Miss Amanda Jones

My father received a note at his psychotherapy practice from someone named "Mandie." He did not know who this was but thought he should know. He did not want to phone the number himself, in case he did not realize who he was talking to. This is where I came in.

"Can you call this number," he asks me. "And ask for Amanda, but when they press you, give a last name. Say, I am calling for Amanda whomever. Then SHE will, I hope, say, 'This is Mandie X.'"

I agree to this. Dial number.

"Hello," says a very suspicious and gravelly female voice that does not match the smiley face on the note.

"Hi," I say brightly. "May I speak to Amanda?"

"Who is this?"

"Uh, Teddy" I say.

"From where?" even more suspiciously.

"I'm a friend of Amanda's," I say.

"A friend from where?" she barks.

"Um, just a friend. Is this Amanda Nelson's phone?" I say.

"No. This is Mandie's mother and I find it very strange that someone is calling my seventeen-year-old daughter at this hour" she says. It is 7:20 p.m. "Who are you?"

"I'm very sorry ma'am, I guess I just have the wrong number," I say.

"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"

"Uh, Teddy. Teddy Jones. Ok, I guess I have the wrong number. Bye." I hang up and promptly change my voicemail to have the robot voice say only my number. Gack.

"Ah ..." says my father. "I thought it was someone normal but I think I DO know who that is ..."

"And her psychological problem is her mother?" I say.

"Mmm," he says. "She is a truck driver. Literally."

Mmm indeed. Thanks, Dad.