The fourth floor

When the time comes, you will have already gotten off the El and seen the dozen police cars and almost as many fire trucks, lights flashing. You will have already joined the swarm of office tenants out on the sidewalk, each gripping his or her coffee cup, shouting questions to the doorman as if he's the White House Press Secretary.

When the time comes, you will have already wished ill on that really tall, good looking fellow from the floor below. The guy whose office is at the other end of the building from the incident and who just wants to be let in to grab some papers for a meeting, a very, very important meeting. He will have already had zero respect for those of you who are going to be in far worse shape than he. You will have already imagined him being hauled away by that police officer who clearly likes him no more than you do. You will have already imagined starting a fight with him, because, well, you seem to do that these days.

When the time comes, you will have already gotten a slightly more consistent story: that the boiler in the basement of your five-story office building exploded, sending the chimney flying off the roof. You will have already seen the flattened cars in the parking lot below, showered with innumerable bricks. You will have been told that a large part of the chimney broke through the roof on five, striking a water main on the way in. You will have been told that your office, which is on four, directly below, has "had a lot of water."

When the time comes, you will already know that there have been zero injuries, which is truly incredible... but unfortunately removes any sense of perspective you might otherwise have.

When the time comes, you will have already been shooed away from the back of the building by an aggressive officer with a helmet whose job today is to shoo away nosey, frantic tenants.

When the time comes, the time for each suite to have one or two representatives go to their space for five minutes to survey, you will watch the numbers being put into the hat. You will lean in to make sure the pieces of paper are being folded to reduce cheating. You will hope against hope to pick a low number when your hand gets close. You will feel the constriction of this crowd of building-mates, all clamoring to reach into the hat, each as panicked as you are to see the inside of their offices, to know the worst of it. They will all press in on each other, on you. This will remind you of so many things: of high school, of rock concerts, of the fact that, despite our best efforts, we are all reduced to our most animal tendencies when looking great stress in the eye. You will shove and be shoved.

Then your time comes, and one of the building's managers will escort you up. You will have very limited time, and are reminded of this not only by said manager, but also by the glares of the 50 people on the sidewalk who mutter as you walk up the steps before any of them. You will be joined by your coworker and pal, Carrie. You will both be nervous.

You will be nervous because you know what this really means. You know that the office you spent the last seven years building has, in the blink of an eye, been ravaged by approximately 100,000 gallons of water, raining through the wooden ceiling above - your lovely, twenty-foot, loft ceiling. You will be nervous because there really isn't any hope. You've been there when someone on five has simply tipped over a glass of water, first hearing the "plick, plick" and then seeing the drops hit your desk. Everything rains through: a glass of juice, a cup of coffee, a too-wet umbrella. And, sure, 100,000 gallons of water.

You will be scared for the company's server, and you will hope many times, over and over, that the remote backup has been working properly. You will squint your eyes hard, on the slow elevator ride up, trying to remember the last time you checked that backup. You will not be able to remember, being sure only of the fact that it has been too long. You will wonder what will need to happen first, what will need to be replaced, what will need to be recovered... and you will really, really, really wonder what it will look like.

The manager will turn to you both as the elevator reaches four. "It's bad," he'll say. You will blink at him and feel Carrie stiffen up next to you. You will have zero, zero, zero perspective.

You'll blog about this later. A month later, to be exact, and by that time things really will be back to normal. You will tell the story a million times, explaining that it basically rained heavily inside your office for two hours. Your children will think this is fairly cool. You will tell the story over dinners and drinks and all the rest, focusing on the fact that the entire IT room was dry as a bone, that your company's server, phone system, and most of its critical equipment were all somehow spared. You will smile when you talk about it, shaking your head as if to say "How about THAT, huh?"

But you will never forget that feeling of loss and despair when you walked into your office that morning, the last of the water still drizzling down in the half-lit suite. You will never forget Carrie fighting back tears as you stood in the reception area, trying to calm her and yourself with an endless string of "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay..." You will never forget the sense of shock at seeing each desk, left exactly as it had been the evening before, every paper in its place but entirely saturated, threatening to dissolve completely with not so much as a touch or even too long a stare.

And you will really never forget the sound. The sound of the water, both near and distant, dripping from the ceiling, running down the walls, dripping off each file cabinet and chair, and dripping into the floor below yours and below that and below that. You will never forget the smell of wet paper, pressboard and wood, the smell of the humidity. And that sound.

And you will never forget your five minutes being up, being escorted back out of the building as other tenants on the sidewalk fire questions at you now. You will never forget not knowing where you and Carrie should go next. You will never forget, as you started walking east with her, knowing that it all could have been so much worse, leaving the building and the noise and commotion and all that water behind you... you will never forget that it was crossing Franklin Avenue, with a train rumbling overhead, that you started to cry.

Medicine Man

Travel is grand. Travel is exciting, liberating and just plain fun. Travel reminds you that it's a big world out there, and that you will never, ever, no matter how achingly hard you try, sleep anywhere close to as well as you do at home.

But, let's not forget that travel is also a super way to meet new pals! Wherever your journeys may take you, know that you will find magnificent people in every nook and cranny.

So we just came back from a trip to Los Angeles, where I learned that the only thing that can make strip malls uglier is palm trees. LA is an odd place for the newcomer - big but weightless, sunny but sad.

When we arrive in town, we do our best to settle into our Best Western on Sunset, get the kids unconscious, and relax our scrambled minds. I need to clear my head that first night, find my footing, and I think a stroll up to the hotel's courtyard pool is just the ticket. I plant myself on some steps near the pool, protected by a huge wall of blooming foliage, and sit in the surprisingly cool night air. I'm restless and a little cold and a little sad.

And then he joins me.

He is unassuming, for sure, but looks far too much like Jimmy Buffet to not notice. Worn T-shirt, khaki shorts, flip-flops and longish salt-and-pepper hair sticking out at the back of his well-loved baseball cap. He passes me without seeing me, stops at the railing a few feet away and reaches into his pocket. Turning around to get down to business, he finally spies me with a dramatic start. Hmm, too dramatic, I think. I don't buy it.

"Hey, there, little buddy," he starts. Great.

"Oh, hi," I fire back.

"You don't mind, friend, if I scent the air with a little... marujana, now, do you?" He holds up a joint or tiny pipe or something I can't make out in the dark. Great.

"Oh, no. Not at all. Go right ahead."

"I grow this myself, you know." (Who doesn't say that?) "I grow it myself, indeed. It's... medicinal, you know." (Who doesn't say THAT?)

"Totally," I nod, realizing that 1) this is not the head-clearing experience I was after and 2) he is about to...

"You want some, friend?" Ah. There it is.

"Oh, what? Me? No. Nah. No, thanks. Oh, boy."

My new pal's joint is now fully operational, and, as he enjoys those initial intakes, he smiles broadly at me. I hate this more than I want to hate it. He closes the gap between us, reaching down to put his hand on my shoulder.

"You see those pictures of Obama smoking weed?" he starts in. "Holy crap, how about those, right there on the internet! Smoking it up!" He leans closer, squeezing my shoulder more powerfully, making me smile harder through my mounting despair. He smells like pot, beer and something more pleasant, all mixed together. "Not afraid to say he inhaled! Now there's a president. Am I right? You see those, man? On the internet?"

I haven't, but I nod anyway.

I end up getting saved by this man's wife or companion or something. She yells down to him from the pool above to get inside. She sounds pissed. He overdoes the embarrassment and takes his leave, giving me a final pat.

I pad my way back to our room, fully refreshed and ready to take on a night of sleeplessness.

It's a couple of days later that I see him again, and this time I'm with my family. It's mid afternoon, and he and she are exiting out of the hotel elevator as we are going in. He winks at me, gives my shoulder a familiar squeeze and toasts the kids... with his open Heineken.

Four things

1. I am addicted to catching up with old friends. For several years now, Google was my cohort, and what a thrill to finally pinpoint someone and fire off that "Hey, how the hell are ya?" email. Now that I have dunked myself into the world of Facebook, it's easier than ever. So easy, in fact, that I am finding people I didn't even remember that I knew. So easy that they are beating me to it and finding me first. So easy that I have to wonder: maybe were we just supposed to let those people go after all.

2. That woman who I spoke to in Accounts Payable at [name of company] yesterday was totally odd. Her accent was modest at best, and I therefore find it hard to believe that there was a language barrier. But, as I politely asked where my company can send a reimbursement check to her company, for a minor overpayment on invoice 85850, she refused to finish a single sentence, forcing me to do so for her.

HER: Please include a.... (long pause)
ME: A... letter?
HER: Yes, a letter. A letter with the... (endless pause)
ME: Oh, maybe with the invoice number?
HER: Sure, the invoice number would be great. As well as the original... (killer pause)
ME: Original? Original invoice?
HER: No, that won't be necessary. But the original... (is she still on the line?)
ME: Ahhh.....a....a-mount?
HER: The amount would be great, yes.

You get the idea.

3. My children are sleeping right now in these sort of sideways-running positions. Heads plastered to pillows, one leg up, bent at the knee, hands in little fists. They are technically facing each other, though the shared wall of their bedrooms divides them. Are they dreaming about running? Are they running toward each other to embrace the other with all their love, or perhaps just to steal the other one's highly-prized hat? Regardless, I want to squeeze them both really, really hard. I resist, for if they wake I will be completely pissed off.

4. It has been almost two weeks since David Foster Wallace took his own life. As many others much more eloquent than me have already said, he was an absolutely amazing writer. His fiction and non-fiction alike have incredible depth and intelligence. Through his complex narratives and twisted sentences, he made the world - his world - clearer. Perhaps his best known work, and the first of his that I read, was the mammoth Infinite Jest. Among other things, this immense novel was about addiction, and I believe that the book's girth was intended in part to create a nearly endless supply of text for the entranced reader. I enjoyed the book very much, though it took me nearly half a year to complete. But I did not, like so many others, like my DFW-fan brother, become addicted to it.

Since DFW killed himself, I have not been able to stop reading about him. Not about his actual death per se, but about the man. The writer. The teacher that so many former students have been remembering online these last two weeks. I cannot stop reading about his ridiculous generosity, fierce sense of privacy, and general awkwardness with his own situation. Just watch his Charlie Rose interview from 1997 and you will see a brilliant author tormented by the predicament of his own success and fame.

I am reading one of his essay collections now, and will read some of his short stories next. My brother may reread Infinite Jest, though I think I will not likely take that on. But I will continue to read his work, read the writings of those who miss him the most, and read about his life. And, as much as I hate to admit that the posthumous man is the more captivating man, I am addicted. Finally, over a decade later, I am addicted.

A tale of two taxis

As the cab pulls up, I am feeling harried and rushed. My arms are filled with supplies and notes and equipment, and it's looking like rain. My destination is about a dozen blocks away, so this'll be quick. I sort of fling myself into the backseat with a grunt.

You ever have those times where you say something, but for some reason your voice has found its way into a new octave? You know those times. I have them more frequently than I'd like. "LaSalle and Madison, please," I squeak like a seven-year-old girl.

I don't have too much time to worry about my voice issues, because I suddenly realize that I am in the single nicest cab of all time. It has slightly tinted windows, tricked out black leather trim, wooden paneling, a DVD player/flat screen embedded in the seat back, and the air conditioning is, well, fucking stellar. I immediately wish my destination were much further away, like Calgary.

I ease back into my plush seat and off we go. And as we pull into the main stream of Superior Street traffic, I realize that there is music in this cab. Loud, loud music. And it is ABBA. It is the end of "I Have A Dream."

I believe in angels,
Something good in everything I see...

Last chorus already - pity. But, whatever radio station this is, I bet something good is coming right up! We turn south on Wells as ABBA fades out. Then, I hear the distinctive, unmistakable muffled click on the speakers that says one thing and one thing only: MIXTAPE. Mixtape probably made on a BOOM BOX, circa 1984.

I lean forward and, sure enough, there is a cassette deck in the dash, and a little cassette ass in there. The cab of the 21st century is playing a cassette mixtape! Before I can ponder this any further, the next tune kicks in, and I am afraid it is the "I Have A Love/One Hand, One Heart" medley, as performed by Barbara Streisand and Johnny Mathis. Did I mention it's loud?

And thank GOD it is loud, because as Babs starts singing, my cab driver, a middle-aged giant, starts to groan. No, he starts to moan, and at a truly impressive volume. "Unnnnnnnggggggh."

I'm not sure what's going on. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhh. Unnnnghhhhhhhhh." I start to panic a little. Is he sick? Is he hurt? Or is he just... moany?

"Unnnnnnnnnghhhhhh..... needs me tooooooooo-unnnnghhhh." Oh... OH! He's, um... you know, singing. Sort of. He quiets up for the Mathis sections, but as soon as that Streisand voice hits, he is on fire. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhhhh! Mmmmmmmmmmuuunnnnnnnnngh, I loooooove hiimmmmmmmmmnghhhhhhhh."

We pull up to the corner of Madison and LaSalle as I hand over my cash money and hop out of the taxi. He pulls off and I think aloud how that must be the weirdest cab ride of all time.

Bit of advice: never utter something like that out loud. The Fates don't like it.

I leave the building on LaSalle about an hour later and hail a cab to take me back to my office just north of the Loop. A taxi sees me from afar and swings across three crowded lanes to get to me. Always a great sign. I climb in and throw out the address. Off we go.

As the cab pulls away, the young, lanky driver takes off his sunglasses and reaches down to grab his rather large case for them. Only, no. It's not a case. Nope. What is that? He takes the bulky object and puts it over his head, at which point I realize that he is putting on goggles.

He's traded his sunglasses for goggles. Not lab goggles. Not swimming goggles. No, these are more like old-fashioned aviator goggles. You know, the Red Barron, that sort of thing - maybe mixed with a little Greedo from Star Wars. The are really long, and this guy has to turn his head way to the side to have any peripheral vision. Spectacular. I want to say something, but I don't know what to say. I want to ask something... but what? Perhaps I should just throw myself from the moving vehicle.

Up LaSalle Street we zoom. We stop at the red light at Lake Street, and I slink down in my seat as neighboring drivers glance our way and do ridiculous double-takes. My driver looks left and right with huge sweeping motions, smiling at everyone around us. And it's from my slouched position that I am able to really get a sense of my surroundings. The glass partition in this cab is uncharacteristically closed, as are both back windows. It's feeling stuffy so I lower mine most of the way.

Then, just before the light changes, the driver does something else. He takes hold of what looks to be a fabric headband that has been around his neck and pulls the front up, over his chin and past his mouth. He places it squarely on his nose, covering both nostrils, so that his face looks like it's in some kind of traction.

The light changes, and he floors it.

Now, if you think this is a little weird... perhaps even borderline scary... then you are absolutely correct. I check the door. Unlocked. I recheck my window. All the way down. And right then and there I promise myself that if that window starts to close, or if any colored gas (a la Batman) starts to seep in through the A/C vent, I am out of this car no matter how fast we're going.

And yet, I'm not really that scared. For some reason, I'm more certain that this guy is just a freak wearing crazy bomber goggles and a headband around his face. I just wish he wasn't driving me around the city, that's all.

The rest of the trip is uneventful. As we pull up, I'm forced to use that little lucite money tray we all wonder about but never actually use. The driver takes my money, and I scramble out the door. He removes his goggles and homemade air filter as he speeds away. I decide that trying to figure out what that was all about is not worth it. I will leave that to you.

I turn and go inside, unable to get "Take a Chance on Me" out of my head.

The lucky one

Jim is just about the only person I know without an iPod device of some kind. He's made his reasons fairly clear on this: for the most part, he doesn't like feeling closed off from the rest of the world. He thinks having headphones on makes one significantly less aware of one's surroundings, and not in a good way.

Foolish, foolish Jim. As a proud iPhone owner, I can simultaneously read The New York Times, update phone apps, check multiple email accounts and play a wicked game of solitaire, all while rocking the fuck out. How much more aware can you get?

This morning I am doing just that. I'm on the Belmont train platform waiting to be whisked downtown. There is a lot of spam in my work email, so I am feverishly deleting ("Satisfy your lover!" "Don't look stoopid!" "V!Aqra!"). Alison Krauss and Union Station is in my ears, which is just right after a terrible night of insomnia. As I board the next train, the song "The Lucky One" kicks on.

Of course the train is packed. It's always packed. Otherwise it would run the risk of being pleasant. But no worries here, because I have the virtual world before me! I'm plugged in! I'm online! I have my finger on the pulse of my own digital existence!

You're the lucky one, so I've been told,
As free as the wind blowin' down the road,
Loved by many, hated by none,
I'd say you're lucky 'cause I know what you've done...

I'm still in the midst of deleting spam, and people are still cramming on the train car. As usual, the middle of the train seems roomy, and prospective passengers throw the dirtiest of looks down the aisle to those people who refuse to smash together a few inches more. I am paying them no mind as I get shoved and reshoved, and my left arm moves up with a jerk. Right up the ass of the woman standing next to me, to be exact. I look up. She looks at me with a grimace.

I say "I'm sorry," but I can't hear myself above my own music. My guess from her reaction is that I yelled it. I look down. Her foot is nearly under mine, and I realize that I may have stepped on it. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's not an ass grab thing at all. It would be much better for me, for my state of mind, if all I did was hurt her instead of inappropriately touching her. I mumble another "so sorry" and press "delete" on my spam. Fucking spam. She turns back to her newspaper, or book, or whatever old-school communication device she is holding. We're okay now, she and I, though I'm still feeling embarrassed and slightly confused. I imagine I will recover.

You look at the world with a smilin' eye
And laugh at the devil as his train goes by

That's when the train finally begins to move with a lurch, and I realize I'm not holding onto anything. No way am I going to now fall into this woman. No way. Inertia be damned! So, in the very same millisecond, like a seasoned train pro, I fiercely grab the bar next to me. Got to get a good grip, and fast.

Only it's not the bar. It's the face of a woman on the other side of me.

Her face.

I have violently grabbed the face of this other innocent person. And not just any grab. We're talking bowling ball grab. My thumb is virtually in her mouth, my index finger in her eye, and the rest of my hand, is - god only knows - somewhere in her hair, perhaps around her ear?

I reel in horror. I pull my hand back and start apologizing profusely. Oh, why couldn't it have been her arm or back or ass, even... why her face? I fumble with my phone but can't seem to get the music off.

To you the next best thing
To playin' and winning is playin' and losing...

I yank on the headphone cord to pull them out of my ears and restart my apologies: "Uhhh.... oh. I'm so.... so - you okay there? - so very sorry." This is all I can say, though I want to say so much more. I was reaching for the bar, I want to explain! I was just - oh my god - I am so unbelievably sorry. Are you okay? That must have hurt, at least somewhat. I mean that was your face. I just grabbed a huge handful of face, and it was yours. Holy crap. Jeez, sorry. Wow, right in the face.

I pause, thinking that maybe death is a good way to go at this point.

But, wait. Wait just a second here. I look more closely at her... Hey! It's no matter! No matter at all! Why? Because she is not paying attention! She has her own unmistakable white earbuds on and is paying me no mind! She doesn't even care that I just got a manicure from her head! Zero reaction. Zip! She's too busy rocking out! She's okay! She's better than okay! She is awesome!

I give her one more look to make sure, and safely return to my stance, my music, my world. Amazingly, no harm no foul.

I cannot believe my luck.

New shiny thing

My daughter is now five, and we got her a bicycle. Her first real bicycle. It's blue with hammerhead sharks on it. Frankly, sharks and bikes both seem potentially ill-suited to her, but damned if she doesn't love it. This is the five-year-old who often prefers to simply stay home, who flees the vacuum, who spends hours on end reading, and once in a while gets on her bathing suit and jumps onto the couch to play "Pride Parade."

The first day, her birthday, she walks the new shiny thing up the ramp of our garage and onto the sidewalk. She is wearing her sky-blue helmet. She is thrilled. When a neighbor sees the bike and comments that she can follow her ride up with a trip to the aquarium to see the real hammerhead sharks, she beams, declaring, "I don't have to. You see, they are all right there on my new bike. I can just look at that."

She gets on to try it out. And she takes off. I hope against hope that she will hold on to this moment forever, like I know I will.

I don't remember a lot from my early years.  I always marvel at people who can recall minute details of, say, kindergarten during Halloween, as though they kept active journals the entire time. Me? Not so much. I definitely remember a few flashes of things. Flashes as vivid as they are brief. I remember cutting my knee open on the brick wall by the hill in our yard when I was four. I remember how that one narrow stream of blood began running down my lower leg as I stood there, staring and stunned, waiting for my brother to fetch my parents. I remember standing there all alone in those seconds, watching the blood get closer to the top of my yellow sock - my precious, favorite, rather amazing yellow socks - and I remember my stunned silence finding its way into a scream of utter terror as the blood inched closer. I remember the thud of each step as my father carried me inside, assuming my cries were from the pain, as opposed to the shock-induced despair upon seeing the red-soaked sock.

Speaking of knees, I also remember my mother putting Vaseline on my knees once, when I was even younger. She denies this, and thinks I'm completely weird for having fabricated such a thing. But she did. I know she did. Perhaps they were dry.

And while I don't specifically recall my own first bicycle launch, I do remember the first time I rode it with the training wheels off. I was probably six, and my father and I walked to the top of the street we then lived on. It was a modest hill, but a hill nonetheless. Maybe he thought I needed a little speed to remain vertical, that having to pedal too much on my own would make me tip.

We reached the top and turned around. It was so quiet and so sunny. I got on, asking what would happen. He said that he'd hold on to the back of the seat the whole time, that I would coast down the hill, working on balancing, and that he'd hang on. Seemed like an awesome plan.

I pushed off a bit, and out of instinct gave the pedals a hefty rotation. Wow, did it start to move. I mean, it was a fucking hill, after all. And down I flew. I mean I flew. Wind in my hair, shirt flapping, the whole bit. This was not what I'd had in mind. And the thing that surprised me the most, coming from the world of training wheels, was that the speed was actually increasing as I continued. I imagine my mouth forming a huge, wide "o" and my eyes equally round as I shot down the street.

Now, there are two things I was absolutely sure of. One: it was harder to steer than I thought it would be at this speed, and I was veering sharply towards the left curb. Two: my Dad was no-fucking-WAY holding on to the back of my seat. How did I know this? Because his shouts of "Turn RIGHT! Turn RIGHT!!!" were becoming more and more distant with every utterance. It wasn't pretty.

I can't say I've been all that much of a bike rider since.

It's day two with the hammerheads, and Ann and I have taken the kids to a nearby park. Our daughter is riding the bike around a fenced-in blacktop, enjoying every minute. I look down at her little brother, who has decided to hunt for a snack in our backpack, and when I look back up, she is on the ground crying.  Ann is with her, holding her, and the bike is on its side.  I make my way over and instantly see the thin trail of blood coming from her knee, running down her lower leg. She does not like the sight of it one bit.

But the patching up she does like, of course, and we get her standing and merely sniffling in no time. But I still feel sad for her. I am discouraged for her. It had been going so well, and now it hurts.  She straightens her helmet and looks around, squinting in the sun at the kids around her. She is a wonder to me. So grown up and so tiny all at once.

With a final sniff and a wipe with her sleeve she does what I think is the impossible.

So, yeah, she asks us to hold the handle bars a little more. And, yeah, she's more tentative with those sharp turns. And, yeah, she'd rather ride wearing pants that cover her knees. And, yes, perhaps she'd maybe prefer to stay in to read half the time.

But she got back on. She got back on. And I hope against hope that she will hold on to that, like I know I will.

Calls from the other side

Hi again.

So, we've been getting calls from prison. Perhaps you have as well.

It's really nifty, you see, getting calls from prison. It adds a little excitement to the day. Not only is it just plain edgy and cool, but our phone, which is stuck on audio-caller-ID-mode, will announce in its distinctive fem-bot monotone, "Call from... PRI-SOON." Yeah, it's great. We usually just let it ring, and the occasional time we do pick up, no one is there.

Until tonight.

Ann has gone off to her writing group, I have strong-armed the children into their beds, and am tooling around on facebook, because that seems to be all I do anymore. The phone rings, and I wonder if maybe it's a friend or relative. Maybe it's someone calling to say that they love me. Then I hear the infamous, "Call from... PRI-SOON." I decide the time has come to get to the bottom of this. I mean, what if my dad has been in jail for two weeks and is simply trying to let me know? That would be a terrible shame.

So, I pick up the phone with a cheery "mmmm...chello?" and expect to hear nothing. Instead, I hear a click and a man appears on the line.

"Yes sir. This is Sgt. Smith of the Chicago Police Department."

"Oh. Hi."

"Hello, sir," he continues. "Sir, I am calling you because there has unfortunately been an accident involving a young woman, and she gave us this number as her emergency contact. You need to call my superior, Det. Edward Singleton at the following number. He is on the scene and can tell you more." He gives me the number, which I jot down, and he hangs up. It's a strange area code and exchange I've not seen before.

Of course my first thoughts are Ann, and is she okay, and what exactly happened, and who exactly is involved, and... wait, huh? I'm not convinced. No, not at all. So, I don't call that number. I call Ann's cell phone. She answers. She is fine. She is at writing group. She is discussing matters poetical. How am I? How are the kids? All is well. Happy writing. Click.

So, I then call 311. I get a very nice operator who recognizes the scam instantly. "Do NOT call that number, whatever you do," she says. She patches me through to the actual Chicago Police, who are able to explain in more detail what is is going on.

Somehow, our number has appeared on a list that prisoners use for scams. How that happened, we may never know, but that explains the multiple attempts over the past few days. What a prisoner will try to do is get you to call a specific series of digits that actually result in your future incoming phone calls being forwarded elsewhere. What does this mean? Well, what it means is that the prisoner can then call your number collect, it will get bounced to the long-distance number of his or her choosing, THAT person will accept the charges, and YOU will get billed for the call. Oh, yeah, and since your phone won't ever ring, you will never know. Your outgoing calls will not be affected, so you won't know then either. Only if someone else, someone you know, tries to call you and gets a different house.... only then will you know. Once that friend gets a hold of you, that is. Which is harder since they can't call you. It's quite something, really.

The officer is very nice, and gives me a (real) number to call to have our home phone blocked from this list. I make the call, and am told that our number will be blocked starting the following morning. I feel satisfied. I did it. I beat those crafty criminals. Ha. I start to make some dinner.

The phone rings. "Call from... PRI-SOON."

I pick up the receiver. "Um. Hello?"

"Yes, this is Sgt. Smith again. I was calling to see if you were able to reach the Detective on the case."

Wow. It's this guy again. What is he thinking? And then I realize exactly what he's thinking. He was hoping I'd already made my call. He is trying to reach his cousin, or friend, or whoever was intended to receive my forwarded calls. So, not only is he pissed that it didn't work, but he now knows I didn't make the call.

"Yeah," I say, "I didn't call that detective."

"Why not, sir?"

"Oh, because this is a scam. You are trying to scam me, and it's transparent and ineffective."

"Excuse me, sir? Look, I am just trying to do my job here. That's all. There has been an accident." He's starting to get mad.

"It says you are calling from prison on my caller ID."

"That's where I WORK, sir."

The whole thing is so silly now. I know who he is and what he is trying to do. He knows that I know, and knows that I have yet to call - and that I will not call - that number. Yet the game goes on.

"Look, this is getting sad," I continue. "You are trying to scam this house, and it's not working. How could you possibly expect me to call that ridiculous number anyway? You are not a police officer."

"Sir, there is no need to be an asshole."

"Ah ha! Ah HA! See! If you were a real police officer you would NEVER call me an asshole! See!"

He pauses. Oh, he's so frustrated. It's great.

"Sir, I would call you an asshole if you were being one! Which you are! If you don't like it, then call my supervisor!"

"And who is that?" I click my pen just for the hell of it. I know I should just hang up. But how can I, really? It's too enjoyable.

"The detective whose number I gave you! Call him and complain. That's fine by me."

"I'm not calling that number. There's no way I'm calling that number. How about you give me a full name and I'll look it up myself and call."

"FINE! MAYOR DALEY! HE'S MY FUCKING BOSS, ASSHOLE! CALL HIM!"

"Boy, you sure are a rude police officer."

Click.

Dinner time.