Hangin' On The Telephone

The other night, as I was staring at my computer and trying to determine this week's optimal lineup with my co-conspirator, I heard a beep. This is the sound that tells me that another call is coming in, and reminds me that no matter how important the discussion of Matt Leinart versus Phillip Rivers may be, I should remember there are other things that may require my attention.
For instance, it could be a call from one of my wife's clients, in need of some quick fix on a web page or a rush order of some new business cards. It could be news from one of our far-flung relatives, or friends calling to tell us they are at the airport and waiting for a ride to our house. But most likely, it could be one of my students. At the beginning of each school year I give the students and parents my home phone number, much to the chagrin of most of my colleagues. On very rare occasions will students ask for help on their homework. When the phone rings at my house between the hours of four and seven in the evening, it is almost always one of this kids in my class who wants to know what page in the Math workbook he was supposed to do, or sometimes a question about when the Scholastic book orders will be coming in.
When I looked at the caller ID on my phone, it was a number that I didn't recognize from "Unknown Caller". I confess that I have a weakness for accepting phone calls. I want to know who is reaching out to touch me, to paraphrase the old phone company ad. I could quickly solve my student's dilemma, then return abruptly to the pressing matter of picking a quarterback for this weekend's fantasy slate. But it wasn't a student. It was a tele-beggar. I understand that fundraising is an onerous duty, and non-profit organizations such as the one that the gentleman who called me was representing exist only as long as the donations continue. Since I made the first move, I felt I should be polite and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm on the other line right now."
The tele-slave countered with, "This will only take a minute."
"I'm sorry, but I need to get back to my other call."
At this moment, I had expected that the polite end would come, but it was followed by the tele-twit asserting, "This is very important -"
And then I decided that we were no longer being polite, since tele-noid had no way of knowing or appreciating what conversation was taking place on my other line. Yes, I was talking about fantasy football, but I could have been discussing matters of foreign intrigue or affairs of the heart so complex that his tiny tele-brain might just explode.
It crossed my mind to say something crass or crude, and then it occurred to me that I had no reason to be concerned about any sort of ongoing relationship with this tele-jerk. Too often I fall into a trap of feeling responsible for every interaction I have, and have spent endless minutes, hours and days on the phone with this survey or that political action. I am, it would seem, a soft touch.
But not that night. I hung up and returned to the issue at hand. We chose to sit Philip Rivers this week in favor of Matt Leinart. All of this comes as a reminder that in 2008, the first "do not call" list for tele-weasels expires, and you can register your home and cell phone numbers or file complaints at http://www.donotcall.gov or by calling 1-888-382-1222. Or you can just start calling random 800 numbers and asking them advice about your fantasy football team.