There's a stalker calling me at work. Only she's not my stalker; she's apparently stalking some other guy. Who gave her my office number. Possibly by accident, but very probably to prevent being stalked. The woman is very persistent. And possibly not quite right in the head.


(So it's a shame she's not stalking me. We sound perfect for each other.)


She first called my number on Tuesday. I very rarely get calls on my office phone because:

1. I don't often give out that number.

B. I'm really not important enough to be called, anyway.

Most of the time my phone rings, it's either the boss calling about another pay cut or some 'code of conduct violation', or it's a wrong number. The vast majority of those wrong numbers, even now, are for the last guy who had my phone number -- and he's been gone for three years, so he must have been important enough to be called. Either that, or he was operating a crystal meth and granny porn distribution ring from his cubicle, and some of his humps haven't gotten word of his absence yet.


(He was a quiet, skinny, sort of bookish kid. Kept to himself a lot. Never got in trouble with the boss. Always got to the office early.


So yeah -- my money's on the smack and wrinkle porn. Nobody keeps their nose that clean without some jumbo-sized skeletons in the closet. Trust me.)


Anyway, the lady called me on Tuesday. We had a brief conversation around two o'clock:


Me: Hello, this is Charlie.
Crazy Stalker Lady: Hi, is Michael Patterson there?

Me: No, sorry. I think you have the wrong nuimber.
Crazy Stalker Lady: Oh. Well... okay, then. *click*


Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again:


Me: Hello, this is Charlie.

Crazy Stalker Lady: Yes, Mike Patterson, please.
Me: I'm sorry. There's no Mike Patterson here.

Crazy Stalker Lady: Harrumph. *click*


Thirty more seconds, and the phone rang again. I didn't bother answering this time; I simply turned the ringer down as far as it would go, and tried to ignore it. Finally, it cut over to voice mail -- where I clearly state my name and at no point claim to be Michael Patterson, to know Michael Patterson, or to take messages for Michael Patterson. None of these details seemed to daunt our intrepid stalker, who charged ahead and left a long and detailed personal message.


For Michael Patterson. Who isn't me, as I believe we've established by now.


I listened through the message once to see whether there might be any juicy blackmailing material, scandalous sex talk, or use of potentially intriguing words like 'ransom' or 'getaway' or 'poledancers'. Finding none of those, I deleted the message and assumed that was the end of it. Which it was.


Until this morning. At a quarter till noon, the phone rang. It was her again, asking for Mike Patterson. I told her she had the wrong number. She harrumphed, and and hung up.


Immediately, she called back. She asked for Michael Patterson again. I told her, again, that there's no one here by that name. She told me the number she had dialed, and I confirmed that it was dialed correctly -- but under no circumstances had I invaded Mike Patterson's office, stashed him in a file folder, and begun answering his phone. She harrumphed again, and hung up.


And again, she called right back. I let it go to voice mail, thinking that maybe I should change my message to say something more along the lines of:


'Hello, this is not Mike Patterson. I've never met Mike Patterson, and know nothing about Mike Patterson, but if Mike Patterson has given you this number to reach him, you're out of luck. Probably, you're also a whacked-out psycho nutjob who's intent on hiding out in Mike Patterson's bushes -- euphemistically or otherwise -- and he's given you a wrong number on purpose. So I'm not telling you my name, either. But here's a hint: it's not MIke Patterson. Buh-bye, now.'


Or even better:


'Hi, you've reached the office of Mike Patterson. Sadly, Mike has recently been incarcerated at Guantanamo Bay, where he faces multiple charges of distributing treasonous information over the phone to various as-yet-unknown co-conspirators. As this line is currently being monitored by several federal agencies, you may safely expect the FBI to arrive soon at your doorstep to commence the grueling interrogations and excruciatingly thorough body cavity searches. Feel free to leave a feeble blubbering denial after the beep, or simply hold on the line until the unmarked vans appear in your driveway.'


Possibly, that would get me into more 'code of conduct' hot water, should the boss ever decide to call again. But at least I could go back to ignoring the phone for a while. It's a risk I might just have to take.

For the past twenty-four hours or so, I've been expecting a phone call. A very important call, on my cell phone. I won't get into the details of why it was so important, or what the call was about -- only that the call was not to be missed, and that the person calling was not about to leave a return number. This was a make-or-break sort of deal.


And frankly, it had already 'broken' once. I actually expected the call two days ago, and -- with my cell phone in my fricking pocket -- got a message that someone had just left a voice mail. No ring. No buzz. No friendly vibratory notification. Just:


'Oh, hey -- you missed a call. Sometime in the last thirty seconds. For no goddamned discernible reason. Thanks for choosing Sprint.'


Bunch of no-signal-having ass-backward jackholes. If I didn't hate that smarmy 'can you hear me now?' company with a fiery hot passion, I'd have kicked Sprint's no-good ass to the curb by now.


(Maybe I could hook up with that company with the still-caliente-but-largely-washed-up Latina actress spokesmodel. If they can just get her to serve margaritas, wear a frilly lace skirt, and play the canastas topless in one of those ads, I'm sold.)


Frothy fandango fantasies involving Catherine Sellout-Jones aside, my cellular reception sucks, is what I'm saying. And I missed the initial call I was expecting, in spite of my efforts, only to find a message stating that a callback would occur in the next twenty-four hours. The call would not be missed again.


So, I took precautions. I carried my cell phone with me everywhere, along with a few pages of notes I needed to reference during the call. I didn't know exactly when the call would come, and I couldn't risk being unprepared at any moment. I was like a minuteman, ready to spring into conversational action at the drop of a hat.


Early in the day, I realized what was going to happen. It's a simple application of Murphy's Law. The 'easy' version would be:


'If you're ready to take a call for most of the day, then the call will come at the first moment when you're not ready.'


Like I said, I was committed to not letting that happen. That phone and I were joined at the hip for the full twenty-four. I ate with the phone. I slept with the phone. If the missus and I had done any ugly-bumping that day, I'd have strapped the phone to the headboard and kept a finger poised above the 'Talk' button. There would be no 'not ready' moment.


So it was clear the universe would bitchslap me in the next-most aggravating way:


'If you're ready at all times to take a call, then the call will come at the absolute least convenient time imaginable.'


I was ready for this. I kept the phone next to the bed, in case the call came while I was sleeping. That would be an inconvenient time. But not the most inconvenient time, apparently, as no call came while I was sleeping.


Then, I took the phone with me into the shower, because that seemed like an inconvenient time, also. I could imagine the guy phoning me up during a particularly sensitive bit of lathery self-grooming, and stopping mid-sentence to ask, 'Do I hear a loofah in the background?' But the shower was not the most inconvenient time, either, as no call came while I was showering.


Around four pm, I let my guard down just a bit. I started to wonder if a different application of Murphy's Law was in order:


'If you're ready at all times to take a call, no matter how inconvenient, then the call will simply never come.'


So I kept the phone and notes on me like a good little Boy Scout, but I'd mostly given up hope on the call altogether. And all that planning and preparedness was making me a bit logy. So around four thirty, I took a quick trip to my favorite stall in our office bathroom.


Thereby putting myself in the most inconvenient situation possible.


Ring. Ring.


Now, you have to understand -- this is not a private bathroom. There are three other stalls, a handful of urinals, and two sinks. Any conversation one might have within those walls -- especially an important and eagerly-awaited conversation -- is likely to be overheard by a number of other gentlemen in various states of pantslessness. Not exactly the forum I was shooting for.


Ring. Ring.


At the same time, I was in no condition to quickly leap from my seat, gather my trousers, and bound breathlessly to a more suitable location. Personal hygiene and potential underpants unpleasantness aside, I'm simply not that coordinated. At best, I'd manage to answer the phone, throw open the stall door with my pants around my knees, and trip bare-assed and stammering onto the bathroom floor. Just like prom night, all over again.


At worst, I'd lose the phone in the toilet, give myself an accidental swirly, or they'd find me there three days later with a smashed phone, a broken neck, and three rolls of Charmin stuffed in my boxers. And while I'm sure that would make a lovely Law & Order: SVU episode, I'd prefer a death with a little more dignity. Something with strippers and tequila and an industrial floor buffer, preferably.


Ring. Ring.


Of course, even if I were in a position to arise from the 'throne' and make a hasty getaway, it really wasn't an option. I had to answer the phone immediately, and the toilets in our rest rooms come equipped with auto-flushers. Very efficient, very loud, and very powerful auto-flushers. At that very moment, in fact, I was perched on the very same shitter that nearly sucked me in just a few months ago. So unless I could make a case that I was standing at the bottom of Niagara Falls when I answered the phone, getting off the pot was clearly off the table.


Ring. Riiiiiiiiing!


So, I answered the phone. I had my notes with me, just in case, and I sat there and had my important, can't-miss conversation on the crapper. People walked into the bathroom. People walked out of the bathroom. I did my best to ignore them, and soldiered on as professionally and as coolly as a man with his pants around his ankles and an immediate need for six squares of toilet paper and a spritz of Glade could possibly muster. I was quite proud of myself, actually. And later, when the feeling returned to my legs and I could finally walk out of the stall, I did so with my head held high.


Never mind that the intimate details of my conversation may, at this moment, be scrawled in permanent marker on the walls of the other bathroom stalls. Or that there's a significant portion of the left side of my ass that I still can't feel. There was a call I needed to take -- and I took that call. You can only prepare and plan so much, until it's time to face the music.


It just happens that my 'music' always seems to play in the shitter. Murphy's Law is a bitch, yo.