Ever since I moved to California, strange things have happened with my phones.
It started at my first California apartment, in San Leandro. I had a wireless phone I’d brought with me from Wyoming, and whatever frequency it was on, it seemed to pick up signals from someone else’s phone. My phone would ring – and sometimes it was an odd, strangled sort of ring – and when I picked it up, I’d hear a conversation already in progress. The first time, I made the mistake of trying to talk to the people on the other end. “Hello?” I said. There was a pause. Then a woman snapped, “This is a private conversation!” “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.” And I hung up.
The second also happened in San Leandro, and it had to do with my phone number. How can I put this delicately? It was… It was not a virgin number. It had, in fact, been with someone before me. I don’t remember her name, but she was an elderly woman, and another elderly woman kept trying to call for her. She’d become very agitated when I tried to explain that this was no longer her friend’s number. After several months of this, her son called. “My mother is very upset,” he told me. “She says this is her friend’s number.” “I know!” I told him. “I wish I knew her friend’s new number, or knew what had happened to her.” He thanked me, and said he’d try to explain it to his mom. I didn’t hear anything else about the old lady whose number I had until about a year later, when I got a call from her church. All this time, I’d been assuming she must have died, and her family hadn’t told her friend – but don’t you think her church should have known if she was dead? And isn’t it a bit odd that they’d waited so long to find out why she wasn’t coming to church? There’s an older woman in my church who complains that if she misses a single service, ten people call to find out if she’s okay, but this poor lady had been MIA for over a year. I still wonder where she went.
The third involves my cell phone number, which apparently once belonged to a television producer whose wife’s name is Promise. This led to a surreal conversation that went something like this. *ring ring* “Hello?” “Promise?” “What?” “Hello?” “Yes?” “Promise?” “Promise hello?” “What?” “Promise what?” “Is this Promise?” I did eventually figure out whose number I had, and I’ve looked up his new number, but I haven’t given it out – though a number of the people who’ve called have asked me to. And I find that odd. Have you ever dialed a wrong number and asked the person who answered what number you should have called? Is the phone company in the habit of telling you, “We’re giving you Steve’s old number, so if someone calls for Steve, tell them his new number’s 555-234-6969″? My favorites, though, were the ones who got angry about it. “Well, how do you know this used to be his number?” As though I’d stolen it from him. “Because I get a lot of calls for him,” I’d say, and this confused them so I could escape.
And the fourth happened just yesterday. I went to get a glass of water, and when I came back, I had a missed call from a number I didn’t recognize. Several hours later, the phone rang again, and I answered it. “This is Chia,” I said. There was a pause, and an old lady said, “Hello?” “Yes,” I said, “who were you calling for?” I half wondered if another old woman might be haunting my phone line. “Who is this?” she asked. “Chia,” I said. “Jill?” “No, Chia. Who were you calling for?” “My phone rang,” she said, accusingly. “But I don’t know who you are.” “You called me,” I said. “I didn’t call anyone!” she said. “Okay,” I said. “Goodbye.”
