phone sex in public places
I have nothing important to say, so instead, I'm going to amuse (bore?) you with a fun story from my life:
For reasons I don't care to discuss, I recently had to buy a western union to send to the people that own the better part of my car. I don't really know where one goes to buy western unions, but I remembered seeing a sign about it at my local
Giant Evil, so I went there.
A matronly black lady pointed me to the forms I needed, which I filled out and returned to her. I didn't have my account number on hand, however, because I do all my business with this company with my SSN. That wasn't good enough, but she kindly called up the company for me.
Unfortunatly, instead of providing a series of actual numbers for the telephone number, a helpful acronym was used, which corresponded to numbers on the telephone. Something like "1-800-I-OWN-YOU" or "1-FUCK-UR-KREDT" or "1-800-THANKS FOR THE PAYMENT, ASSHOLE, WE'RE KEEPING YOUR FUCKING CAR ANYWAY!!!! WE KNOW YOU CAN'T AFFORD A LAWYER! GOOD LUCK EVER SEEING YOUR CAR AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKER!!!". Something like that, I don't remember exactly.
So, the nice lady behind the counter dials up the Loan Sharks. This is a very long process, as she experiences some difficulty trying to translate the acronym into actual numbers. Why the loan sharks insist on using letters, even in their western union account, is beyond me, as all it does is create confusion.
Having finally consulted the Dead Sea Scrolls and translated the phone number, she hands me the phone to deal with the computerized voice I am sure to encounter on the other end. She sure as hell dosen't want to hear it. I, of course, am paralyzed with fear; talking to my car company on a supermarket phone makes me feel like a KGB officer placing a phone call from the basement of the Hoover building. Everybody is staring, especially the people in line, and I have to deal with the labryinth of computer-routed recordings before getting to a real person that, probably after considerable begging and maybe a ritual bloodletting, will give me my own account number. It's enough to make Kafka gag.
Anyway, I'm standing there with the grimy phone to my ear, when what should I hear: a sultry female voice. Not the impersonal "Dial one for German, Two for French, Three for Swahili, Three hundred and Pi for English" voice, but rather a sexed-up Jenna Jameson. Who has, by the time my brain catches up, thanked me for calling "Intimate connections", and is presently asking me to input a credit card number.
Ummm, unless there's been a policy change I haven't heard about, that isn't the right number. Of course, me being who I am, I can't just tell her to hang it up. I hand the phone back to the afore mentioned friendly, matronly lady behind the counter, explaining that I don't think that that's the right number. She listens for maybe ten seconds before her eyes go wide, she lets out an "OH SHIT" giggle and slams the phone down. I wish I had a photograph of that moment, her expression was priceless.
She offered to try the number again, but I declined and drove the ten minutes to home and back to get the proper account number, which I should have done in the first place to spare both her and myself the mysteries of telephone communications. She delayed her break to help me, and, thirteen hundred-dollar bills later, I had my western union.
Still haven't gotten my car back, but I wish I knew what number she had dialed. That chick sounded
hot.
