I'm at home.Brrring. Brrrring. "Hello."
"Hi is Mary there?"
"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number."Brrring.
"Hi, is Mary there?"
"What number are you dialing, hon?"
"Insert my phone #."
"I'm sorry, hon, you must have the wrong number because there's no Mary here."
Chat with mom for awhile, then Brrrring.
"Hi, is this Mary Smith's number."
"No, this is Mrs. Librarian's number, but wait, I can give you Mary's number."
"Oh, is this Mrs. Librarian?"
"Yes it is."
"Okay, here you go XXX-XXXX."
"Thank you, Mrs. Librarian."
"You're welcome, hon."
It's really not that small a town.
"Mary" is my son's best friend's little sister. I'm left wondering how my number wound up next to Mary's name somewhere.
The town I grew up in is that small. When we were really little, we still had an operator who would connect you. My sister once picked up the phone at about age 2 and said "Hello," and a voice said "Suzanne Thompson (name changed to protect the guilty), hang up that phone right now." Scared her half to death. My Godmother was the operator.
If you dial the wrong number in Berne, the person who answers will be your 4th cousin twice removed and will probably recognize your voice.