My apologies but there will be no blog post today. After over 4 inches of rain fell in 12 hours our house flooded so we are trying to get it all sorted out. Will be back next week with an update but, most importantly, my family and I are all fine.
Clare

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

It has been an extremely interesting week, one of highs and lows. I had a wonderful professional and personal high that is still playing itself out, a circumstance where I was able to help a kind and decent person at a time when they needed it. You can read about that elsewhere http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/life/stories/2011/02/04/you-and-me-writer-identified.html?sid=101 if you wish. But let’s talk about the “low” here, at length. I have sometimes forgotten in the course of my postings that this blog is called The Kill Zone, so I will get back on track here and now.

I read crime fiction because I am fascinated with the battle between good and evil. I know that the lines are often blurred, but not necessarily to the extent that they are indistinguishable. Yet every bad guy, if you will, represents a failure on some level, perhaps unavoidable, perhaps otherwise, but a failure and a tragedy still. We all know a number of folks who for one reason or another — or for perhaps no discernable reason at all — fall off of the rails.

My younger son, who is now in his late 20s, had a childhood friend who I will call “Todd” for purposes of this discussion. Todd, when he was attending grade school with my son, gave little indication that he would have troubles later in life. He was raised in an intact family with loving parents, and if he occasionally experienced some impulse control problems, they never reached the stage that would portend the disaster his adult life has become. My son and Todd lost touch when we moved to a different school district in the area, even though I kept in contact with Todd’s parents as they intermittently relayed tales of what was turning into a slow-motion train wreck. Todd was barely into his teens when he was arrested for shoplifting. Other troubles followed. He began to have trouble with drug use; his folks placed him a tough rehab program which, to all outward appearances, he successfully completed. They took him to South Carolina over a Christmas weekend to celebrate his success. They had been there for two days when Todd‘s father called me, almost hysterical. Todd had gone out with some friends to walk the beach and within a half-hour had been arrested for armed robbery. Charged as an adult, he spent six months in a jail awaiting trial. By the time Todd finally returned home, his course seemed to be set. Trouble seemed to dip and swirl around him. When Todd’s father died of cancer, Todd could not attend the funeral because he was sitting in an Ohio prison, having been convicted of yet another offense. His mother, a sweet and kind person who devoted her life to her son and husband, had the appearance and demeanor of someone who had been shell-shocked. Just so.

Todd was in the news again this week. The area had been plagued by a period of gas station robberies and Todd was charged as the alleged perpetrator. In his booking photo, wearing a dirty wife beater and a scripted tattoo across his left arm and chest, he bears but a faint resemblance to the little boy who with my younger son played with Transformers and shared respective bedrooms like brothers. In the picture it is Todd who looks shell-shocked this time, vaguely dazed, perhaps by the state of his life at this point, perhaps wondering how and why he wound up on the downhill road he is on. Or perhaps I am projecting my own questions, wondering why him, and not my own son, since they were so alike in so many ways. The chill I have felt since seeing his picture, however, has nothing to do with the weather. And I doubt that there is a book that I could read that would conclusively answer my questions.

By John Gilstrap
I pen this week’s post from Bakersfield, California, where I’m teaching a two-day seminar on safety and health issues in the recycling industry. It’s a great class so far, packed with a lot of motivated and enthusiastic students. The fact that it took me 17 hours to get here, thanks to Mama Nature doesn’t take away from my enjoyment of the process, but it does mean that I’m tired. With tired comes cranky.

And nothing spins me up quite like unsolicited recorded phone calls.
I felt my pocket buzzing while I was in the middle of my lecture and of course ignored it because, well, I was in the middle of my lecture. During the break, I looked at my phone and found an 866 number, identified as “unknown.” I remember a friend of mine telling me about online reverse phone lookup websites that can identify unknown and scam callers, and would have saved me a lot of time!

I called the number back and reached a recorded greeting that told me, “be aware that we are a debt collector.” I suspected that it was either a scam or a wrong number, so after a minute or two on hold, I hung up and went back to work.

Then I got to thinking. This has been the year of compromised credit cards for us. It’s happened at least four times. While we’re current on all our bills, was it possible that something slipped through? There’s also the matter of a denied medical claim that we’re still negotiating with the insurance company. Could that be the problem? I really wish I’d just known how to check phone number ownership, it could have saved me such a headache.

They called back when I could actually take the call, and it turns out that a Mr. and Mrs. Ngyuen are behind on their house payments. The call goes like this:

“If this is Mr. or Mrs. Ngyuen, press one. If not, press two.”

I press two.

“If you need a moment to bring them to the phone, press one. If this is the wrong number, press two.”

I press two.

“If you want to stop receiving these phone calls, press one.”

I press one. (Really. Does anyone NOT want to stop receiving these calls?)

“To be removed from the call list, you must talk to a customer service representative. Please hold.”

I hold. For six minutes, being told regularly how important my phone call is.

Finally, a young man answers, “Hello?”

“Hello?” I say. “Really? That’s it? Hello?”

“Who is this?” he asks.

“You called me,” I say.

“Are you looking for the modification department?”

“I don’t know what a modification department is. I’m calling to be taken off your list.”

“What list?”

“The one you called me from.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I think you have the wrong number.”

“It can’t be the wrong number,” I say. “I pressed one.”

“One what?”

“The number one. You called me. Your recording told me to press one to get taken off the list. I can’t have called a wrong number.”

“Oh,” he says. “Let me pass you to someone who can take you off the list.”

“What list?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“I few seconds ago, you didn’t know what the list is. How are you going to take me off of it if you don’t know what it is?”

“I’ll transfer you to someone.”

“Let me talk to your supervisor.”

“I’ll transfer you to someone.”

“You’re not listening. I’m already talking to someone. Another someone doesn’t do me any good. I want to talk to your supervisor.”

“He’s not available.”

“I’ll talk to his supervisor, then.”

“Please hold.”

I endure three more minutes of assurances that my call is important.

“Um, sir? They weren’t available.”

“Your supervisor’s supervisor?”

“No sir. Someone else.”

“So if someone’s not there, that means no one’s there. Are you in a room by yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Then someone must be there.”

“Sir, if you can just give me your phone number, we can take you off the list.”

“The right list? The one I want to be taken off of?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The list you don’t know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you can guarantee that I’ll be removed.”

“I think so.”

I give him the number. “And what about the Ngyuens?” I ask.

“Excuse me?”

“The Ngyuens. The ones who are behind on their payments. Someone should call them and let them know.”

“Um.”

“They’re not at this number. I think we’ve established that.”

“They must have had that number before you.”

“This is a cell phone. I’ve had this number for over ten years.”

“Sir, I’ll tell the right person, and they’ll take the number off the list.”

“Okay,” I say. “I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

“I understand, sir. Neither do I.”