Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 213
Misplaced calls and crises of conscience
A
few months ago, I
got a couple calls
to my cellphone
from a “restricted” number. These calls were several weeks apart, and I let
both go directly to messages. Both messages turned
out to be from a certain
local business, and both
were intended for “Benjamin,” who I am not.
Now, the first message
was this business wishing
Benjamin a happy birthday.
After only the briefest of hesitations — during which I considered a
scenario wherein Benjamin had no friends and
wherein this call might
have made his day, week
or year, should he have received it — I deleted the
message and went on with
my life.
Odds were, this was just
a marketing ploy and Benjamin was not a recluse
who would thank me for
dead-ending the scam,
should we ever meet.
Well, that’s what I told
myself.
But, somewhere, a little voice nagged me afterward. Like a mouse
scritch-scratching in a
wall, it kept annoying me,
and subconsciously accusing me of letting someone
down.
Without realizing why,
I began to have occasional dreams of Benjamin
Franklin, Benjamin Button and Benjamin Moore
house paint.
Now, the Franklin
dreams I tossed off to
the influence of the His-
Jim
WALKER
DON’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY
tory Channel. The Button dreams I figured were
a fear of aging in general
and the paint dreams I surmised were just the current
version of “the thing left
undone” dream that usually involves a college final
exam for a class I forgot I
was enrolled in.
And there were plenty of
“left undones” to pin that
one on without exhuming
birthday Ben.
But, those several weeks
later, when I listened to the
message from the second
call for Benjamin, my finger stalled over the delete
button. I mean, this time
Benji was being reminded
of his appointment for “tomorrow.”
This time, there was a
ticking clock and, maybe,
a life-or-death situation.
But, just for a moment,
I tried to tell myself two
things: (1) This, too, could
be a marketing ploy. Maybe old Benny didn’t actually have an appointment,
and the call was designed
to get him to call in to tell
them that, whereupon he
would be sold something
he didn’t need. And, (2)
The Ben-meister would be
better off not dealing with
a business that couldn’t
even get his phone number right.
I know ….
The first rationalization
was too farfetched, and the
second was just me being
lazy. My upbringing rose
to the back of my neck,
and I could ignore this situation (which I figured
would continue anyway,
should I not put a stop to
it) no longer.
So I sighed, grumbled
and Googled the aforementioned business because it hadn’t even left a
callback number. I simply
had to warn the company
that the Ben-inator was not
getting its messages.
I got the phone number,
called … and of course I
got voicemail.
I left the appropriate
message, but I couldn’t
help but wonder if I had
been the victim of a marketing ploy, myself. I
mean, think about it.
If this business sent out
thousands of “Benjamin”
calls like this to random
numbers, maybe at least
62 fools like me would respond — and then they
had our 62 numbers and
thin but real connections
with us to exploit. We’d already be tagged as “softies.”
So, maybe an hour later, when my phone rang
again, and I saw the “restricted” number, I was
ready to fight and picked
up immediately. But before
I could launch into a paranoid rant, the nice woman
on the other end thanked
me for my call, doublechecked that my number
was not Ben’s, and told
me I would be bothered no
further.
I slumped back in my
chair, surprised by the
pleasant result of my efforts, and patted myself
on the back for saving the
universe.
Now, I don’t know if
the business ever found
the right number for
good-old Ben. Maybe he
called or stopped by, remembering his appointment, and they straightened the whole thing out.
But, in any case, I did
my good deed, got that
crushing weight off my
back, stopped the “Benjamin” dreams and stopped
being annoyed by misplaced calls from that
business.
Now, if I could only do
something about the verytipsy woman who calls
now and then, accusing me
of being “Sam,” and telling me she still loves me
and asking why I deserted her. My ex-wife always
appreciated those messages on the home phone. But,
like I told the ex, “Sam”
was never one of my
aliases.
Of course, I will probably never set the tipsy lady
straight. I mean, I enjoy
the attention.
Comment at jwalker@
the-signal.com or at
http://Twitter.com/
DontSeriously.
