An Afternoon Story -- OR -- Why You Should Never Dial 3443

Tim was reading the blog. Or was he looking at boingboing? Who the hell knows? Everything blurs together at this time of day.

The phone rang. It was Shelly's phone. Shelly was the research assistant, and her phone was always ringing after she left at noon. Almost always, the calls concerned research projects. Tim pushed away from his desk and walked to Shelly's phone.

"Resource Unit, this is Tim."

"Is Bill Clark there?"

"This is his wife's phone," Tim said. "She just left for the day. I can find Bill's number for you."

"The lady transferred me to this number."

"Right," Tim said. Right. "Well, she must have made a mistake. Just a second and I'll find that number for you."

"I dialed 3443," the woman said. She wasn't angry, just confused, and maybe agitated.

"Okay," Tim said. "Well, you can either call the receptionist and have her try again, or I'll get that number off my computer."

"The lady transferred me here."

" . . . Well, what would you like to do?"

"I dialed 3443."

"I'm gonna go get that number, okay?"

". . ."

Tim stalked over to his computer. He fired up his phone directory. He very nearly fired up a google search on cheap torture devices, with a separate window open for methods of discreetly finding the names and addresses of people on the other ends of telephones. But he had lunch to eat.

"Okay. You said you dialed 3443?"

"Right. And then they transferred me here."

"Well, that's his number. Do you want to try again?"

"They transferred me to this number. Do they have the same last name?"

"Yes. Anderson."

"The lady transferred me here. She must have messed up."

"Well, good luck getting through."

"I dialed 3443."

In other news, don't eat low-fat ranch dressing. DON'T EVER EVER EAT IT. I know that comparisons between ranch dressing, mayo, etc. and semen are overdone, but there's a reason for that.