Something happened this evening that prompted me to crawl back here to the only people that could possibly understand. The only ones who have seen what I have seen and yet still cling to life.
This evening at approximately 9:37 PST my phone rang. This is quite unusual for after finally leaving my job I have become an unwashed hermit living deep in the mountains. Few people know where I am let alone how to contact me. The only person that could possibly be calling this late would be my mom; seeking tech support for Netflix.
I picked up the phone, curious and naive, and glanced at the caller ID. The number began with 867. Second only to 666 in Farthland's International Numbers Of The Damned Index. The area code of Nunavut.
An old, familiar terror stirred up somewhere deep within me. A beast that has largely slept these last several years. Now roused by the scent of my rising panic. It has been some odd 7 years since I took a call from this area code. Why now? What happened? How did they find me?
The sensible thing to do would be to leave it. Let it ring. Do not open Pandora's Box. Yet, there was an unmistakable morbid curiosity....
Me: "Hello?"
SC: "HELLO. I AM LOOKING FOR MY COUSIN DARLENE <lastname>"
Oh no, that voice. That voice. I know that voice. That "My whole life is a grievous head injury so it will take several seconds for me to load a complete sentence. Thank you for your patience." voice. Everyone who ever called me in the dead of night from Nunavut had that voice. Who are you and how did you find me?! Wait, whose Darlene?
Ahh, I see what happened here. Darlene's last name and my last name are almost the same but mine starts with the next letter in the alphabet. You effectively called Mr Todd looking for Mrs Sodd. I understand. You're not excused mind you. But I understand.
You were faced with a relatively simple task ( FIND DARLENE ) and you failed in an obvious and easily avoidable way ( LETTERS R HARD ). But don't worry. I had low expectations for you to begin with so I am not disappointed. Just sad. Sad and tired.
Me: "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Besides this is "Todd" not "Sodd""
SC: "Yeah, but its still close in the phone book"
I take back what I said about exceptions. You have somehow found a way under the already incredibly low bar I had set. The years must have made me soft. I was careless. It will not happen again.
<deep breath>
Phone books do not work that way you rectal spittoon. It is not organized by physical or genetic distance. And how did you even get the phone book for here?! You're in Nunavut! You're like 3000 kms away! Did a wayward tourist forget it and you think it's an ancient manuscript for contacting the entire country? Wait, are you just calling EVERYONE in my town whose name ends in Sodd or Todd (and maybe Rodd?) and asking if Darlene is there?
SC: "Uh, so my number is 867-"
Yeah I am not writing that down. I would rather staple my ballsack to my taint and take up luge.
But I guess if it will give you back the piece of mind that clearly rattled around and fell out I can not just hang up in disgust.
SC: "So, uh, bye."
May your ass hair become fatally entwined with your next bowel movement.
This evening at approximately 9:37 PST my phone rang. This is quite unusual for after finally leaving my job I have become an unwashed hermit living deep in the mountains. Few people know where I am let alone how to contact me. The only person that could possibly be calling this late would be my mom; seeking tech support for Netflix.
I picked up the phone, curious and naive, and glanced at the caller ID. The number began with 867. Second only to 666 in Farthland's International Numbers Of The Damned Index. The area code of Nunavut.
An old, familiar terror stirred up somewhere deep within me. A beast that has largely slept these last several years. Now roused by the scent of my rising panic. It has been some odd 7 years since I took a call from this area code. Why now? What happened? How did they find me?
The sensible thing to do would be to leave it. Let it ring. Do not open Pandora's Box. Yet, there was an unmistakable morbid curiosity....
Me: "Hello?"
SC: "HELLO. I AM LOOKING FOR MY COUSIN DARLENE <lastname>"
Oh no, that voice. That voice. I know that voice. That "My whole life is a grievous head injury so it will take several seconds for me to load a complete sentence. Thank you for your patience." voice. Everyone who ever called me in the dead of night from Nunavut had that voice. Who are you and how did you find me?! Wait, whose Darlene?
Ahh, I see what happened here. Darlene's last name and my last name are almost the same but mine starts with the next letter in the alphabet. You effectively called Mr Todd looking for Mrs Sodd. I understand. You're not excused mind you. But I understand.
You were faced with a relatively simple task ( FIND DARLENE ) and you failed in an obvious and easily avoidable way ( LETTERS R HARD ). But don't worry. I had low expectations for you to begin with so I am not disappointed. Just sad. Sad and tired.
Me: "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Besides this is "Todd" not "Sodd""
SC: "Yeah, but its still close in the phone book"
I take back what I said about exceptions. You have somehow found a way under the already incredibly low bar I had set. The years must have made me soft. I was careless. It will not happen again.
<deep breath>
Phone books do not work that way you rectal spittoon. It is not organized by physical or genetic distance. And how did you even get the phone book for here?! You're in Nunavut! You're like 3000 kms away! Did a wayward tourist forget it and you think it's an ancient manuscript for contacting the entire country? Wait, are you just calling EVERYONE in my town whose name ends in Sodd or Todd (and maybe Rodd?) and asking if Darlene is there?
SC: "Uh, so my number is 867-"
Yeah I am not writing that down. I would rather staple my ballsack to my taint and take up luge.
But I guess if it will give you back the piece of mind that clearly rattled around and fell out I can not just hang up in disgust.
SC: "So, uh, bye."
May your ass hair become fatally entwined with your next bowel movement.
Comment