Okay, I’m going to start updating this thing again. Here’s one of my favorite old ones. Enjoy.
January 3, 2007
Wrong Number
I’m accused of being a lot of things. At the top of the list, of course, would have to be a “deadbeat father.” I resent this because:
a) The paternity tests were inconclusive.
b) If the kid never meets me, he can’t miss me.
c) Good enough for Jesse Jackson, good enough for sawgee.
I’m also accused of being a “liar.” Okay, let’s get this straight: I’m a storyteller. Now, I admit that some of my stories are slightly modified. And a few of them may be grossly exaggerated. A couple others could be completely fabricated, but all of them are true.
That being said, I told the following true story to two different people, and neither one of them believed me. Decide for yourself:
For the last month or so, I’ve received several phone calls from mexicans. Understand something: I’m not mexican. So why were they calling me? They were looking for Carlos. Understand something else: I’m not Carlos.
Today, I received no less than seven phone calls over the course of twenty minutes. The intended recipient? Carlos. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and our conversation began like this:
ME: (no accent) This is Carlos.
HER: Carlos?
ME: Si.
HER: …
ME: Que paso?
HER: …
ME: Mmi casa es su casa. Y que, veinte-ocho.
HER: (unintelligible spanish.)
ME: (in big, accented voice) Radio Mundo! Me yamo Carlos.
HER: Carlos?
ME: Si.
HER: (very thick accent) You’re lying.
ME: No, I’m not. This is Carlos. Carlos the… (terrible accent) Latin Lover.
I swear to god I’m telling the truth. The only creative liberty I’m taking is that our conversation took place over the course of her hanging up and calling backseveral times.
Now, keep in mind that this woman’s English was terrible. So, that is why I was able to get away with tossing in phrases like “The Latin Lover.” But here’s the part I don’t understand: I speaketh not a word of Spanish, so why this little senorita would think I was Carlos is beyond me. Regardless, she started to get aggressive.
HER: You still with that bitch?
ME: What bitch?
HER: (bitter) Alejandra.
ME: Who do you think you’re talking to?
HER: My ex-boyfriend.
At this point, I’ve pretty much decided that nothing productive will be accomplished today; I’m getting to the bottom of this Carlos mystery. What does she mean by “Ex-boyfriend?” Have they already broken up, or is this her way of breaking up with him?
ME: Are you breaking up with me?
HER: You broke [sic] me. You trade [sic] me for that bitch.
ME: What bitch?
HER: (still bitter) Alejandra.
Hmm, Carlos sounds like an asshole. But by “like an asshole,” I mean, “pretty awesome.” If trading chicks in for other chicks is a standard part of Latino culture, then I definitely need to get to know some more Mexicans. Speaking of which, let me learn a little more about the Mexican on the other end of the phone.
ME: I broke up with you because you cheated on me.
HER: No.
ME: Yes, you did. With Manuel—Manuel the dirty phallus.
HER: Who say [sic] that?
ME: Alejandra.
Please keep in mind that my blog does no justice for the mercilessness with which I butchered this poor girl’s given name. Super sleuth, however, didn’t seem to notice.
HER: You believe her?
ME: Why wouldn’t i believe her? She fellates me.
HER: Bitch.
Of course, for the senorita’s sake, I assumed she was talking about Alejandra and not me.
ME: Don’t you talk about Alejandra like that.
HER: You love her?
ME: Why do you care; do you still love me?
HER: …
ME: Do you love Carlos the (terrible french accent) Latin Lover?
HER: Yes.
Okay, what the fuck? She professes her love for some guy, but then can’t ascertain the difference between his voice and some pinche gringo on the phone? In my humble opinion, this little senorita deserves to get fucked with. But, in the mean time, let me find out a little more about this guy she “loves.”
ME: What do you think I do for a living?
HER: I don’t know.
ME: You love me, but you don’t know what I do for a living?
HER: …
ME: How old do you think I am?
HER: Nineteen.
Nineteen? Okay, I am officially concerned. I am checking the mirrors and I am slowing down.
ME: Wait, so how old are you?
HER: Seventeen.
The brakes have locked and the car is skidding out of control. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I see myself getting violated in a medium-security prison. In my mind’s eye, I don’t enjoy it. Time for damage control. I can’t, however, break character. I’m a professional for god’s sake.
ME: You’re seventeen and you think you love me?
HER: …
ME: What do you know about love? You don’t even know me.
HER: I’m pregnant.
Houston we have a problem. My name is sawgee and now I’m never getting into heaven. At the rate I’m going, I may not be allowed anywhere near hell either. But then again, perhaps I didn’t hear her correctly.
ME: You’re pregnant?
HER: Yes.
ME: Like bambino pregnant?
HER: Yes.
Alright, joke’s over; I am starting to realize just how despicable I am. This poor teenager is terrified because, for the first time, a human life will hang in the balance of a decision that only she can make.
She has limited resources and life experiences, but will have to make a choice that will ultimately shape the rest of her existence. And in this pivotal time of need, the man that she loves has given her the phone number of a cynical wordsmith who is fucking with her for no reason other than the fact that he has writer’s block. In all seriousness, I feel terrible. I hope she has family to which she can turn.
ME: Do you have a sister?
HER: No.
ME: What about cousins?
HER: Yeah.
ME: And how old are they?
HER: Eighteen, nineteen and twenty.
Thank goodness. Obviously, she can’t depend on Carlos, so hopefully her familia can serve as a support network. In the meantime, I need to apologize. I’m going to have to do it on Carlos’s behalf, of course, because I still can’t break character.
ME: Are your cousins hot?
HER: What?!
ME: Are your cousins hot? I wanna trade Alejandra for the eighteen-year-old.
Once the dial tone finished buzzing, albeit faintly, I think I could hear the snap, crackle and pop of hell. And I knew that my suite was being prepared. Damn me for being a deadbeat father if you want to; just don’t call me a liar.