Despite the fact that I don’t have a telephone in my office, or even a phone jack, there’s a phone number listed by my name in the faculty directory. I put this number on my syllabus and told my students to call me with any problems they might have, day or night.
About an hour before class on Wednesday, I got an e-mail from a student saying she had tried calling me all weekend because the bookstore was out of books and she had no way to do the assignment. This made me wonder: Who exactly was she calling all weekend? As I sat in my office, feet perched on my desk, corduroy blazer folded across my lap, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the mystery number. It rang a few times, and for a brief moment I got nervous about who might answer the phone.
To my surprise, a female answered. “Hello,” she said.
“Uh, yes, I’m looking for Mike.”
“Mike who?”
“Mike Peterson.”
“Is he an instructor here?”
“I believe so.”
“Hold on, let me see if he’s here.”
There was some shuffling on the other end, what sounded like whispering, a hiccup and a belch, and then silence. I picked lint off my shirt and waited, half expecting someone to peek their head around the corner and tell me I was on the phone asking for myself. After thirty seconds or so the woman came back on the line. “He’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”
“He’s not? Did you check his office?”
“Yeah, he’s not in.”
“OK,” I said. “That's weird. Can you tell him Mike called?”
She assured me she would.
I finished reading over some student papers (and by student papers, I mean a copy of US Weekly I found in the trash), put on my blazer and walked to the English office. A woman of indeterminable age with a pencil behind her ear sat at the main desk. When she asked what she could do for me, I was pretty certain she was the woman answering my phone. I introduced myself and asked if there were any messages. She looked around her desk, lifted up a pile of manila folders, half opened a drawer and then shut it quickly, and then said, “I’m not really sure.” She then downsized a spreadsheet and stared at a picture of a cat sleeping in a rocking chair for a few seconds. “Nope, nope…I’m not seeing anything here.”
“OK,” I said. “I was expecting a call from a guy named Mike.”
“Hmmm. Did you check your mailbox?”
I stepped into the broom-closet slash mailroom adjoining the office where I found a neon-pink coupon for Wildcat Pizza in my mail tray. “Got it!” I said, and held it up for her to see. “You’re a life saver.”
She smiled and reinserted the pencil behind her ear.
I later told my students to be patient with my secretary if they ever try to call me. But as I write this, I can't help wondering if she really wasn't the lady who took my message. I plan to wait until a quiet evening when everyone's gone, dial my mystery number and wander the building until I hear a phone ring.
Or maybe not. That sounds too much like the start of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
4 comments:
That poor secretary, I hope you won't torment her too much this semester.
You're too funny! You should call and leave yourself messages everyday. You know, when you need to be reminded about something...birthdays, anniversary, and whatnot.
I think you should call and then ask her to describe "Professor Peterson" so you can make sure it is the same Professor you are looking for. This way, you can find out if she actually knows who you are and what you look like. If you decide to go with the late night phone calling idea, may I recommend wearing your fastest running shoes?
Does your office buddy have the same number? Maybe he's taking your messages and trying to use them as Wildcat Pizza coupons. I'd check his garbage can for pizza boxes.
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