Cursed Tongue: Numero Wrongo

Posted by CursedTongue on June 7, 2006

I feel like an official Arizonian. I got my first wrong number in Spanish. Of course, I knew the caller from Armando’s household had probably misdialed, as soon as I saw his name pop up on the caller id. But instead of risking guilt over a confused message left on my machine, I decided it would be better to simply answer.

We once had a message on our machine, in a vaguely familiar woman’s voice. She left no name, no number, only “What a great gift, kids!” and the voice was so elated, and so proud of whoever she thought she was calling, that we kept the message until we had to unplug the machine when we moved. We’re pretty sure that the vague familiarity was in our imaginations. We were kids, I suppose, but there was no gift we’d given that could have been that great.

The woman on the other line asked for Tricia in Español. I think. I know somewhere in my brain the words all reside, so that I might have responded in Spanglish with, “Sorry, Tricia is not here.” The words used to be there because of the year I spent sitting in the back of Señora Baum’s class listening to Nina talk about her latest sexual conquest or flirt mercilessly with the boys (her, not me). But even a day after the call the words don’t surface. They must have been swept out of my brain along with the traumatic portions of my wedding.

All I remember is “Hola. Como esta usted?” And pretty much all of the words I learned for food. If I ever wake up inexplicably in a Tijuana jail, I’ll be able to ask how the prostitutes in my cell are doing, and order a chimichanga. If I ever wake in a gritty Cancun motel in a tub full of ice with a scar on my back near my missing kidney, then the language barrier will be the least of my worries. And really, what are the odds?

Instead, I said in English, “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” Which is what I always say, and I really don’t know why I feel the need to apologize, when it certainly isn’t me who dialed the wrong number. The caller replied in English with her own apology and I assured her that it was no problem. I could hear that the line was still connected, but except for rustling and muted background noise, there was nothing.

“Hmmmm, yes…well…um. Goodbye,” I punched the talk button hurriedly, and let the crawly uncomfortable feeling of silence between strangers pass through my shoulders and immediately felt silly. Sure, Tricia’s friend has my number, but what does she care if I’m socially inept?

I have been on the other end of the trans-language wrong number. When we lived in Germany I dialed wrong numbers on occasion, and got some unsuspecting German, who may or may not have spoken English. I did at least know the words for, “I’m so sorry,” and figured they would piece the story together from my accented pronunciation and the fact that I hung up on them.

I took two years of German. And in this class, the teacher actually expected us to be able to speak to people and respond to them in a conversation, so I still remember how to apologize. (Isn’t a valid passport and an apology all that the ugly American needs for travel abroad?) There was no Nina equivalent in this class, and if there had been, I’m sure she would have spent a lot of time doing supplementary verb conjugation drills—Fraulein Metzger’s punishment for speaking English.

In a previous job as an Administrative Assistant, one of my responsibilities was answering phones. Our phone system had a clear and obvious voice greeting. Callers could reach me a variety of ways, like pressing zero, not pressing anything, or dialing an extension that didn’t exist. It amazed me how many people either skipped or didn’t understand the main greeting. And our number was exactly like the number for the local school district, except two digits were reversed.

Once, a nervous mother heard the sounds of a human voice answer the phone with the name of the company and she launched on a lengthy, rapid-fire description of her daughter’s speech impediment. I attempted several times to interrupt her, but she barreled on. When she paused to breath I did feel truly sorry for her. I explained that we were a business and not the school. The wrong-number-dialer asked if she could be transferred. Then I felt sorry for the kid; she had bigger problems than a sibilant “s”. (So, okay, that was more of an intelligence barrier than a language one.)

I’d like to extend a heartfelt apology to all of the people who I’ve dialed accidentally over the years. I’d do it in Spanish and German, too, but then I’d have to apologize for slaughtering your language, too. (We could be here all day.) And I’d also like to apologize to the woman who has our old number in Illinois. It seems my family has dialed you by mistake a few times, apparently often enough to turn you into an irate and bitter “North American Rough-Legged Harpy.”

- Sarah Letnes

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