I was the weirdo once.
Once! Haaah!! Hoooo! Ahh, oooh, my aching sides. Anyway . . .
I mean that I was the wrong number weirdo once.
I called my friend D—'s number, or at least the number I had in my cell phone under his name. He had given it to me months (at least) before I’m not a big phone person, so it’s quite possible I had never called it before. Maybe I’d entered wrong, or maybe it was just so old that he’d moved in the meantime and they assigned the number to someone else.
The person who answered the phone said hello, and he sounded just. like. D—. I don’t mean it was a casual similarity. I mean exactly like him, which is quite a trick, because D— has a fairly distinctive accent. So I said, “Hi, D—! How ya doin’? Where did you want to meet for lunch?”
“Uh, I’m not D—,” said the gentleman who sounded exactly like D—.
“Ha, ha, very funny, D—,” I said, thinking this was some lame attempt at humor. D— is not above lame attempts at humor.
“No, seriously, I’m not.” With every word he said, the more I was convinced that this either was D—, or a skilled mimic who had devoted himself to studying D—'s voice.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Uh, is this 555-1234?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I must have the wrong number down, and you sound exactly like my friend D----.”
“Oh. Well, there’s no D— here.” (In case you’re wondering, he still sounds exactly like D----.)
“Wow, that’s weird. You sound just like him.”
“Uh-huh.” He sounds just like D— sounds when he’s finding someone or something tedious.
“Er, yes, well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Thanks.”
click
We then successfully called the actual D— using the number in my husband’s cell phone, and arranged to meet for lunch. Surreal.
