"You've reached three-oh-two, seven-nine-eight, seven-three-one-seven. After the beep, will you please leave your name and number and a brief message. Thanks, and have a great day."
This is a problem.
"Er, this is Max Carter, and I think I'm calling Bill Demarsky, who I think is a piano tuner, and I think I have the right number, but I'm not sure. If this is the wrong number, sorry. If it's the right number, Mr. Demarsky, I have a Yamaha upright I need tuned; I just moved to the area and I'm looking to find a tuner. Give me a call back at three-oh-two, six-five-seven, seven-three-one-oh. Thanks, and, uh, have a good day."
I sat back and thought about that one for a minute. I'd just sent my phone number out across the aether and I had no idea who was going to be on the receiving end. What if I accidentally called a serial killer or something? A serial killer who targets people who own Yamaha upright pianos and have just moved to smalltown eastern Pennsylvania? Maybe, I thought, I should just put my trust in the smudged ink on the scrap in my wallet, trust my friend Wes from back West to have memorized seven numbers successfully and written them down correctly. Do I trust his human fallibility? Maybe I should have had the Pope write the numbers down. >