The Rural Voice, 1998-01, Page 39impersonation again?"
"What are you doing playing
telephone games?" I snapped.
He had earlier recited to me the
impressive list of farm chores he had
to do that weekend (in lieu of school
work).
"You're a simpleton, Dean. I'm
not quite as gullible as I might have
appeared yesterday during your
sterling performance. Crawl back on
your tractor, brand your cows, spread
your manure, do what farmers do! In
any case, find another victim."
There was a brief moment of
silence on the other end of the phone,
before the same voice ventured.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Silcox?"
I barrelled on, gaining momentum
with each breath:
"You may have fooled me once,
but I am on to you, SPORT!"
I yukked it up gleefully.
"But — but — but —, Mrs. Silcox,"
the voice meekly persisted, "there's
been a mistake. I believe that you
think I am someone else."
"The accent yesterday was a bit
more authentic, than this new cheesy
one, Dean," I guffawed. "I'd know
your voice ANYWHERE."
By this time, there was a note of
frustration in the disembodied voice
over the phone.
"Please, ma'am. This is Helmuth
Schneider calling from the fuel
company. What can I do to convince
you, I am who I say I am?" his voice
quavered. "Is your husband at
home?"
"Well," I reflected, "you have to
give the kid `A' for effort. He doesn't
give up easily. He almost sounds like
he is going to cry. What a
performance!"
By this time, however, a small
black cloud of doubt had crept into
the corner of my fertile mind. I
banished it promptly, reassuring
myself that the caller was indeed the
pesky Dean.
"Prove it to me," I challenged him.
"I know you are Dean Stoltz, student,
boyfriend, fraudulent vacuum cleaner
and fuel oil salesman. I don't believe
a word of your tale."
Despite my bravado, I was, in
truth, trembling with apprehension.
My challenge to him now sounded
forced and hollow to my ears.
"Mrs. Silcox, your husband Louis
— he called us this morning to look
at the fuel line into the furnace. He
smelled oil and knew it could cause a
problem. With the cold weather
coming we wanted to get on it right
away so you wouldn't be caught in a
jam."
Panic, mortification, humiliation
all flooded over me. I watched
as my ego slunk into the
deepest, darkest corner of the room.
"What have I done?" I demanded
of myself. "This poor man is a real
person, just doing his job. He has just
been put through the verbal meat
grinder. I've told him to spread
manure! I've called him SPORT,
labelled him a fraud, and mocked his
accent. The man must think I am a
madwoman."
Stumbling incoherently through an
explanation of the events leading up
to the present disaster, I offered my
abject apologies. Mr. Schneider
listened politely to my ramblings and
indicated that he understood. He
would be sending the repairman soon.
As I sat, numbed on the floor,
awash with my own folly, I wondered
why the man had not hung up on me
once he realized he was not dealing
with rationality. Maybe years of
sniffing petroleum fumes had warped
him too!
Instructing my daughter to greet
the arriving repairman, I lurked in my
bedroom. Hopefully, he would be
gone before I had to emerge for a
scheduled appointment. When I could
delay no longer, I slunk downstairs
and came face to face with not one,
but two repairmen sent to check on a
fuel line! Was it my imagination that
I noticed a nervous tic in their faces
as they scurried out to the safety of
their truck past me? And was that a
third, maybe fourth body in the
vehicle peering through the window,
hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of
me?
That evening I related the tales of
the day to my family. They shook
their heads in dismay at my latest
adventure. Boyfriend Dean crowed
gleefully, licking his index finger and
making an imaginary mark in the sky.
For days, 1 avoided the phone, and
kept a watch out the window for
vehicles with sirens corning in our
driveway.
In any case, I am grateful we pay
our monthly fuel oil bill by mail.0
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