I reconnected with a poet friend last week and he mentioned he's been driving for a food delivery service to make extra money. He delivers late night or early morning, depending on your perspective, and that's where some interesting stuff goes down.
He played me a voicemail from two a.m. the other week, a drunk person at a hotel moaning plaintively into the phone, over and over, Where's my foooood. Yo, I need my fooood.
We laughed and laughed.
He played another message, a lengthy one, from a woman talking in detail about a spotted boar and instructions on how to care for it, clearly having called the wrong number and clearly not realizing it. He called her back just so she could call the right person about the spotted boar.
I've gotten accidental messages like that. One from a dry cleaner: Jim, your pants are ready.
Another from an upset older woman that I hadn't rebooked her cruise.
I called the woman back and we had a nice conversation. I didn't want her relying on me, when clearly she needed to rattle someone else's cage.
I didn't call anyone about Jim's pants. Hopefully he picked them up.
No comments:
Post a Comment