Scam Likely Is My New Friend
I keep getting these phone calls from someone named Scam Likely. Didn’t his mother know no one would pick up when he called them? Or did she know my name is Easy Mark? I’m sure Likely is a fine surname with a long genealogy and traditions. But his first name? Was she unsure that she was even pregnant until the moment he popped his head out into the fresh air?
I get very few creepy phone calls since the advent of Caller ID, cell phones, and the Divine Intervention of the Constitution of the United States, which states Very Clearly in Article the Third:
‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of communication which invariably intrudes itself upon the Family Meal at six of the clock each evening, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof to not acknowledge said communication device thereto; or abridging the freedom of speech of Citizen to replace said device on Charging Station, or of the abridging of the Nightly News; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble for Evening Meals, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances of Telemarketers, Political Survey Takers, Ye Olde Bill of Rights Collectors, nor yet of the Resident, in whose dwelling the Summation of What Happened In School Today has been infringed upon, nor yet of the amendment thereon of the Supping of Cheeseburgers and Pizzas of the Democratic sort of free and equal pepperoni.’
I had to remind my mother of this amendment frequently, being as she was of Ye Olde School, in which institution she learned that Citizens must always answer Ye Olde Telephone, regardless of whether they are established upon ye potty, in ye shower, nor yet Making of Ye Olde Love.
But I did answer one call from an Unknown Number a few years back. The man on the other end sounded sinister right off the bat. He verified my identity, and when I asked who he was, he said he was ‘So and So’ from the FBI!
Oh, my.
I immediately began filing my taxes, rattling papers into the mouthpiece to show him I was sincere about it. Granted, they were pages from a magazine I was crumpling, but he didn’t know that.
As the conversation proceeded, I became suspicious. I should have been suspicious right away because he sounded more like Edward G. Robinson, rather than Efrem Zimbalist, Jr, but what do I know about the voice requirements for an FBI agent?
I asked for a return number to call him back, and he refused and hung up on me. I really don’t think he was who he said he was.
There was another man who afforded me much entertainment. His name was Robert, and he’d leave messages every couple of days. I never returned his calls, but just listening to his lectures on manners was wonderful: “You could at least have the COURTESY to return my calls, Ms. Wolf. That is the LEAST you could do, when a person calls you and leaves messages.”
It wasn’t the least I could do, but I’ll always have a place in my heart for Robert. Bob, we hardly knew ye.
The last set of calls I remember getting (perhaps they have a way of informing other guys, because I never heard from anyone like them again) was from a young man peddling paycheck loans. I kept telling him I wasn’t interested, but he kept calling every fifteen freaking minutes.
I did a search on the number. It was coming from Chicago of all places, from indeed, a cash loan place. When I called the number and asked for a manager, I was put on hold, and then disconnected, and my demands that they stop calling went unheeded.
So I did what any red blooded, American woman would do: I hunted up my rape whistle. I’ve had it since my flying days, when I’d get weird calls in my hotel room at all hours. When they called again, I blew it right into the phone, and I heard the guy chuckle!
That really ticked me off, because this thing is loud enough to hurt my ears and set off nearby car alarms. When the next call came, I waited for the guy to say something, and heard a different, new voice. I blew that whistle of doom right into his unsuspecting ear.
The first guy hadn’t even warned him when the shift changed. Tch.
