every so often I look up the pub in the phone book. I have a horrible memory for phone numbers sometimes. I see their new number. I try to commit it to memory to tell these wrong-numbered callers. I wonder to myself; do I call? Do I press the button and ask for Elsa? What would I say?

"Hi, I have some phone messages for you!" I’d say, brightly, and then explain the mix-up.

Maybe she would reply, "Shut yo’ mouth!"