Looking for Bill . . .

A few months ago, shortly after acquiring an iPhone, I was summoned by a call from an unfamiliar, and wrong, number. Short history here: I rarely answer these calls. If you don't know me, I have not given you my number; why are you calling?

Well, this day was wonderfully sunny and mild, for a February. I decided to answer Mr./Ms. Wrong Number.

Me: Hello . . .

(The perp was female, possibly 55-60, with a Pacific islander-type accent, which made Bill sound like Bee-elh.)

WN: Bee-elh?

Me: No Ma'am, this is not Bill. You have the wrong number.

WN: Oh-k-a-a-ay. [Click]

Now, under normal circumstances that is how a wrong number chinwag goes, right? Both parties speak, both parties realize it's an incorrect number, and both parties (usually) seek the best way to end the call.

It is rare the same mistake is repeated. Not on this day. Not with this tenacious bulldog.

A few minutes later, ring, ring goes the phone. It's the same number.

Me (becoming mildly perturbed): Hel-low . . .?

WN: Bee-elh? Ees thee-ce Bee-elh?

Me (morphing into Tommy Lee Jones' Ranger Roland Sharp character from the 2005 film, Man of the House: Nooo!, thee-ce ees not Bee-elh . . . [Click]

Being as the reading on my POM (Pissed Off Meter) was steadily accelerating, I decided to make this caller an address book entry. Do not ask me why, maybe the stars were aligned just right, maybe I should play a combination of the numbers in the lottery, I don't know. It just seemed the prudent thing to do.

Anyway, a few keystrokes later, and the number, (615) 884-6158, was officially in my Contacts as Wrong Number.

In short time, however, the phone rang once more. I snickered to myself while reading the name, Wrong Number, and answered . . . locked and loaded; bring on the bear.

Me: Heh-LOW-uh . . . .

WN: Bee-elh, ees thee-ce Bee-elh?

Me: Nooo!, thee-ce ees not Bee-elh . . . [Click]

So that shut up the Insidious Inquirer, right?

Uh-Uh! A few days later, the phone rings once more. It is another unfamiliar number.

Me: Hello.

WN: Beel-elh, Can I spee-ek to Bee-lh?

Me: No-o-o-o, you cay-en't spee-ek to Bee-elh . . . [Click]

Thus, Phone Number 2, (615) 275-9921, became part of the address book entry.

And that is the way the story drifted along, in the utopian dream world called Perfection.

Ah, the piece and quiet, the serenity from the everyday cacophony of life. Yeah right! Several months passed and the scenario was repeated once more.

I am sure Ms. Wrong Number, who is probably a sweet little lady with a husband, a lap dog, a compact car, and a white picket fence that guards her petunias and roses, is as exasperated in looking for Bill as I am in not being Bill. Maybe one day she will find him.

In the meantime, should I screw with her mind?

Me: Heh-LOW-uh, theece ees Bee-elh. Why have yoo naht cawl me . . . sweet-haht . . .