Sorry, Wrong Number

In the early 1970s I moved to South Boston for a year. (If you haven't tried this, I don't recommend it. Of course things may have changed since then, but they would have to have changed a lot.)

I was assigned a telephone number that had once been used for ships docking temporarily in Boston. Some people hang onto information forever, and this may have been the case with one sailor, because . . .

One night I was sound asleep when the phone rang. I looked at the clock - a little after 2:30 A.M. I crawled out of bed and groped my way to the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this the U.S.S. Whatsit?"

"No. You have the wrong number. This is a private residence."

"Sorry."

"'S OK."

I went back to bed and nearly back to sleep, and the phone rang again. Up and at 'em, Donnie boy.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this the U.S.S. Whatsit?"

"No. This is a private residence."

"Oh." Click.

OK. His voice was slurred, it was after 2:30 in the morning, and he wanted a Navy ship. Clearly, I had a drunken sailor on my hands and this little PITA situation wasn't going away of its own accord.

I waited by the phone for a couple of minutes, and once again it rang.

"U.S.S. Whatsit."

"U.S.S. Whatsit?"

"Yes."

"This is Williams. Will you tell Chief Peterson that I'll be a couple of hours late in the morning?"

"Yes, I will."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Goodnight."

And so to bed.

Smiling.