Just what kind of message was I sending?

By CHRISTINE LAVIN

© St. Petersburg Times, published June 25, 2000

It was late on a Friday night in Ann Arbor, Mich. I was packing up my gear after a concert. A young woman approached me as I unplugged my guitar.

"I can see you're in a rush," she said, "but there is something I've wanted to ask you for a long time. . . . Are you an ex-nun?"

A what? I looked down at my loose-fitting black linen dress. Yeah, I thought to myself, that's the look I've been going for.

"Are you joking?" I asked.

"No," she said, "and I don't mean to offend you or anything, but a friend thought maybe you were, and I promised him I'd ask."

If you were to ask me what I'd associate with ex-nuns, I'd say I picture a woman who hadn't shopped for clothes in a long time and had the look to prove it. A woman whose hairstyle hadn't changed since high school. A woman who hadn't been on a date since then, either.

These ideas may be light years from the reality of what ex-nuns look like, but those were the thoughts running through my head. And that's the vibe some people were getting from me?

Home in New York, I ran to a new salon in my neighborhood. A haircut and highlighting set me back $300, but I told myself, this is the first step in your personal style rehab to rid yourself of that ex-nun aura.

At my apartment that very same day, I noticed something odd about my telephone voice mail: a large number of hang-ups and messages from unfamiliar people. The next day there were more hang-ups and more odd messages from voices I didn't recognize. But I had bigger things to focus on. Even with a new, improved haircut, I couldn't shake that ex-nun comment.

But then I thought, maybe it's a compliment. An ex-nun is a spiritual person. She may be a mature woman, but a mature woman with the fluttering heart of a nymphet aching to experience worldly pleasures.

Who am I kidding? I went shopping.

When I returned there were another dozen hang-ups on my voice mail. The phone rang: another wrong number.

"Please," I said, "tell me what number you dialed."

[Photo: Irene Young] Christine Lavin: Is this the face of an ex-nun?

He told me it was area code 718, then the next seven digits were exactly the same as mine.

Mystery solved. I told him my area code is 212 and asked him to dial the right number and tell them I've been getting a lot of their calls.

A moment later the phone rang again.

"Hi, this is Eddie," the man said. "You getting my calls?"

I told him about the dozens of hang-ups.

"Oh no!" he cried, "This is awful! I'm trying to run a business here."

"What kind of a business?" I asked.

When I heard him say "Angel Wings Car Service," I felt bad. I've had an account myself with a car service for almost 10 years now and have become friends with some of my drivers. I imagined all the fares the Angel Wings drivers were missing because I was getting their calls.

"I have an idea," I said. "How's this -- I will leave an outgoing message on my voice mail telling callers that if they are looking for you to dial again and make sure they dial 718. Will that help?"

"That'd be great," he said, "but I'm calling the phone company."

An hour later Eddie called back on a conference call with a phone company rep who promised to fix things, but for the next three days I got dozens of calls for Angel Wings.

On Friday I was busy packing for shows in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. This time I planned to wear a long, copper-colored, cut-on-the-bias silk dress on stage. There were also two new lipsticks in my cosmetic bag. A half hour before I planned to leave, the phone rang.

"Hi, it's me, Eddie," he said. "Any calls today?"

I told him there had been five, but I would record the standard rerouting message before I left.

"Thanks so much," he said, "you've really been a good sport about this -- but we've decided to change our number completely. This problem doesn't look like it's going to stop, and you can't keep getting our calls. Could you put this new number on your outgoing message?"

Sure, I told him.

"Thanks again for helping our customers find us."

"I was glad to help," I said, explaining how I use a car service myself and how I know what a difficult business it can be when you have phone trouble.

Long pause.

"We're not a car service," Eddie said. "We're an escort service."

"A what?"

"An escort service. I told you that."

I thought back to our first conversation. I thought I heard him say Angel Wings Car Service, but -- what is that called, selective perception? -- that's not what he said at all.

He laughed. "I was wondering why you were so accommodating. Your outgoing message was so sweet, in fact, that a few of my customers asked if they could book you. That's when I knew it was best to change the number completely, unless of course, you're interested. . . ."

My mind raced. What had I been doing all week? Why, I had been a pimp. A volunteer pimp. How many men had I spoken to? Fifty? Sixty? How many heard my cheery outgoing message, "Hi! If you are calling Christine in Manhattan you've got the right number, but if you're calling Angel Wings in Brooklyn. . . ."

"Does this mean you won't leave our new number on your machine?" Eddie asked.

I took a deep breath. "No. I will. But this is the last time. Goodbye."

For the next three days anybody who called my number looking for Angel Wings Escort Service heard me cheerily direct them to the new number.

Would an ex-nun have done that? I don't think so.

Singer-songwriter Christine Lavin lives in New York.

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