I've blogged frequently about the previous owner of my cell phone number, ole Darryl. If you're a newer reader, you can catch up on all that here, here, and here.
It's been almost two years since I got my first cell phone and was given the same number that the infamous Darryl had used. I still get calls at least once a month. Just when I think it's over, here comes another one.
Today Cliff and I were on the last leg of our daily walk in the pasture and my cell phone started singing. I removed it from my fanny-pack and noticed the call wasn't from any number with which I'm familiar.
"Yes, may I speak to Darryl?" queried a man with a strong Wisconsin accent.
"Darryl hasn't had this number for two years," I told him. "I think he's in jail. I've received calls from drug dealers, hookers, and the Cass County sheriff's office, all looking for him."
"Is this his grandma?"
Hmph. Do I sound that old?
"No," I told him, grumpily, "I don't know him at all. I'm just the unfortunate person who got stuck with his phone number."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Funny thing is, it always makes my day when I get to talk to friends of Darryl and tell them he's in jail. I hope they never stop calling.