Yesterday, I talked about a clever solution to a situation. It occurred to me that not many of us probably oversee schoolyard basketball courts, so it was not something we could ever take advantage of. As to not leave you empty-handed, here is a trick that any of us can use.
I am not allowed to answer our house phone. Yes, we do still have a home line. It is even an eighties-style landline—and it is still true that nothing beats the crisp, clear, ever-reliable sound of an old-school landline. The reason I am not allowed to answer this phone is that when I do, there is a 63% likelihood that Marty, two months later, is going to cut a check to the fire department or some wildlife fund. Marty’s answer to these repeated checking account debits is that Troy/Dad is no longer allowed to answer the house phone.
But there are times when we might be expecting a call from a serviceman or relative, and the phone needs to be answered, and on the rare occasion where I am the only one home, I have to answer the phone, and we all have to hope for the best.
Then I overheard Alex answer the phone. He exchanged a few pleasantries with the caller and then said, “Sorry, my dad’s not here right now.” A moment later, he returned the receiver to the cradle. Alex was fourteen at the time, and his voice had turned the adult corner. I could imagine the person on the other end raising an eyebrow, trying to evaluate the sentence and the voice. But either way, the call was over.
Ever since that moment, any time I’m on phone duty and get surprised by someone expected, I simply say the seven greatest words ever said over the telephone, “I’m sorry, but my dad’s not here right now.” I’m sure those words from my decades-worn vocal cords cause more than a furrowed brow, but before they are able to do the math, I happily drop the phone in its cradle and walk away, whistling. Ok, so I can't whistle. But if I could, this would absolutely be a time I would employ that elusive talent.
