-- Over the weekend our phone rang and Toney answered it, even though the caller ID said: UNKNOWN. I guess a credit card company keeps calling and asking for me, undoubtedly so they can try to up-sell us something of no value.
She was tired of them calling, and wanted me to deal with it already. So I heard her say, "Yes, he's right here," and handed me the phone(!). "Just talk to them," she mouthed silently, and I couldn't believe the betrayal. The deep, deep betrayal.
I put the receiver to my ear, and said, "Hullo?" And it sounded like shortwave radio. The line was crackling and whistling, and I could hear a whole lot of faint voices talking at the same time, way off in the murk.
What in the finger-snappin' hell?
I repeated myself, which was one more hullo than I usually allot such intruders. And an Indian woman came on the line. She said, "Yes, hello? Hello?? Is this Kay Jeffrey?" I told her it was close enough, in my special "I'm tolerating you right now, but you'd better get to the goddamn point" voice.
Turns out it wasn't a credit card company, it was a so-called collection agency. They were trying to collect a $62 debt I supposedly owe a music club – from 2001!
I used to sign up for accounts with BMG and Columbia House, you see, and play their systems like a freakin' violin. I had it down to a science, where I'd get CDs for no more than six dollars each, including shipping. Oh, it was all within their rules and regulations; I just knew when to hold
'em, as well as when to fold 'em,
After a while, when they realized I was a ringer, they'd start bombarding me with stuff I hadn't ordered. Package after package would arrive at my house, and I'd have to refuse
each of them. Then I'd receive a bill for some huge amount of money, and the whole thing would turn into a cluster-copulation.
Eventually I'd send an email, and tell them I wanted out. And I'd make it clear I wasn't refusing anymore of their packages, and also wouldn't be paying any of their bills.
Over the next few weeks I'd continue to receive CDs from all genres, and keep the ones I wanted and give the rest away. When the bills arrived, I'd just toss 'em in the garbage without even opening the envelopes.
Then in six or eight months I'd sign up again, and start the process all over…
So, when this Indian woman from another dimension said I owed one of the clubs $62, I wasn't exactly taken aback. But from 2001? I mean, seriously.
She asked how I wanted to take care of this "obligation," and laid out my options. I could either give her a credit card number, or my checking account information. If I preferred, I could pay the money in two installments, over a couple of months, she said.
I thought about it for a second, and told her I'd be going with another option: I wouldn't be paying them anything, ever.
This shook her up a bit. She started getting all shrill and threatening, and said she could ruin my credit. "No you can't," I told her, "You can't do anything to me. If it hasn't happened in seven years, it isn't
going to happen."
And her voice just kept getting higher and higher, as her exasperation escalated. Near the end she sounded like a smoke
detector going off.
She continued hitting me with threats from her company-issued Black Book of Threats, but nothing could penetrate my force-field of aloofness and sarcasm. I thought she was going to have a nervous breakdown…
Finally she hung up on me, and I was kind of disappointed. It was one of the more satisfying conversations I've had in a while.
-- Back when dinosaurs roamed the earf, before caller ID and Star 69 and all that fancy-ass stuff, we used to make our fair share of crank phone calls. Or is it prank? I'm not sure.
In any case, I remember us calling hair salons and asking if they "straighten pubes." And I recall us asking a clerk at a Rite-Aid if they sell condoms small enough to stay on "a tiny Vienna Sausage wiener."
You know, that kind of groundbreaking comedy…
But one time we took it up a notch, and started calling random numbers from Steve's house, and telling folks they'd won a free music lesson from "Gorby's Music."
And while these conversations were taking place, a bunch of guys would be in the background making all kinds of racket. Bill would pound on the piano keyboard, Steve would blow through a trumpet as bad as he could, Mike would "sing," the stereo would be turned way up, etc. etc. It was just an incredible cacophony.
I'd usually be the one making the calls themselves, and was never able to keep it together for long. It would be so loud in there I'd have holler into the receiver, and
we thought it was funny as hell. In fact, I still do...
Another time a kid named Danny was at Steve's house, and he pulled off one of the all-time classics. He was really big, had a deep voice, and could get away with a lot more than the rest of us.
He called a septic tank company, and told the guy there'd been "some kind of explosion" and raw sewage was rising up in his yard.
Heh.
The guy on the phone said he wouldn't be able to come out for several hours, and Danny ad-libbed
the following line, which I'll never forget:
"I don't think you're understanding me, pal. I've got shit coming through my screen
door!"
I almost collapsed because of chronic laughter-overload (CLO). Thirty
years have passed, and I still remember who was there, and where we
were all standing. One of the all-time greats...
And I'm going to stop right here, turn it over to you folks, and go
buy some Yuengling before I have to leave for work. 'Cause today is my
Friday.
Use the comments link to tell us your most memorable crank (prank?)
phone calls and/or screwing wit' telemarketers stories.
