Five years ago I had surgery to replace my right ACL, which I had ruptured during a run. The surgery was a success although I still harbor resentment towards the surgeon who assured me that the surgery would hurt no more than “having your teeth cleaned” which would only have been true if my dental hygienist yanked my teeth out one by one with a pair of pliers and then, after the cleaning, reinstalled each one with a mallet.
But now my new ACL is so maintenance-free that I rarely think of it and I certainly was not thinking of it last Friday morning when the phone rang. I was in the process of trying to untangle last year’s Christmas lights and wondering, as I do every year, why I didn’t just throw away last year’s old tangled lights and buy new ones.
I picked up a phone and was immediately wary when a Voice that was almost speaking English asked, “What is the name of the party to whom I am speaking?”
I immediately thought of Earnestine the Operator so, thanks to many unhappy experiences with telemarketers, I hung up.
The phone rang again immediately and I was perplexed: telemarketers don’t usually call back, so I picked up the phone again. It was the same Voice, trying a different, more direct, tactic. “May I please to have your name?” it asked.
“Who wants to know?” I asked reasonably enough.
The Voice said it was from a collection agency representing the hospital where I had my surgery. “So I need to know who this is,” said the Voice.
“Why?” I asked. “Are you collecting a debt?”
“I didn’t say that,” said the Voice defensively, clearly forgetting he told me he worked for a collection agency. “I can only discuss that with the party I am calling. Is that you?”
“Who do you want?” I said. “I’m not telling you my name.”
“I cannot divulge that,” said the Voice.
“I’m not giving a stranger my name over the phone,” I said. “Good bye.”
“Wait,” said the Voice. “I can verify that you are you in a different manner. What is your address?”
I sighed and explained that if I was not giving a stranger my name over the phone, I was certainly not giving my address. “What address do you have?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you,” said the Voice miserably, citing privacy guidelines, before he asked me for my date of birth, the last four digits of my Social Security number and my mother’s maiden name, all of which I declined to provide. “Who was your best friend in third grade?” he asked and I laughed out loud.
“Look, “ I said. “I pay my bills. If you think I have a debt, mail me an invoice. I’ll investigate it and if it’s legitimate I’ll send you a check.” I thought this was profoundly reasonable, but the Voice did not.
“If you are who I think you are you owe the hospital $44.93,” he said.
“You’re going through all this for forty-four dollars?” I asked.
“And ninety-three cents,” said the Voice.
I had had enough. Those Christmas lights were not going to untangle themselves. “Just send me a bill,” I said.
The Voice decided to play hardball. “I’m going to have to document that you are not cooperating,” he said sternly.
“How can you do that if you don’t know who I am?” I asked shrewdly.
There was a long silence. “May I please to have your name?” asked the Voice, right before I hung up.
A minute later the phone rang.