At this rate, I would’ve preferred that AT&T had issued me 867-5309 — Jenny’s number.
Instead, I was given Nikki’s number.
And Nikki is a deadbeat.
If there’s a collective urinal stall used by every debt collection agency from here to Mumbai, this woman’s number is scribbled on it.
There’s just one teeny, weeny problem with that.
It’s not her number anymore. It’s mine.
Let’s back it up.
For years, I prided myself on being the last man without a cell phone.
My reasoning was simple — why do I need a 21st century phone when my 19th century one never rings?
Seriously now, between my mother and the occasional prerecorded message from Congressman Steve Austria inviting my household to a town-hall teleconference, my home landline is eerily silent — and I don’t particularly care to speak to either while standing in line at the Kroger U-Scan. (No offense, Ma.)
I like the idea of not being found, even though I never actually go anywhere.
People, it would seem, have a love-hate relationship with their mobile devices, anyway.
In setting up interviews with many of the performers who play Kuss Auditorium, I often have to talk to publicists in L.A.
Often times, they’ll ask for my desk number and then a cell phone for backup purposes.
Whenever I’d say, “I don’t have a cell phone,” there’d be what seemed like a long, awkward pause.
I always just assumed they were thinking, “God, those poor Midwestern farm folk. It’s a good thing I left there and moved to L.A.”
But almost always, they’d remark, “Good for you,” as if to imply, “Help me. My BlackBerry killed my husband and kids, and it’s holding me hostage.”
After I read recent reports about a possible link between cell phones and brain tumors, I envisioned myself, not only as the last man without a cell phone, but as the last man. Period.
Me. Some Amish families. And Steve Austria’s prerecorded greeting.
I decided I needed a tumor.
Actually, throughout the years, there have been times when, as my wife would smugly put it, “Bet you wish you had a cell phone.”
The most absurd happened earlier this year when I went down to Jamestown for an interview with a subject who’d forgotten about the interview and wasn’t home.
It happens.
But this time, I had one of our photographers meeting us there.
Great, I thought. How do I get in touch with him?
A-ha, I know — I’ll wait along the side of Ohio 72 and wave him down.
Uh. Yeah.
Proving that I either needed to get a cell phone or a flare gun, he naturally didn’t see me and blew right by, which led to me speeding after him, honking and flashing my lights.
My wife unceremoniously added an extra phone to her account.
And that’s when I realized I’d been given a secondhand number.
Imagine the excitement when my very own phone rang for the first time. (Actually, it still comes as a shock whenever it rings.)
Naturally, I was behind the wheel of my car — and, naturally, I didn’t think twice about answering.
“Nikki please,” the voice asked.
“Oh, you’ve got the wrong number,” I replied kindly, not thinking anything of it.
Then the collectors started calling back for Nikki.
All day. Every day.
“Do you know Nikki?” they ask.
“Do you know how we can reach Nikki?” they demand.
They leave voicemail.
Nikki, for the love of God, whoever you are, wherever you are, pay your car bill.
I add their numbers to my reject list and I tell them to take my number off their list, but new ones keep coming at me, like Terminator with Gandhi’s accent.
I can see why Nikki, like an al-Qaida operative, changed phone numbers.
This one’s been compromised.
Contact this reporter at (937) 328-0352 or amcginn@coxohio. com.
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