I'm used to these calls, really. But not their tenaciousness and sheer refusal to accept the possibility that they're wrong.
You see, friends, our phone number is YZZ-ZXZZ. The number of a key doctor's office in the area is, apparently, YZZ-XZZQ. We often get calls for the doctor's office. It's no big deal. We give them the corrected number, and sometimes, they use it. Of course, since the doctor's number is the one they quote to us and insist we actually are, I guess it's easier to stutter a digit than I thought. They must be adding an extra 'Z' to the sequence, and dialing YZZ-ZXZZQ, to get us while thinking they dialed the correct number.
This morning, moments after waking up, I had a conversation with a particularly disinterested-voiced reception who was, frankly, insanely tenacious. She was convinced that I had to be wrong about where, in fact, I was.
DUSTY: "Mmmm...'llo?" *yawn*
RECEPTIONIST: "Uh...hello, is this the doctor's office?"
DUSTY: *Great. Another one.* "No, sorry, this is YZZ..."
RECEPTIONIST: "Are you SURE?"
DUSTY: *blink* "Quite sure. Really, it's kind of difficult to confuse my apartment for a doctor's office."
RECEPTIONIST: "'Cuz we have an autodial to your office number."
DUSTY: "I'm guessing your autodialer is wrong, then."
RECEPTIONIST: "Nuh-uh! We had it for years. They just redid everything yesterday."
Oh boy. Danger, Will Robinson.
DUSTY: "Ah. I see. Well, if they redid everything yesterday, maybe they redid it wrong."
RECEPTIONIST: "Nuh-uh. We had it for years."
DUSTY: "Ma'am, I don't know what to tell you."
RECEPTIONIST: "Well, I gonna try the number again."
DUSTY: "You do that."
We disconnect. Five seconds later, the phone rings. I answer it before the caller ID has the faintest idea what's going on.
DUSTY: "Still Not The Doctor's Office, can I help you?"
RECEPTIONIST: "Is this Dr. So-And-So's office?"
DUSTY: "Afraid not, ma'am. That hasn't changed in the past five minutes. I'd be worried if it had, because I haven't moved."
RECEPTIONIST: "Well, I KNOW this autodial is right."
DUSTY: "Well, I know I'm not in a doctor's office."
RECEPTIONIST: "Why don't you look around and see if Dr. So-And-So or Ms. FiddleDeeDee are around."
DUSTY: "No, ma'am. They're not in my apartment."
RECEPTIONIST: *exasperated* "Well, who IS around, then? I need to get this done!"
DUSTY: "Okay. Hmmm. Jeez, what was I DOING last night? There are a bunch of goats and sheep in thongs...there's a wasted cabana boy passed out on my carpet..."
RECEPTIONIST: "Oh my God..."
DUSTY: "You're telling me! Must have been some party, I don't remember it." *rustle rustle* "I have a lipstick rainbow on my junk, and -- HOLY SHIT, the motorcycle's still in the bathtub!"
RECEPTIONIST: "I'm gonna be sick..."
DUSTY: "I dunno, there's some booze left. Y'want some? Hey, that l'il goat's kinda cute..."
RECEPTIONIST: "I think I have the wrong number."
DUSTY: "YES! YES! THAT'S ABSOLUTELY RIGHT, LADY! YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER!"
RECEPTIONIST: "I'm gonna hang up now."
DUSTY: "THANK YOU. You do that."
Five seconds later, while I'm still boggling, phone in hand, it rings. Again, insta-pickup.
RECEPTIONIST: "Okay, I checked with Dr. Putzcranker and I KNOW this is the right number..."
DUSTY: "Baaaaaaah." *CLICK*
Ring, answer. Baaah. Click.
Ring, answer. Baaah. Click.
And now, finally, blessed silence.