Schmeckled!

“Why did you hang up on me?” the woman on the phone says. Her voice sounds familiar. It has a metallic ring. Like scraping aluminum with a coin.

“I didn’t hang up on you,” I say, which is true. I don’t know what she’s talking about. I grow nervous. There is sudden suspense in the air.

“Don’t treat me like I’m dumb! I’m not that dumb!” she snarls and I suddenly realize she sounds like my great-grandmother, Mrs. Clayton Glanton (Judith), only meaner.  But since Granny Judy died twenty years ago, it’s probably not her.

“I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number,” I say, which is true.

“I said not to treat me like I’m dumb! I’m not dumb!”

I begin to wonder. “Sorry,” I say and hang up on her, sort of again, but not really. I think, Boy, the poor guy who really did hang up on her is going to get an earful now!

The phone rings again. I stare at it through five rings with mounting trepidation and then answer it. I am conditioned.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Listen, you ungrateful snot-faced bastard,” she barks, sounding more like scraping metal, less Granny Judy. “You may think you can treat me like this, with all your high-falutin’ attitudes. But I’m a person! I’m real! You can’t walk all over me! I’m a human being, not a fucking rug!!”

I’m momentarily shocked into speechlessness. She’s supremely pissed. I gird my personality and tell her, “Look, I’m sorry but you really do have the wrong number.” I’m starting to feel a little sorry for her. I could be a wise-ass and prank her, pretend I’m the guy she’s trying to reach and give her shit but she’s just a confused old woman. My mean-streak has dissipated over the years. 

So I do the unthinkable. I hang up on her for the third (2^nd) time again.

I was on my way out but now I can’t leave the house. I sit down to watch the phone.

It doesn’t ring. 

It doesn’t ring again. Maybe she gave up. Or maybe she finally dialed the right number. That poor guy.

It doesn’t ring again. I stand up, ready to head out. 

Halfway to the door and the phone starts up again. I should just let it ring, let the machine pick it up if she waits through seven rings. 

On ring six I lurch for the phone and recklessly pick up. “Hello?” It feels like I just jumped off a ledge.

“YOU FUCKING DIE!” she shrieks. “I’VE STABBED PEOPLE LIKE YOU BEFORE AND LEFT THEM TO ROT!” and I slam the phone down.

Okay, I’ve had enough; I’ve got troubles of my own. I don’t need telephone drama from unhinged strangers. There’s something obviously wrong with the woman. She might be mentally unmoored, or even dangerous, who knows? She’s obviously in deep distress and calling me wasn’t helping things at all. I grab my keys and reach for my jacket.

And the phone rings.  

Oh no.

I move toward it. Another ring. I stand there. Another ring. I stand there. 

Another ring. 

Oh hell! “Hello?”

“The calls are coming from INSIDE the house!” screeches out at me followed by uproarious laughter. A clear male voice announces, “You’ve just been schmeckled!” And a clown horn honks and a joy buzzer buzzes and “Granny Judy” says, “I didn’t hang up on you!” mimicking me. 

I slam the phone down and feel heat rushing into my face. 

But I smile as I don my jacket. That was a pretty good crank call. 

I guess the joke’s on me.

I got schmeckled.