This afternoon while I was at work, I got a call from a number that I did not know. Not one to break with routine, I didn't answer it for fear of the ex-girlfriend's wrath, and lucky me, they didn't leave a message. I am so brave.

It wasn't until later that I realized that the number in my called ID was dangerously close to my number. Only one number was wrong--the last one. And, on top of that, the mistaken numbers were similar in shape and height only theirs was missing a piece on the left hand side. Does that make sense?

Ok, fine. I guess I can explain a little better without giving out my whole phone number on the internet. The last digit of my phone number is an 8. The last digit of the mystery number was a 3. They look similar, right? Right. Other than that aberration, our numbers are identical.

This is a riddle of sorts.

Who owns the other number?
Why are they calling me?
Is anyone else involved?
What about the man with a hook for a hand?
Am I really this neurotic?
Are we there yet?

I slept on the conundrum(it's hell on the back, by the way), and when I awoke this morning still thinking about it, I decided to do a little sleuthing of my own.

I tried doing a reverse look-up on the odd number, but it the search produced no results. I wasn't expecting any. I do, however, know that it's a Verizon number. Or was at one time, at least.

That's it.

Here's the scenario that I've cooked up in my head:

I don't know good ol' Number 3, and they don't know me from that putrid, Mexican lady squishing her way down the aisle at the Big K on Lake St. Someone involved in this does, though. I think that at some point in time, I wrote my number down for someone, most likely a girl, and due to my cripple's scribble, the 8 looked quite similar to a 3. There's also a distinct possibility that I gave the girl a wrong number on purpose. I don't remember doing that recently, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened.

Yes, I know. There's not a secret code in the world tougher than the one I dub "One Number Off". No, she'll never figure out my clever encryption scheme! She's an idiot! Why am I using so many exclamation points! Speaking of which, if you're ever in Minneapolis and see a yellow Specialized mountain bike chained to a rack or a sign, and it's tethered by a combination lock, the encryption scheme is entirely different than the one I just explained.

Ha ha, suckers. They'll never be able to steal my bike now! Oh crap, am I still typing?

Ahem.

So, this girl tried to call my number, but kept mashing the Number 3, because, well, the damn thing looked like a 3. Why wouldn't she call it? The owner of Number 3 gets pissed at all these wrong number calls, and decides to find out who "Chad" is, and why this girl is incessantly calling at all hours of the day, even though she's been told time and time again "Chad's not here." Neither is Dave.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I'm just stupid enough to write down a false number, but only change the last digit. I'm not smart enough to, oh I don't know, give her a completely fictitious number that was originally activated in Ypsilanti, could I? No, that's crazy talk.

I suppose I could've told her that I just wasn't interested, but that would give me less to write about.

What? Goddamnit, people. I'm sure it's all a coincidence, but I need something to write about, and until I get mugged, you'll have to deal with this tripe.