Rant — Tales of The Home Invaders

Because I could not hear my ringtone above household ambient noises, I changed it to something jarring enough to get my attention. There was a particularly annoying sound of crows screeching that guaranteed I’d hear the phone even if there was a war on TV.  I had not considered that my neighborhood is home to a murder of crows who now have me answering the phone when it doesn’t ring. What I’ve accomplished is to add the sadistic, ventriloquistic calling of the crows to the hordes of robocallers, the recorded voices of actors wanting to cure my pain, send me on a river cruise, or refinance my mortgage. Occasionally there will be a live human at the other end.

My 30-year old clock radio is by my bed.  It is lit with large digital numbers that are very easy to read in the dark even when awakened, bleary-eyed at 4:43 a.m.  When the call came, I was scared and angry, I hoped no one had died, that my building was not on fire, and I was not called to bail someone out of jail.  Had to be something like that.  4:43 a.m.

“Your computer has been hacked,” the male voice said after I had quieted the crows and said “hello.”  The caller was male who spoke English with a thick accent.

“It is 4:43 in the morning,” I said with as much outrage as possible.

“It is 4:43 in the morning. You’re computer has been hacked.”

“You are a sick @#%$#&,” I said and disconnected.

The phone shrieked again.  I should have ignored it, but I had thought of a few more obscenities. I don’t often get a chance to use them. Most of my calls are from robots. This was a live creep.

“You are a sick @#%$#&,” he said in a thick accent.

I disconnected and shoved the phone under a pillow.

I’ve not heard from him again. Perhaps others are helping him expand his vocabulary. These people should be locked in a room full of angry crows. But he is not the only home invader.  Several grocery store chains – none of them I frequent – send me pages of brightly covered coupons to save on products I don’t use.  On Tuesday, every Tuesday, the postal worker wads them up and shoves them en masse through the small metal mail slot so that the mutilated paper tears, crumples and becomes stubbornly stuck in the slot.

My insurance company, my telephone company and my bank seem to think I need a near daily reminder of their existence or just want me to know how much they love me. My mother, bless her, used to do that by phone, but I never saw my bank in those terms. Perhaps I should send them a Whitman’s Sampler or a dozen roses. Maybe a murder of crows— ravenous, rabid ravens.

Perhaps I should apologize to that sick @#%$#&. It would show I have evolved spiritually. Nah.