Phone Calls From The Dead

"Is anybody there?"

Every time the phone rings, land-line or cell, no diff, I tend to overreact. My mind races, my heart pitter pats. It's an internal cluster-eff of oh no, something's wrong. Is this a healthy way to go through life? Probably not. But bad news seems to find me. I don't have to go looking for it. In the past two days, I've received three collect call messages on my cell phone, all from some correctional facility up north. First thought: Do I know anybody in jail? Not since my Great Uncle Seymour did that naked dance at Nat n' Al's, and that was a while ago. Second thought: Why do I get so worked up every time the phone rings? I believe I've got the answer. I blame a book I read in 1980, when I was a researcher on a TV show. A personal career low point for me, by the way. I got fired after eight days for asking the a-hole producer not to smoke a cigar in closed-door meetings. So much for that correspondence course in assertiveness training.

How I came upon "Phone Calls From The Dead," I can't recall. Maybe I found it in a little place we used to call a book store. Either way, the concept still freaks me out. All that "evidence" of phone calls people received from Grandma, only to find out, uh, Grandma died before you got that call. What up with that? Clearly, "Phone Calls From the Dead" traumatized me for life. Just thinking about it now disturbs me, deeply. Next time the phone rings, land-line or cell, I'm letting it go to voicemail.

"I've told you never to call me."