My Little Hang-Ups

It has now been almost two years since my wife and I moved into the rental house we now occupy. Owned by her family, this house was formerly her grandmother’s, and so the utilities and other bills have been in the same name for some fifty years now. And so has the phone number. We are forbidden to change the phone number in the event that any of her grandmother’s friends call up for the first time in years to check on her. And this presents a problem.

For the past 21 months – actually, I suspect, for much longer than that – we have been innundated with calls for Cintas, the local uniform vendor. When we got our first phone book not long after moving in, we discovered to our horror that our phone number was printed in Cintas’ Yellow Pages listing for all to see.

And so it begins, every morning at about eight, the phone starts ringing off the hook.

And after nearly two years of this, I’m about ready to snap. We have tried to give callers the correct number. We have told them about the mistaken listing in the Yellow Pages. Most annoyingly of all, the same people call us week after week, day after day. It’s like they initiate a core memory dump every night when they sleep. You’d think, after hearing me waking up very crankily and explaining to them that they’ve got the wrong freaking number every week for the better part of two years, they might begin to avail themselves of that easily obtainable clue. We’ve even called Cintas to complain – and finally, enough is enough. They apparently have no interest in correcting their own ad, so I have lost any further interest in helping their customers find them. Hey, if it’s good enough for them, it’s bloody well good enough for me if they’re losing business.

It is in this spirit that I have begun to answer the phone…creatively.

“Hello, is this Cintas?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Are our uniforms ready yet?”
“Well, yes, but there’s been a slight problem. They shrunk a bit.”
“Shrunk? How much? Can we get our money back?”
“Well…do you have any midgets on your staff?”
“Midgets? What do you mean?”
“Midgets. As in little people.”
“No, why? How much did they shrink?”
“Enough to provide them with a healthy wardrobe for quite a good while.”
Click.

“Hello, Cintas?”
“That’s us.”
“Do you have our janitors’ uniforms cleaned?”
“Actually, we’re changing the way we do business. We’re not doing uniforms for janitors anymore. In fact, we’re only doing two kinds of uniform from now on.”
“Uh…what kind?”
“Nuns’ habits. And French maid uniforms.”
“What? Who’s speaking?”
Click.

“Is this Cintas?”
“Did I pick up the phone and say it was Cintas?”
“Look, I just asked you a simple question. Is this Cintas?”
“Sir, the likelihood of this being Cintas would be vastly increased by me saying it was Cintas when I answered the phone, don’t you think? Can’t get much simpler than that.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy whose phone number has been in Cintas’ Yellow Page ads for a couple of years now, and I haven’t slept in all that time because people like you keep calling. Who are you?”
[Rest of the conversation edited for profanity.] (And, in cause you hadn’t guessed, click.)

“Is this Cintas, the uniform people?”
“Well, we’re not really uniform. In fact, sometimes we’re downright disharmonious. But how can I help you?”
Click.

“Cintas?”
“Nope.”
“Sorry, wrong number.”
Click.

“Hey, are our uniforms ready?”
“Yes they are. Are you interested in our propeller beanie offer?”
“Pardon?”
“We’re offering free propeller beanie caps with every uniform that we clean. What hat sizes do you need them in?”
“We’re really not interested.”
“That’s good. I’m really not Cintas.”
Click.

“Cintas?”
“Sorry, ma’am, wrong number again.”
“Excuse me?”
“You just called here a couple of minutes ago.”
“But I just dialed XXX-XXXX.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s the wrong number.”
Click.

“Yo Ralph, what’s up? You free tonight?”
“Who? I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“Oh…is this Cintas?”
“No. I thought you were looking for Ralph.”
“Yeah, yeah, he works at Cintas.”
“Ah. Well I don’t.”
Click.

“Cintas?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Wrong number again.”
“I keep dialing XXX-XXXX, like it says in the ad.”
“Well, that’s the wrong number in the ad.”
“Who is this then?”
“I’m the guy who keeps answering the phone and telling you that you’ve got the wrong number.”
“Well okay, wise ass, what’s the right number?”
“The one you didn’t call.”
Click.

(I’m reminded of the second apartment I ever lived in, which had a similar but far less persistent problem: my new phone number there was one digit off from the local newspaper’s sports desk. On Friday nights during high school football season, I’d probably average three to five calls. My favorite response when someone excitedly asked me if I had a score for this game or that game was as follows: “I have a partial score for that game.” “Okay, I’ll take it. What is it?” “Three.” Click.)

As of late 2002, and our latest complaint to Cintas, we’re assured that this isn’t their fault, and that the Yellow Pages ad is the responsibility of a third party that takes care of all of the corporation’s ad placement throughout the country. We have been assured most politely that there’s nothing that can be done about it, as, despite the fact that surely Cintas pays the aforementioned third party for this ad placement service, they apparently have no control over them.

Like hell, I say.

Until then, Cintas, as long as you keep passing the buck, we’ll keep passing your customers on. To the dial tone. Maybe if it starts to hit you in the pocketbook, you’ll start losing sleep over it. God knows I’ve been losing sleep taking all these damned phone calls for you.

Click.