Judging from the calls I'm getting, the person who lived in this apartment before me apparently operated a business from home that involved selling soap and shampoo made out of fruit and vegetables. I've had worse.
In the 1990s at another apartment some callers mistook my phone number for that of a massage parlor if they transposed two digits while dialing. Late one night my phone rang and I let the machine answer. The guy asked that a young blond woman be delivered to his room at the Ritz-Carlton. He must've had to wait a long time; I was fresh out.
I still feel bad about the night back in college when I answered the phone and a girl told me all about her day, all the little details, and after she said that she had been thinking about me, I had to say that I didn't know her and she must've misdialed. That was one time I was a good listener though.
As a kid, I jotted down the number of the phone booth at the gas station nearest to home. Occasionally I would dial that number just to see what would happen. The first time somebody answered, I asked to speak to Clark Kent. The guy didn't get it; with a tone of great concern he said, "This is a phone booth, you know," and I thanked him and hung up.
