Middle-of-the-night phone calls.

Few things get my heart pumping faster than an unexpected phone call in the middle of the night. Between the time that the sound penetrates my sleep enough to waken me and the point that I pick up the phone, all sorts of possibilities are going through my mind, none of them good. Did something happen to my parents? Is my house on fire? (Look: I'm not awake enough to figure out that fire is not likely to be the problem, it still being dark and all. I'm barely awake enough to find the telephone, and it's making noise.) And whoever it is inevitably hangs up just before I pick up the phone. Thank heavens for Caller-ID and voicemail messages.

Last night's phone call (around 5 a.m.) was identified as originating at one of the local hospitals. Because I'd successfully stumbled into the kitchen to almost catch the call, I decided to wait around for a minute or two to see whether they'd leave a message on my voicemail. They didn't. Figuring anyone I knew who was likely to be calling me from a Richmond hospital would have left a message or called back, I decided not to be concerned. (And they still haven't called me back.)

Over the weekend, I got a phone call from someone in Toms River, NJ. It would appear that I can be a pretty sound sleeper on occasion, because this one didn't wake me up. I found out about it when I went to call someone and heard the beep telling me there was voicemail for me. And a wonderful voicemail it was: they evidently started talking when the voicemail recording started, not realizing that it probably wouldn't record much while my voice was telling them I was away from the phone and please leave me a message and wait for the beep to start. Near as I could tell, they were telling me that there was a street light burned out in front of their house, and I should replace it right away. They called to tell me this at 4:30 in the morning. (I suppose one couldn't tell whether the light was broken or just turned off during daylight hours.)

One of my worst experiences was some 20 years ago. Phone rang at 2:00 in the morning on a Wednesday. Took me a while to figure out that the odd shrill repeating noise was the phone, downstairs in the kitchen, and I probably ought to go answer it. I counted 12 or 14 rings, ceasing only when I got to within 3 feet of the phone. No caller-ID or answering machine at this time, naturally, and I was convinced it was my parents. I had dialed half of their number when enough blood made it to my brain that I considered that just maybe it wasn't them after all, and I probably didn't need to get them as upset as I was. (And if it had been them, they'd call back later.) About 2 hours later - yes, 4 a.m. - the phone started ringing again. I was quicker to the phone, and got it before they hung up again. Turns out it was a high school buddy of mine, then living in Louisana so it wasn't as late there (but only by one hour), and he was up vacuuming his place and thought he'd just call to shoot the breeze. It didn't occur to him that I might be sleeping in preparation for the next day's work: He wasn't asleep, why should anyone else be? I read him the riot act. And you know? I haven't heard from him since. (It's okay, Charlie. You can call. But only between 9 a.m. and 11 p.m.)