It’s either Chase, or my mom, I think. Because who else calls anymore but husbands and mothers?

“No Caller ID” read my screen.

Well, I’m certainly not answering at the risk of having to hang up on a questionnaire or someone with the manners of a mutt. Not. Happening. This reminds me of the great Seinfeld exchange between Jerry and a telemarketer.

“Oh, gee, I can’t talk right now. Why don’t you give me your home number and I’ll call you later.”

“Uh, well, I’m sorry we’re not allowed to do that.”

“Oh I guess you don’t want people calling you at home.”

“No.”

“Well now you know how I feel.”

But then the number shows up the next day. And then a week after Christmas. Twice.
So I give in.

“Hello?”
“Uh yeah, this is Karl.” Because I imagine it spelled as such. “I called…” I listen to my number being spoken to me and think, I know you called those numbers. I’m talking to you right now.
His voice is slow, scratchy from so many years of conversations.
“Yes, that’s mine,” I say.
“I called..” Oh. Dear man. I love you.
“Uh huh, but who were you trying to call?”
“Merry Maids.”
“Oh, OK. Well this isn’t their number.” Before you go please, tell me your life story. I just read a book about a man who fought in WWII. Did you too? Did you wear button-up shirts most of your life and are you drinking coffee while it’s now afternoon? What wisdom have you wrung from the depths of this earth? What have decades of experience made you sure of in your bones?
“You know, I’ve done that buh-fore,” he says with a gruff laugh.

That was it. He hung up on the last syllable while all I could do was smile.
Happy New Year sweet man. I hope you forget my digits were the wrong ones.