Last night, Sweet William and I were settled on the couch, voluntarily having our blood pressures spiked by yet another nailbiter Lakers-Suns game, when the phone rang. Now, we have Caller ID, and there is a very short list of people we allow to interrupt us when we are watching the playoffs. Or at any time, really. The short list includes very select family and friends.
It does not include anyone calling from jail, but that, my friends, is who was calling us. The Caller ID said, succinctly, "PRISON (213) XXX-XXXX."
"PRISON?!" We both said. "Who would call us from prison?" Soon after that, the phone started blinking to let us know someone had left us a voicemail. The voicemail said that this was a collect call from a correctional facility and that the cost for the call would be $3.32 for the first minute and then $0.06 per minute for subsequent minutes, but it never did say who was calling us.
"Hello? Who's this? Prison? Oh, PRISON! Yeah, Prison, great to hear from you, how've you been? Overcrowded? I'm so sorry to hear that, that's -- rioting? Aw, no. Right, right -- excessive force, right, I know. Yeah, yeah -- oh, it sounds like our time is almost up, Prison. I'll have to holla atcha later, but you be good, hear?"
What the hell? Am I living in Bizarro World?
2 comments:
I'm upset you didn't take my call. I wanted to know what the score was.
You didn't say your name, and you didn't say the special password ("EastSIDE!"), so you're SOL. Damn Lakers lost anyway. They completely fell apart. So sad.
Love you, Cynnie!
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