Calling From Prison

Posted on March 31, 2008

A few times a week, I get calls from correctional institutions. Wrong numbers mostly, usually at two or three in the morning. My phone resides in the 213 area code, and as those who’ve lived in Los Angeles know, it’s an urban exchange which includes many places: Downtown, Koreatown, Crenshaw, Skid Row and one of the roughest Latin neighborhoods north of San Salvador. Half of the calls are from little drunk men slurring in Spanish, asking for a cab. Half are the steriley recorded voice of a female civil servant, speaking as though it’s the middle of the afternoon, saying, “This is a call from a Los Angeles County correctional institution. Your caller’s name is Isaak.” And then she explains I’ll be charged $3 should I accept the call.

I hang up, because why would I want to be charged three bucks to talk with some dude who I don’t even know? I realize this might appeal to some, and if the thought of being awakened by a mysterious hombre calling from prison stiffly stirs your inner juices, go forth and do what you like.

But me? I’m not looking for the late-night lowdown on the pokey. I’ve never been intrigued by the pokey. I take the word of those who have visited the pokey. Plus, I don’t want to burn the guy’s one call and leave him smoldering over a weekend. I picture him sitting, repeating my number over and over, wrathfully plotting his revenge like Robert DeNiro in Cape Fear.

So I hang up, but each time I wonder. What’s it like on his end? Does he hear me answer, grasp I’m not Bo’s Bail Bonds, and start busting fist-sized holes through the lime green walls at county? Do the police give him a do-over? Have wrong number regulations been properly codified?

A few years ago, I could have explained things to a desk sergeant. How I long for the days when it was so easy! When I might have just yawned, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and explained that someone transposed a digit. That some bail guy was losing his shirt. I could tell a man and be done with it, then go back to sleep. But what does one do when the wheels of justice run thru 1-800-Collect? Do I shout into the vacant air, hope that our call is being recorded? And what do I say? Sucks to be you? What is Miss Manners’ advice for handling automated phone calls from criminals one doesn’t know?

My old number got queries for Rheem Valley Bowl. Kids wanted to know the cost of shoes. Different time, different place.

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