>The Saga of Harold G. Jordache

>Many years ago when I was a single girl and setting up yet another telephone account in yet another city, the service provider asked what name I’d like in the phone book.

“What do you mean, what name would I like?” I asked. “Wouldn’t I use my name?”

“Well, you could,” she said, “but aren’t you going to be on TV there?” She was one of those talkative types and had drawn from me where I had moved from, and why.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then you probably don’t want your name in the phone book,” she said. “You could go unlisted, which costs five dollars per month… Or you could put any name you want in the phone book with your number.”

“Wow,” I said. “Okay.” I thought for a moment. “Put me down as Harold G. Jordache. That’s J-O-R-D-A-C-H-E.”

And that’s who I’ve been ever since, although other service providers have been less willing to go with my ruse. “You can’t just give me a fake name,” the AT&T representative huffed the last time I set up an account.

“Yes I can,” I insisted. “I’ve been doing this for years.”

“Well, it shouldn’t have been allowed,” she said prissily. “It has to be your name or the name of someone living there.”

“Okay,” I sad. “Uh….. Well, you see, Harold is actually my roomate. He’ll be answering most of our calls, so I want his name in the book.”

She let out a long, defeated sigh. Harold G. Jordache would remain in da house.

All in all, I’ve enjoyed being Harold G. It does require some explaining to new friends who see the name pop up on their caller ID, but it also immediately tips me off to a cold caller.

“Mrs. Jordache?” I hear from time to time as I pick up the phone.

“No, no, you have the wrong number,” I respond. Generally, they hang up, but a few people haven’t been willing to take no for an answer. There’s one old biddy, for example, who calls every quarter, asking for charitable donations.

“Mrs. Jordache?”

“Oh no, you have the wrong number.”

“Well, is this 5620 Elm Valley Drive?”

“Yes,” Doh! It had come out before I’d thought.

“Well, then, our records indicate you are Mrs. Jordache,” she said irritatedly.

Your records being the phone book, I thought. “No, no, I’m not Mrs. Jordache,” I insisted. “You have the wrong number.”

“Well, Mrs. Jordache, do you have any items you’d like to donate to the American Spleen Association?”

“No!” I retorted. “Because I’m not Mrs. Jordache!”

Click. Bitch hung up on me.

For at least two years now, this old woman has called me like clockwork every three months. I see her name and number on caller ID and pick up the phone, just to mess with her.

“Not Mrs. Jordache speaking,” I trill. Generally, she grumbles and hangs up on me, but one notable time, I did get a lecture on my selfishness. “Don’t you have anything to donate?” she said sharply. “You do live in a nice area, you know.”

“You know, I do,” I said, “but you’re so horrible that I’ve been giving it all to Goodwill instead. And I tell all my friends to do that, too.”

Click.

You’d think it couldn’t get any worse than that. But you’d be wrong. For the last month, we’ve been getting calls morning, noon and night from an 800 number. When we answer, an automated voice answers and instructs us to wait for the next available customer service representative. Now that’s a new low. Not only are we dealing with a telemarketer, but we’re put on hold to talk to him? GAH!

For a while, we’d simply hang up, but we soon realized we needed to actually talk to a human being to make the calls stop. So the other night, my husband patiently waited until a man got on the line.

“Mr. Jordache?” he asked. “I’m calling from Pinnacle Financial about an investment opportunity for you.

“Yeah, see, I’m not Mr. Jordache,” my husband said calmly. “You’ve got the wrong number and you’ve been calling here every day and I want to be taken off your list.”

“Oh, I see,” the telemarketer replied. “Then I’d like to speak to Mr. Jordache. Could you put him on the line?”

“There is no Mr. Jordache here,” my husband said.

The man laughed. “There most certainly is,” he said. “Mr. Jordache gave us this number. Now if you could just put him on the line-“

“Look,” Hubs said, his voice rising. “That’s impossible, because we made that name up. I- I work for the FBI-” Sitting in the den beside him, I looked at him incredulously, then started giggling. “I work for the FBI,” Hubs continued, “and that is an assumed name. And I’m telling you to take us off your list or we will consider your calls harrassment and pursue this with our lawyers.”

“Sir, do you know Mr. Jordache?” the telemarketer pressed. “Because if you could just put him on-“

“Am I not making myself clear?” Hubs said loudly. “There is no Mr. Jordache! I made that name up! There- there are class action lawsuits for people like you! Now, don’t call back, or there’ll be trouble!” He hung up.

“Geez!” I laughed. “Unbelievable! At least they’ll leave us alone now. I mean, who’d want to mess with an undercover member of the FBI, who has lawyers and knows about class action lawsuits?”

Apparently, Pinnacle Financial would. Because this morning, they called us again.