Good Wrong Number

Just now I got sensationally lucky.

In D.C. years ago it was usually not a good experience to get a wrong number, and sometimes the caller even seemed to want to cuss me out because they had .
made a finger error.

Things are not as desperate here in the country, and I noticed quite early on that the wrong numbers are not nearly as uptight about their unavoidable mistakes, just as here you never hear a car horn honked at you in instant irritation, a constant occurrence in the city.

Still vividly remembering that, I'm saying I was highly lucky to get that wrong number just a few minutes ago because usually my wife is here. and she has exclusive rights to answering the phone.  I'm glad of that, because talking on the phone is among my least favorite forms of communication. But right now she is miles away, standing in as a teacher at a yoga class.

A woman with a low, calm voice loaded with elegance of all kinds spoke.

"Hello," she said. "Is Popie there?"

My failure to do anything except to savor her super cool tones gave her time to follow up with, "You're going to tell me that I have the wrong number, aren't you?"

Still a little tongue-tied, all I managed to say was a feeble, "Yes."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Then I gave sounds to my smile, and I said, "That's okay."

"Bye-bye," she said.

"Bye."

 And this remarkable woman, whoever she was, and that I will never hear from again, much less ever see her anywhere or find out who she was, hung up, as I also did moments later, regretfully.

I defy anyone to disprove my contention that that is exactly the way the world should be.