Dear loyal readers:
July marked the 7th anniversary of Straight Up with a Twist. I haven’t missed an issue since this column started, so I’ve decided to take this summer off and re-print some of the classic SUWAT columns from the first year. This is the last month of my brief hiatus, and have I got a column for you in October, boy-oh-boy. The column below is titled "Sorry, Wrong Number," and it first appeared in the April, 1999 issue of the Arcadia News.

I spend my weekdays working for a business that has a telephone number that is one digit off from a major airline’s number. I would estimate that I receive six to ten calls per day for the airline, all of which I handle in a polite manner. I usually provide the callers with the correct phone number in order to help them out. I rarely receive an expression of gratitude from these fat-fingered dialers.

Most people don’t listen to the company greeting that I piously chant when I answer the phone, which means they miss out on the first important clue that they have dialed a wrong number. Rather than waste my time with the winded explanations about incorrect dialing, I’ve decided to tell people what they want to hear.

After fielding these calls for more than a year, I’ve decided to "step-up" the pseudo-customer service department that I am currently running for this airline. I’m now going to start accepting reservations and credit card numbers. Currently, all inquiries regarding flight times are now given with cheerful enthusiasm. One call last week went like this:

ME: (Identifying business name) "…how may I help you?"

CALLER: "I'm calling to see if flight 753 is on time from Sacramento."

ME: (Instantly): "Yep."

The caller paused for a moment.

CALLER: Oh - I mean flight seven three-five from Sacramento.

ME: (Instantly) "Yep. That one’s on time too."

CALLER: "Uh… okay. When is it scheduled to land?"

ME: "Soon."

CALLER: "Soon, huh? What’s that mean?"

ME: "It means you should get to the airport. Soon."

Yesterday I received a call from a woman who was a bit frantic about her lost luggage.

FRANTIC: "You people lost my luggage in California and I need to know what you're going to do about it!"

ME: "Well, I’m not going to do anything about it."

FRANTIC: "What?!! This is how this whole thing started in the first place!"

ME: "Well, maybe you should be more careful when…"

FRANTIC: (interrupting, very perturbed) "You're saying this is my fault?"

ME: "...you dial a phone number. This is not [name ommited] Airlines."

I seem to be blessed with this wrong number phenomenon wherever I go. My last home phone number was one digit off of a popular pizza delivery place. What a joy it was receiving drunken pizza orders late a night. My current phone number is original, but it appears that my name isn’t. There’s another Greg Bruns that recently moved into town and I am now getting his calls, too.

Last week, I was enjoying a leisurely moment of introspective idealism geared towards rejuvenation of my complex thought processes (a nap) on my couch when the phone shrieked and brought me out of my trance. "Is this Greg Bruns?" the voice inquired. I grunted a sleepy affirmation. "This is Tammy – tonight’s Bunko game has been canceled," the voice advised.

"What a relief," I replied groggily. "I hate Bunko." The caller was taken aback, as the other Greg Bruns has obviously professed some sort of masochistic desire to participate in ‘Bunko Parties.’ The poor guy doesn’t even know what kind of favor I just did for him. Such is the life of the Unknown Customer Service Representative.