金尼斯·邁克爾·比奇/Jennings Michael Birch
Life without a friend is death without a witness.
—Spanish proverb
Before I even finished dialing, I somehow knew I’d made a mistake.The phone rang once, twice—then someone picked it up.
“You got the wrong number!”a husky male voice snapped before the line went dead.Mystified, I dialed again.
“I said you got the wrong number!”came the voice.Once more the phone clicked in my ear.
How could he possibly know I had a wrong number? At that time, I worked for the New York City Police Department.A cop is trained to be curious—and concerned.So I dialed a third time.
“Hey, c’mon,”the man said.“Is this you again?”
“Yeah, it’s me,”I answered.“I was wondering how you knew I had the wrong number before I even said anything?”
“You figure it out!”The phoned slammed down.
I sat there awhile, the receiver hanging loosely in my fingers.I called the man back.
“Did you figure it out yet?”he asked.
“The only thing I can think of is ...nobody ever calls you.”
“You got it!”The phone went dead for the fourth time.Chuckling, I dialed the man back.
“What do you want now?”he asked.
“I thought I’d call ...just to say hello.”
“Hello? Why?”
“Well, if nobody ever calls you, I thought maybe I should.”
“Okay.Hello.Who is this?”
At last.I had got through.Now he was curious.I told him who I was and asked who he was.
“My name is Adolf Meth.I’m 88 years old, and I haven’t had this many wrong numbers in one day in 20 years!”We both laughed.
We talked for 10 minutes.Adolf had no family, no friends.Everyone he had been close to had died.Then we discovered we had something in common: he’d worked for the New York City Police Department for nearly 40 years.Telling me about his days there as an elevator operator, he seemed interesting, even friendly.I asked if I could call him again.