Now Serving No. 615

The phone rings. I take a quick glance at the Caller ID. Huh. It's a "615" number. Tennessee. Most of my Tennessee friends know my cell phone number, not the number to the apartment here in San Diego. Maybe someone is trying to reach my folks. I answer.

"Katie?" a voice says. I try to place the voice but I can't. Still, they haven't asked for me, they've asked for my mom. Odd, though. Most people call her "Kate" not "Katie."

"This is her daughter," I answer. There is a moment's silence.

"Katie doesn't HAVE a daughter."

What? Certainly "Katie" has a daughter. At least, MY "Katie" has a daughter. I think I'd know. I wear her wristwatch.

"I have the wrong number."

"Oh, okay."

Now before I begin to feel guilty because some stranger 2,000 miles away thinks I was screwing with him -- which I will even though I wasn't -- I have to marvel: what are the odds that someone from Nashville would call San Diego looking for "Katie" and reach a girl who's in San Diego VIA Nashville and the daughter of a "Kate"?

It boggles the mind.