And now for
something completely different…
by Christian Livemore christianlivemore@yahoo.com
In a tequilla-induced fit of poor judgment, BartCop
has come to the
conclusion that BartCop.com readers are actually interested in the
details of my personal life. He has therefore decided that I need to
raise my profile here at BartCop.com.
True, he says, I write political columns, but as his publicist and
Chief O’ Staff, I need to have more of a presence on the page.
Personally I believe this is just a thinly veiled attempt on his part
to shirk his own responsibilities. I don’t blame him, mind you. Once,
when I asked my father for a new bicycle, he agreed to pay for one half
if I paid for the other. Hoping to avoid a paper route, I came up with
what I thought was a brilliant plan. I auctioned off my father’s TV
set. I was nine years old and knew nothing of SEC laws or private
property or any of that. All I knew was that I would not have to wake
up at 5:30 in the morning to ride around town on my Schwinn delivering
newspapers to everybody lazy enough to actually require the newspaper
to be deposited on their front door step before they would take a
little interest in world affairs. I sold raffle tickets promising the
winner a 19-inch color television. I raised over a hundred dollars.
Then my father made me give the money back and I wound up getting the
paper route anyway. But at least I derived some satisfaction from the
fact that my father had to wake up at 5:30 to drive me around on my
route since I didn't have a bicycle.
But that is not the point. The point is this column, which I’m supposed
to write about anything that’s on my mind at the time.
What’s mostly on my mind right now is my telephone.
Not the phone itself, which is a boring black cordless with caller ID,
but rather the phone calls I receive. Specifically the phone calls from
people who claim I owe them money.
Okay, I actually owe them the money. It’s not like I’m being extorted
or anything, which is a shame because that would make a hell of an
interesting column. The point is, I assumed that the fact that I never
returned their calls would make these folks realize that I don’t have
the money I owe them.
Mostly I get calls from two people: a Mrs. Polaski and a man named Tom.
Tom calls me once a week to inquire if I intend on paying my VISA bill.
He had an opportunity to ask me this question in person the other day
when I accidentally picked up the phone, thinking he was my sister
calling collect for a ride home from the pizza place where she works.
It is a sad fact of my life these days is that at $6 an hour, my
15-year-old sister actually makes more money than I do, and I’m a
college graduate.
"What did you do with the money I gave you last month?" I asked Tom.
"Actually, you didn’t give us any money last month, either," Tom pointed out.
"Then what in the world makes you think I’d give you any money this month?" I said.
"Because you haven’t given us any money in four months now and I was
hoping your conscience was getting to you," Tom said.
"You obviously don’t know me very well, do you, Tom?"
"Perhaps I might if you’d answer your phone when I call you," he said.
"I’d gladly answer my phone every time you call, Tom, except that every
time you call you ask me for money."
"So can we expect a payment from you this month, Miss Livemore?"
"You haven’t been listening, have you?" I said. "Look, I don’t want to
fight with you, Tom. Life is short and I have enough stress as it is.
I’ve explained to several people at your fine organization that I lost
my job on 9/11. I just got a job after nine months. I want to pay the
money. I want to keep the credit card. I just need a little time to get
back on my feet is all."
"We can keep your account active if you make a $300 phone payment right
now," Tom said.
"Tom, if I had $300, I wouldn’t even need a credit card."
After that I made sure I didn’t answer the phone when Tom was calling.
My phone conversation with Tom was very similar to the phone
conversations I used to have with a man named Lou, who used to call me
about once a month regarding my student loans.
Lou started out by expressing his disappointment that I hadn’t returned
any of his phone calls. I told him not to feel bad, that a man named
Tom kept calling me and I didn’t return his phone calls, either.
"Listen Lou," I’d say. "You folks are expecting me to pay $700 a month.
I couldn’t afford those payments in New York, when I was making $40,000
a year. What makes you think I can pay them now in Georgia, when I’m
making $17,000 a year?"
"You graduated from New York University," he said. "What are you doing
making $17,000 a year?"
"Ask George W. Bush," I said.
"Well, maybe you should have gone to a cheaper school than NYU," Lou
suggested. Obviously a Republican.
"I might have," I said, "except I could only afford one college
application, and NYU’s fee was lower than Columbia’s. So if you think
about it, it was a good thing NYU accepted me or I wouldn’t have gone
to college at all, now would I, Lou?"
Lou stopped calling after that, and that’s about the time I started
hearing from Mrs. Polaski, who I assume has taken Lou’s place. I’m only
assuming this, of course, because I don’t return her calls, either.
There was also a man who called the other day asking if I wanted to buy
winter storm windows. I told him I didn’t have any windows.
He said he found that hard to believe.
"That’s exactly what I told my landlord," I said.
"Well," Tim said, trying to find a hole in my story, "are there
actually no windows designed into the house, or is just that you have
window frames with no windows in them?" asked Tim.
"Mostly it’s that last one," I told him. "I live in Georgia, and we
don’t hardly wear shoes here, much less have windows. But it’s okay.
It’s pretty warm here most of the year. The only problem is in the
summer when the gnats come out. But we bought some mosquito netting and
some pith helmets and we do just fine."
"Why do I get the feeling you’re exaggerating?" he said.
"Why do I get the feeling you still think I might buy winter storm windows?" I replied.
"Well, let me ask you this," Tim persisted. "If you ever decide to buy
winter storm windows, can I count on you buying them from me?"
This of course reminds me of an old boyfriend, with whom I broke up
after I caught him cheating. I don’t mean to say that Tim cheated on
me. I barely know the man. What I mean is that my boyfriend – we’ll
call him Eugene, because that is his name -- was just as persistent
about trying to get me back as Tim was about trying to get me to buy
winter storm windows.
The incident occurred when Eugene called me over the weekend when he
was supposed to be at home in Connecticut. But he was actually at his
ex-wife’s house in Rhode Island.
Obviously my ex-boyfriend was unaware of *69, which I pressed after I
hung up and which told me he was calling from his ex-wife’s phone, not
his own.
He denied it, of course, but the phone company doesn’t lie. Well, they
do, but only about how much money you owe them.
Eugene could have avoided detection if only he was aware of one simple
feature: *67. By pressing *67, he could have masked the number he was
calling from, and I would have been none the wiser.
That is unless I was aware of *77, which lets you refuse calls from
callers who have pressed *69. Eugene could have countered this by
calling me from another phone, of course, unless I had pressed *64,
which instructs my phone to accept calls only from numbers I had
programmed as acceptable. And since the only number I would have
programmed as acceptable to take calls from Eugene would have been his
home, where he was not, he would not have gotten through.
Eugene tried for months to get me back. But that was no problem. I just
dialed *60. That told my phone to reject any more calls from my
ex-boyfriend’s home, where he now always was since he and his ex-wife
had gone back to being ex.
I can’t remember what the point of all this was, and I really don’t
know how to end this column since I don’t think I ever actually got
around to starting it. But we've had a nice talk anyway.
All I can say in closing is this: If Lou calls looking for me, tell him
I’m not in.