Kathy doesn't live here anymore

Our hero is in the shower, humming the theme from "The A-Team."

Ring ring …

"Duh duh duh, da da da … Huh?"

Ring ring ring …

"Just a second!"

Our hero gets himself adequately covered for a family newspaper and dry, and just barely makes it to the phone, only to hear: "Is Kathy there?"

Blasted Kathy. I've lived in my apartment for just shy of two and a half years, and she still hasn't informed her friends of her telephone number change.

No one calls me for me; they just call because they want to talk to Kathy. Or because they want to see if my windshield needs replacing. Which is a call that's a completely different type of scary — after answering, "No," I always expect to hear a crash and tinkling of glass from outside and then another call asking, "How about now?"

But the Kathy calls are the worst, coming just regularly enough that I took to answering my phone, "Kathy doesn't live here," for a while. Which my parents and friends were awfully glad to hear. But no one seeking Kathy called, so I decided to stop.

Then the phone rang.

Me: "Hello?"

Them: "Is Kathy there?"

Me: "ARRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Only one time — one blessed time — did I answer the phone and have the person be calling to inquire after Kathy while I was answering with the announcement that she no longer lives here. And it was glorious: "Oh, um … Hmm. Sorry about that."

Some of these people sound like the same people time after time, although a few of them at least are gracious enough to apologize. The people I really dislike are the ones who are confrontational, even though they're the geniuses who dialed a wrong number in the first place.

Them: "Hello?"

Me (very pleasant): "Who's this?"

Them (suddenly defensive): "Who's this?"

Me (suddenly annoyed): "I think you have the wrong number."

Them: "Yes, but who is this?"

Me (hanging up the phone): Sigh…

Those calls are few and far between. It's the Kathy calls that have burrowed their way into my soul and are gnawing at it. They're wily. The callers will go for months without calling — obviously, they are very close to Kathy, who might even spell it Cathy for all I know — and lull me into a false sense of security.

Then the phone will ring, and I will get all excited, thinking it's someone who actually cares and pick it up.

Them: "Is Kathy there?"

Me (sighing, giving up, losing my will to live): "Not right now. Can I take a message?"

Kathy, er, um, Matthew Weaver is the business and agriculture reporter for the Columbia Basin Herald.