“Hello.”
“Mike?”
“Yes. May I ask who is calling?” The voice was distinctly female, but unrecognizable.
“This is Harriet!”
Harriet? I have never known or spoken to a “Harriet.” Her tone suggested that I was in the midst of a serious memory lapse, one that might have irreversible consequences. Ambiguity was my only chance to retrieve whatever it was that I needed to remember. Naturally, I added a dash of sarcasm for precautionary purposes only.
“Harriet, my dear Harriet...I must say, I haven't been waiting for your call for a long time.”
“What?” she asked, obviously peeved. That didn't work. Frantically searching my mental files, I couldn't find anyone named Harriet - not even in my S-Drive, which had very little in it to begin with.
This has happened before and I have experienced life on both sides of the embarrassing equation. As the caller I have felt slighted and foolish. As the receiver the feeling hasn't been enjoyable either; inevitably I felt like a total imbecile. Consequently, these situations are filled with self-talk on both ends; thoughts that are generally judgmental and make it more difficult to get past the confusion that separates the caller from the called.
"She obviously thinks I am a total jerk...and probably conceited, too."
"What a jerk. He tells me he loves me three weeks ago, and now he doesn't know me?"
"She probably thinks I am anti-social (I am) and my sarcasm doesn't help. By the time I figure out who she is, I'm going to feel like a complete idiot."
"Maybe I made a mistake with this clod...he might even be senile." (That is always a haunting possibility)
“That was a coded statement,” I said after a rather long pause, unaware that I had unwittingly played right into her scheme. Naturally, I concluded that she had the wrong number and the wrong Mike.
“Oh. What does it mean?”
"What?"
"The coded statement...what does it mean?" she asked.
“It means that I don't know you, and I don't want to talk to you. You have the wrong number, and besides, if it was a coded statement, I'd have to be a moron to decipher it for you."
She may have been slow upstairs, because she didn't get it.
“I think you are making a mistake,” she said.
“Yes, I make them frequently.”
“What if I tell you I am the woman of your dreams?”
“Then I'll wake-up.”
“I'm from the FBI,” she said.
Clearly, her elevator was stuck in the basement.
“Great! I'm from the CIA,” I replied, stupidly thinking that my sarcasm would shut her down.
“Good. Let's get started. Where is the drop?”
That was the hook. I loved cloak and dagger games. 'Heck,' I thought, 'this is better than the movie.' I knew I could hold my own with the best in this game.
“Washington Square Park,” I whispered, “the dope dealer with the black Yankees hat.”
“You don't need to whisper. Now, what is the code?” she asked demandingly.
“Hey Fadda...got a dime for an old Alta' boy?” I responded.
“Are you the Keymaster?” So far, we had “The Exorcist” and “Ghostbusters” trivia covered.
“Yes. Are you the Postman?” I asked.
“I 'aint no messenger boy for no Western Union Telegram,” she answered.
I was impressed. She had picked up on my “Postman” cue and stayed in context with “Being There.” This was turning out to be an excellent movie trivia contest.
“Your connection is French,” I said.
“When does the tree grow in Brooklyn?” she asked.
“When the roots are strong, the tree will grow,” I said, bringing it back to “Being There.” Suddenly she flipped on me.
“That is invalid,” she said, "this isn't a game, wise-guy, so stop fooling around!” I was right. She was a nut case. I had to get rid of her, so I gave her a location that would end the conversation if she had half a brain.
“Okay. Tonight, at 3:00 am, but the spot is changed.”
“Good. Where?”
“110 and Lex. By the bodega.” I figured there had to be a bodega there, and at 3:00 am, she would be lucky to get out alive if she was stupid enough to go.
“No. I must see you now.”
“Listen, are you nuts, or what?”
“Travel by car is easier, don't you think?” That sounded like a code, responding to my code, but it was impossible. Coincidence can only go so far. Not that far. Still, I had to wonder...was this for real? No. Absolutely out of the question. Why would anyone in that business call me?
“Listen, you've got the wrong number. I'm not your man,” I said.
“Dimi...oh...Dimi...why you do dis to me?” she said, returning to “The Exorcist.” I decided that a meaningless rhyme would end it.
“Ahben zi ein Krankanvagan, how about a cup of tea?” There was no need for an ambulance, (in German) for God's sakes, and apparently it still fit the script.
“Mandrake, why do you think the Russkies only drink vodka?” she asked. We had progressed from “Being There” to “The Exorcist,” then to “Ghostbusters,” and finally, “Dr. Strangelove.” I wanted out, so I changed the subject to ambiguous nonsense, hoping that it would spin her out of my life, and off the phone...forever.
“Tell me, Harriet, when you went to school, did you walk or did you carry your lunch?”
“Yes...no...well...you are deviating! Stop it!” I had her. It was time to finish her off.
“How dare you - I never do that in public!” I yelled into the mouthpiece.
"Oh. You like to watch?" Unbelievable. She was back to “Being There” again! I had been overconfident. Common sense dictated that I simply hang-up, but my ego was in play. If anyone was going to disconnect, it would have to be her.
I took my final shot.
“Alright,” I said, “Would you like me to make you a milkshake?”
“Yes, but only if it is chocolate.”
“Okay...abracadabra...puff. You're a milkshake. Goodbye, Harriet.” She hung up.
There are some real weirdoes out there. ‘Just my luck,’ I thought. I had missed almost half of “The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.” ¨