The Pocket Call

So I was in the middle of writing a totally different post when my cell phone rang.

My cell phone never rings first thing in the morning.  I saw it was from a friend I'd seen recently.  I knew she was going through some stuff, so when I heard nothing but a little bit of static (I get horrible cell reception in the house) and some gasps of breath, I thought she might be crying.

"Harriet?" I asked (except, you know, I used her real name).  "Harriet?  Is everything okay?" More gasps.  More static. "Harriet?" This went on for another several seconds, and I realized there could be another reason behind her silence.  Sure, she could be in emotional agony… or she could have no idea whatsoever that she called me.

Still, if she was upset, it would be awfully insensitive to say, "Hey… is this a pocket call?"  So I went with hostage-situation gravitas.

"Okay, Harriet?  Don't freak out.  I'm going to hang up because my cell gets bad reception in the house, but I'm going to call you right back from my land line.  Got that?  Right back."

I hung up and called her back, and of course it had been a pocket call.  The gasps of breath had been her sipping her morning coffee.

This was actually the second pocket call I'd received that week.  Just a couple days prior, one of my bosses (when you're freelance, you have lots of bosses), had pocket called and left a fabulously long message as she chatted with some guy while driving from San Diego to Los Angeles.  Sadly, it was muted by the whirr of the engine and I couldn't make out anything juicy.

My husband has pocket called me on occasion, which could have been the beginnings of a Marian Keyes novel, but he was just talking about reality TV.  (This also could have been the beginning of a Marian Keyes novel, had I misunderstood and assumed he was talking about himself and not the cast of Jersey Shore, but alas, I'm not that imaginative in real life.)

My favorite pocket call story is my friend who accidentally called his BFF while driving alone in his car.  Five minutes of him singing along to Duran Duran, loudly and off key, still lives on her answering machine.

As far as I know, I've left no incriminating pocket calls in my wake.  Have you?  If so, what happened?  Did your life suddenly become a chick-lit novel?  Is embarrassing evidence forever preserved on digital voice mail?  Can't wait to hear!

Gotta run… phone's ringing…