Phoning It in to My Parents

My mother called me a few days ago to proudly announce that she and my father now have voicemail, which they don't. What they have is an answering machine my mother found at a garage sale, which is where I think she also found my birthday presents: four t-shirts that all say "Call Me Pinky" on the front.

When I dutifully wear the t-shirts to the gym, people come up to me and say, "Hey, Pinky." I don't like that.

My mother likes garage sales because they are a less expensive place to buy things she doesn't need. She brings her purchases home and puts them, naturally, in her garage. Maybe someday she'll have the inventory for a garage sale of her own.

Before this newest technological addition to their household, my parents' answering machine was my father. My father sits by the telephone and basically hasn't moved since 1981. He would take messages like, "Oh, your doctor called."

"When?" my mom would ask.

"I don't know. A while ago."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know. Does it matter? You've already outlived your life expectancy."

For my father, the fact that he beat his life expectancy in overtime means the only thing left to focus on is drinking champagne in the locker room. My mother, though, wants to take another lap, so she goes to the doctor pretty much every day. The way things are going, they'll both outlive me.

When I call my parents now, here's what happens. First, the phone rings four times. (When my father was the answering machine, it usually rang until the ballgame was over.) Then a woman's mechanical voice comes on.

Mechanical Voice: The party you are trying to reach is not available to take your call ...

At this point, you hear my father.

Dad: What? There's a woman talking.

Mechanical Voice: At the tone ...

Mom: What do you mean, a voice?

Dad: I'm telling you, there's some woman on the phone.

Mechanical Voice: At the end of your message ...

Mom: Well, maybe someone is calling. Give it to me. Hello? Hello?

Dad: No, we're supposed to be recording our message. Give it to me. Hello? Where's the thing we wrote down?

Mom: I just had it.

Dad: Well, where is it?

Mom: Here.

Dad: That's not it, that's the letter I wrote to the home association.

Mom: You wrote the home association again? Do you know how humiliating that is?

Dad: Just find the script.

Mom: I have to see those people every day.

Dad: Here it is. We're not home right now. Please ...

Mom: Say who it is.

Dad: What?

Mom: Don't just say we're not home, say it is the Cameron residence.

(At this point, if you have met my parents, you already know it is the Cameron residence.)

Dad: You have reached the Camerons. We're not home ...

Mom: Don't say we're not home. What if it's burglars? Say we can't come to the phone.

Dad: We're home, but we can't come to the phone.

Mom: Well, that just sounds rude.

Dad: Do you want to do it?

Mechanical Voice: Thank you. (Beep)

Me: Hi, Mom and Dad, it's me, your son, leaving a message on your high-tech voice mail.

There's a sudden crashing noise, the sound of my father's breathing, and in the background, a ballgame.

Dad: Hello?

Me: Hi!

The sound of an extension being picked up.

Mom: Don't hang up!

Dad: Who's that?

Mom: It's me, who do you think?

Dad: Where are you?

Mom: I'm upstairs!

Dad: Why are you shouting?

Me: She's not shouting, it just sounds louder because she's on the extension.

Mom: Who's that?

Dad: It's me.

Me: Hi, Mom.

Mom: Bruce? Why do you sound so far away?

Me: It's because Dad's on the extension.

Mom: What's he doing on the extension?

Dad: I answered the phone!

Mom: I thought I answered the phone.

Mechanical Voice: Sorry, you've reached the maximum length of time for your message. Thank you for calling. Goodbye. (Click.)

There's complete silence from the phone as my parents process this event.

Me: This voice mail thing is working out pretty well.

Mom: Bruce? Who was that woman?

--J--   --J--