I come from a long line of people who could talk to anybody–friend, foe or complete stranger—about almost anything. My mother used to say that’s because we’re from the South and that all Southerners are that way, though I’m not completely convinced that’s so. Mother was such an enthusiastic talker that she sometimes carried on lengthy conversations on our shiny-black, wall-mounted, rotary-dial kitchen phone with random strangers who’d called the wrong number.
Perhaps such memories are what prompted me to respond to a text message I received a couple of weeks ago in the way I did. Darkness was coming on when I heard my cell phone ding. I picked it up and saw that the text was from someone not in my contact list. The area code was 325. I didn’t know where that was but so what? When people move these days, their area code travels with them.
“Do you want to have dinner together tomorrow?” the message said.
Hmmm. I’m generally up for dinner with friends. But who was this friend? “Who is this please?” I wrote. Before the sender replied, I googled 325. It’s west-central Texas.
“I’m Tina. Isn’t this Lisa’s number?”
“Sorry, no,” I replied. I could have ended the conversation with that and gone on about my business. But being Southern through and through, I added, “I’m not Lisa but I hope y’all enjoy your dinner.”
Tina responded immediately. “Thank you. If you are in Los Angeles, I will invite you to go with me. You are really friendly. My name is Tina. Nice to meet you. How about you?”
Hmmm again. Did she forget she’d already told me her name? Tina obviously didn’t know she was communicating with a writer whose mantra is OMIT NEEDLESS WORDS. But I texted back anyway. “I’m in Tennessee. Most of us are friendly. But I can’t make it to dinner with you and Lisa.”
The reply came almost immediately. “Thank you for your understanding. You are also very friendly. Nice to meet you. My name is Tina. How about you?”
Oh, Tina, I thought (but didn’t write). I might have fallen off a pumpkin wagon, but it wasn’t yesterday. Something fishy was definitely going on here. Whoever Tina was, she (or he or whatever) wasn’t going to learn my name from me. Tina was almost certainly one of those scammers who do awful things like posting photos on Facebook of missing senior citizens behind the steering wheel of an old pick-up truck, or of little girls and their puppies who’ve wandered out of the yard or of toddlers with black eyes and busted lips who’ve been found but can’t tell anybody who they are or where they came from. Those who share such scam posts—and lots of well-meaning but naïve folks do–often become victims.
Then there are the Facebook friend requests from attractive men about my age, many of them either Army generals or orthopedic surgeons. “You’re so smart,” they write. “You’re so pretty.” “You’re exactly the kind of woman I’ve been looking for all my life.” “Please, oh please,” they beg, “let’s get to know each other better.” They insert lots of flower and heart emojis between their sentences.
Uh…no. Block and report.
All this deceit makes me kind of sad. Real sad, in fact. Because I’m getting to the point where I don’t trust anybody who communicates with me electronically. Maybe they’re bots. Maybe they’re AI. Or maybe they’re just regular humans who’d rather make living tricking people than doing real work. It’s enough to make me wish for the days when a shiny-black, rotary-dial telephone hung on the wall next to our kitchen sink and my mother had no qualms whatsoever about talking with whoever was on the other end of the line.
(October 19. 2024)