Fear the Crab

I called home this morning at approximately 0700, hoping to catch Maile before she left for work. I punched in the number on the keypad and listened to the rhythmic drone of notification. I started to think about my question to her, that I wanted to ask if she felt like attending the annual high school alumni dinner (here, we take our high schools more seriously than we do universities). As the rings continued to be rung, I began to wonder if Maile was indisposed, perhaps in the process of disposing… things.

Suddenly the phone picked up, and this man answered! Who the fuck is this guy, in my house?! It almost sounded like my brother-in-law, and if he was there, why was he there so early, when Maile had to go to work? As these questions raced through my head, I endeavored to keep the conversation going, so I asked if Maile was there.

“You called the wrong house,” the man answered.

Holy fuck, it was my DAD! I keyed in his number instead of mine. I stumbled an apology amidst the bumblings of “oh crap, I forgot” and “damn it, that’s right.” He just said, “Bye.”

See, when my dad moved out, he took the old house number with him. This house number was the one I had been using all my life, and since I’m still living there, it stands to reason that the association would continue to exist just out of rote habit. In a moment of distraction I had forgotten the change and did not key in my new house number.

I told Maile this, afterward, and she couldn’t stop laughing.

At me.

So sad.

* * *

I think I will start using the term “keyed” when it comes to phones. It is so rare to find any phone that still retains the dial, so “dialing a number” should be changed to “keypadding,” I think. Or “keying” for short. Make a movie remake called “Keypad ‘M’ for Murder,” or something.

You watch, I’m going to own that term.