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The Drunken Greek
Sep. 26th, 2005 08:40 pm
This evening the phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello?"
Long pause. Then, in the booming tones of someone with hearing loss, the guy at the other end says "Who is this?"
Biting back the obvious retort, to the effect that I am the owner of the telephone you just dialed, I replied "Who is this?"
"Is this Joan?"
Joan? JOAN? I'm not fond of my voice. I sound like there's something seriously wrong with my nose, which there probably is, since I tried to use it to recontour a car's steering wheel a couple decades ago. But whatever its faults, I don't think my voice sounds at all ladylike. "I think you have a wrong number, sir," I said.
"Uh? Okay."
Wrong number calls are a little annoying. Rude ones considerably so. This one today reminded me of a couple classics I got back when I lived in the suburbs of Chicago for a while. If you can call existance in the suburbs of a large city by the name of "life."
The one I got most often was the fellow I called the Drunken Greek. Although he might have been Russian, I don't know. He had a heavy accent, I could barely understand him, nor could he understand me well. That was part of the problem.
The phone would ring at 3:00 AM. Always at 3:00 AM. I'd stagger over to it and pick it up. "Hello?"
"Hello, Dimitrius old friend! How go with you?"
At 3:00 AM my mind doesn't work even to its usual low standards. So, being in full stupid mode, I tried to be polite with someone who couldn't understand what I was saying, and was seriously drunk to boot. "I'm sorry, there's nobody named Dimitrius here."
Long silence. Then, "You lie."
Looking around my apartment to be sure, I confirmed that I was quite alone, with the possible exception of the raccoons who would climb up to my window (on the third floor) and try to get in and steal my potato chips. "No, really. There's nobody named Dimitrius here. I'm alone. I don't know anyone named Dimitrios."
Long silence. Then, "You lie."
After another couple of tries I just hung up the phone.
To give you an idea of just how poorly my mind works at 3:00 AM, the next two times the Drunken Greek called me at that hour, I also tried to reason with him. But by the fourth time I just said "Oh god, not you again!" and hung up. I never heard from him again. Too bad about him and his friend Dimitrius breaking up because I hung up, but oh well, them's the breaks.
That wasn't the best one. 3:00 AM again, only this time I had been using the computer at work to about 2:30, so I was still awake and fully clothed. Phone rings, I pick up. "Hello?"
Long silence. Then, "Whacha hell you doin with my girlfriend?"
Once again, the obvious answer eluded me. Alas! I just broke down in helpless laughter. After about five minutes, I said "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number." "Oh. Sorry," the other guy said, and clicked off.
But what a missed opportunity! He gave me the straight line of a lifetime, and I flubbed it.
Long pause. Then, in the booming tones of someone with hearing loss, the guy at the other end says "Who is this?"
Biting back the obvious retort, to the effect that I am the owner of the telephone you just dialed, I replied "Who is this?"
"Is this Joan?"
Joan? JOAN? I'm not fond of my voice. I sound like there's something seriously wrong with my nose, which there probably is, since I tried to use it to recontour a car's steering wheel a couple decades ago. But whatever its faults, I don't think my voice sounds at all ladylike. "I think you have a wrong number, sir," I said.
"Uh? Okay."
Wrong number calls are a little annoying. Rude ones considerably so. This one today reminded me of a couple classics I got back when I lived in the suburbs of Chicago for a while. If you can call existance in the suburbs of a large city by the name of "life."
The one I got most often was the fellow I called the Drunken Greek. Although he might have been Russian, I don't know. He had a heavy accent, I could barely understand him, nor could he understand me well. That was part of the problem.
The phone would ring at 3:00 AM. Always at 3:00 AM. I'd stagger over to it and pick it up. "Hello?"
"Hello, Dimitrius old friend! How go with you?"
At 3:00 AM my mind doesn't work even to its usual low standards. So, being in full stupid mode, I tried to be polite with someone who couldn't understand what I was saying, and was seriously drunk to boot. "I'm sorry, there's nobody named Dimitrius here."
Long silence. Then, "You lie."
Looking around my apartment to be sure, I confirmed that I was quite alone, with the possible exception of the raccoons who would climb up to my window (on the third floor) and try to get in and steal my potato chips. "No, really. There's nobody named Dimitrius here. I'm alone. I don't know anyone named Dimitrios."
Long silence. Then, "You lie."
After another couple of tries I just hung up the phone.
To give you an idea of just how poorly my mind works at 3:00 AM, the next two times the Drunken Greek called me at that hour, I also tried to reason with him. But by the fourth time I just said "Oh god, not you again!" and hung up. I never heard from him again. Too bad about him and his friend Dimitrius breaking up because I hung up, but oh well, them's the breaks.
That wasn't the best one. 3:00 AM again, only this time I had been using the computer at work to about 2:30, so I was still awake and fully clothed. Phone rings, I pick up. "Hello?"
Long silence. Then, "Whacha hell you doin with my girlfriend?"
Once again, the obvious answer eluded me. Alas! I just broke down in helpless laughter. After about five minutes, I said "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number." "Oh. Sorry," the other guy said, and clicked off.
But what a missed opportunity! He gave me the straight line of a lifetime, and I flubbed it.
