Phone rings. I don’t answer because I have one child screaming on my hip and another begging for cupcakes. Phone rings again. I don’t answer because one child is asleep and the other is occupied and I DONT CARE WHO YOU ARE because this happens for less than an hour a day. Phone rings for the third time, which NEVER happens, so I suspiciously ignore it while talking on my iPhone where all my REAL FRIENDS call.
I listen to the messages:
I’m looking for PD to start her physical therapy
I’m looking for PD to start her speech therapy.
I’m looking for PD to change out her fecal bucket to one with a new serial number.
Okay, this PD lady is NOT doing well. And they think she lives here. With me. But she doesn’t. (At least she wasn’t in that pile on the stairs.)
And I’m a good person. I call back each and every number. And I patiently explain to them that PD does not live here. My phone number is not the right number for her. I’m sorry because she sounds like she really needs them. Everyone apologizes.
Until the next day when eight more people call for PD. I’m starting to think this PD belongs in the HOSPITAL. But I go through the explanation to each person. I’m actually feeling pretty darn good about myself and the effort that I’m making. Until I hit TREVOR. (This is not his name. But it should be.)
Trevor is about as southern as you can sound without me seeing your pink popped collar, pants with tiny pink martinis on them, and boat shoes with no socks. I’d bet five bucks a Mint Julip was in his free hand during our entire conversation.
Trevor: Is PD there?
Me: No. I’m sorry.
Trevor: Who is this?
Me: Not PD. Or PD’s home. There was some mix-up. You are like the fifteenth person to call. Don’t worry. I guess the number given out…
Trevor: Is this XXX-XXXX?
Trevor: Well. How long have you had this number?
Me: Ever since I killed off PD. Maybe about a week. Why?
What I really said: I’ve had this number for over a year.
Trevor: Well, I just don’t know.
We went around this tree at least a dozen times. Now, Southerners really do live up to the phrase ‘southern hospitality.’ They are kind and thoughtful. They carry my bags to the car, hold the door for me, and smile at my children. But there is a line when nice becomes nosy, taking their time becomes taking my time, and it’s not a smile anymore, it’s a sneer. Coming at me over the tops of Gucci reading glasses. And this conversation is taking a lot longer than my Yankee heart can handle.
Me: I have to go. Good luck.
But Trevor does NOT have to go. When we get back to my home, there is a message on the voicemail.
Trevor: Hi. I just want to explain to you what happened. A change of address form for PD went out with the wrong number. That’s why you have been getting all these calls. Here is the correct number. XXX-ZZZZ. I thought you’d want it… to give to others… IF YOU’RE A NICE PERSON. I just wanted y’all to know.
He may have said more but I think that he must’ve formed some OPINIONS of me from my northeastern ACCENT. Because I thought that I was ALREADY nice by calling everyone back so they knew that they needed to keep looking for PD. Before she DIED.
But Trevor is oh, so persuasive with his Southern guilt accent. And when the fecal unit calls (again!), I offer to give them the correct number.
Fecal caller: Oh, no. We are just so sorry that we called again. Don’t bother getting the number. We will fix the matter and you won’t here from us again. I am so sorry. And that is just so nice of you to call us back.
The poop people are grateful. And they pick up POOP all day. So I gave them Trevor’s number.