Coo, coo, kachoo, Mr. Robinson

Dear Carl Robinson,

You and I have never met, and likely never will, yet I know so much about you. Just today, I learned you are in the market to buy a new Honda.

I have been privy to other facts about your life for some time. You purchased your home about six years ago, and you live on Jasper Drive. I strongly suspect you don't drink tap water. You are married, although I can't recall the name of your wife at the moment.

How do I know all these things? We share the same seven digit phone number, only you have the wrong area code for our set of suburban towns. I have the right one. How you even got yourself a big city number in that quiet little neighborhood is beyond me.

The number of calls we get for you can not be an accident. Perhaps you thought you were sneaky, giving out the wrong area code to potential telemarketers, but I have been foiling your underhanded plan. A few months after you bought your house, I figured you out, and ever since, I have been redirecting all your callers right back to you. We used to get them weekly, and now it has slowed to only a few times a year. Still, a smug little grin crosses my face every time I tell a market research firm or debt consolidation company they need to use the other area code to reach you.

It's so simple and easy. I like to believe I am  unraveling some evil scheme of yours. I like to imagine that after each call you get, you grind your teeth and shake your fist at the heavens, asking how on earth those telemarketers found you. Your plan was perfect, and you should have gotten away with it. You wonder if it was some meddling kids, the kind that solve cartoon mysteries.

Nope. It was me. In the world of telephony, I'm your worst nightmare. And next time you consider picking on an area code, I'm sure you'll think twice about choosing mine.