Editor’s note: for the next two weeks we’ll be running the best of our This Ordinary Day pieces. We’ve enjoyed working with so many great writers and wonderful people and felt it was high time to take a look back at some of what they’ve brought us. If you’d like to see more pieces, please take a trip over to our archives page — it’ll be well worth your time.

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After almost two years, I finally switched my telephone number to a local area code. I’ve lived here long enough, and the novelty of having an out of town number had worn off. It raised a lot of questions and had become more trouble then it was worth. Besides, the nice people at AT&T offered to change it for free when I signed an exclusive 12-year contract.

When I changed my number, I immediately contacted everyone. All my friends, all my clients, they all got e-mails or phone calls letting them know I had altered my contact info. I knew there might be a few mistakes, but weeks went by and everyone seemed ship-shape. Even my parents were dialing the correct sequence.

I should have known not to breathe easy. Problems eventually surface, though not for me. No, the problems were for the poor bastard who got my number. I would later learn that his name is also John. And of course, the one person who ends up calling him is the least civilized.

Nick and I go back many years. He’s also the one guy I wouldn’t want to write my epitaph. We’ve gone through some interesting times and have a keen understanding of one another. When guys reach that level of friendship, they bust each others’ balls.

Nick calls up my phone and gets my voicemail. The recording is different, but the name is still John. So he leaves me a message about how I’m an asshole for not picking up. Since I don’t get the message, he calls again and leaves another. This time he must be in a good mood. This time he talks about what prick I am and something about having sex with my mother. He was probably thinking it was a pretty good message. He was probably thinking there’s no way I could ignore him this time.

But that’s what happened. So Nick, acting on whatever instinct he has, believes this is a calling. He believes that he should just keep up the phone calls until I break my silence. He thinks up fun scenarios, usually involving fucking and some other odd activity before dialing. He calls my number in the evening. He calls between work downtime. He calls from the car. The details of these messages are unknown to me, but I can only imagine their graphic nature. Truth be told, I’d love to see the look on the phone owner’s face when he listens to them.

After two weeks, Nick receives a phone call. The screen says that it’s from me. He answers with some sort of equivalent of “about fucking time” only to hear an unfamiliar voice. The man, this other John, is not angry…but he’s not amused. He tells Nick that he doesn’t know who he is, but he doesn’t like the messages. He tells him he probably has the wrong number. Nick says that he backpedals and apologies profusely to John. He tries to explain he wasn’t suggesting bestiality or necrophilia about him. He meant that for another John. Another John with the same phone number and similar voice.

The other John seems satisfied and hangs up. Nick sends me an embarrassed e-mail and asks when the hell I changed my number and why I didn’t tell him. I dig up the month-old mass e-mail with his address in the header and send it back. He claims to have never received it and then tells me his story.

I laugh, mostly at Nick’s ability to be a dick, but I feel bad for the guy who got my number. Nick wasn’t the only person who failed to get the memo. I later learned a couple clients called the old number as well a few friends. One admitted to calling him in the morning and waking him up. Another suggested he wasn’t a mentally sound individual. This probably says more about the people I associate with more than anything.

I imagine this John, this other John, answering call after call of mistaken identity. I imagine him listening to messages meant for me, some of which called him names, suggesting he’s a pederast, a sociopath. We’ve never even talked, but I’m guessing he probably thinks more highly of Mussolini.

After a few more weeks, it seems to blow over. Everyone has my correct number. I hope that the other John is no longer deluged with harassing calls and messages. I make a mental note that all future memos detailing my life should be sent with copies and done so repeatedly.

Months pass. I’ve moved on to other problems. Then I get an e-mail from a friend in St. Louis who just checked out the info page of my website.

“Holy shit,” she writes. “I just left the worst message on your old number!”

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