I don’t know you. I don’t know what you did. I don’t know who you owe.
I have no grudge. I’m not judging you. Whatever mess you’re in, I hope you get it all sorted out soon.
Whether it was a ruse to throw them off your trail or just a slip of the pen, when you gave them my number as your own, you put me in a world of hurt.
All those calls from California call centers looking for you, Queenie—what could they possibly want? They are ringing me ON THE HOUR for you. What did you do that was so bad? Why don’t they believe me when I say I’m not you? FOR CHRISSAKE, WHY DO THEY KEEP SAYING THEY’RE SORRY AND THEY’LL MAKE A NOTE OF IT—AND THEN CALLING RIGHT BACK?
I’m begging you, Queenie: make it stop. I’m completely out of minutes.