Practical Joker

Let me start out by telling you that Doris was a friend of mine. She was a ward secretary at Saint Luke Convalescent Center. A ward secretary is basically a desk manager on one of St. Luke’s two patient floors. I was a part-time receptionist and telephone operator for the convalescent center. I worked two days a week (after school) and every other weekend. I worked there while a student in high school and college. I was reliable, smart and friendly and the full-time receptionist (my boss), Mabel, liked me. I was a model employee. Until.

I walk into St. Luke, ready for my 4:30 to 8:30 pm shift. I clock in and then go behind the receptionist desk where I will sit for the next four hours. I greet Mabel who I will be replacing at the end of her shift in ten minutes. (Whenever a time clock is used at your work, you should make it a practice to clock in early and clock out a little later than your scheduled shift. Those extra minutes can add up!)

“Oh, Jill,” Mabel says after we’ve exchanged hellos. “We’ve been getting repeated crank calls from a crazy lady asking for the P.T. (physical therapy) department. Then after I transfer the call, she hangs up. She’s called about four times today. The last time she called I didn’t transfer it. I asked her her name and she hung up.”

“Huh,” I acknowledge.

“If she should call again tonight,” Mabel instructed, “Could you write down the time she called? She’s got a bit of an accent and it’s hard to understand her, but you’ll definitely be able to decipher her asking for the P.T. department.

“Mr. Moran is going to try to have the calls traced in the morning.” Mr. Moran is St. Luke’s middle-aged, scowl-faced, blowhard credit manager who, besides using devious methods to collect payment on unpaid patient bills, is also responsible for security of the building.

“Okay, sure,” I agree. Mabel tells me about the day’s admissions and then she leaves. It will be another hour before the rest of the administrative staff leaves for the day.

By the time 5:30 pm rolls around, I am completely bored. I have no homework that night, unless you count all the unread chapters of my various text books that I had been assigned. Already I’m at least three weeks behind on my reading and the quarter just started three weeks ago. But, I’m not in the mood to read. Visitor traffic, as usual on a weekday, is very light.

I think about what Mabel had said about the crazy P.T. caller. I concoct a plan. I grab a pink message tablet and begin to write:

Crazy PT lady called at 5:50 pm. I told her PT department was closed, could I take a message. She hung up. I was able to trace the call: 614-XXX-XXXX.

I am hilarious. I have written down my friend Doris’ home phone number as the crazy P.T. lady’s. I’m sure Mabel will recognize Doris’ number and she too will think I’m a hoot. I am wrong.

I don’t have to work the next day – my usual days are Tuesdays and Thursdays – that’s why I’m lounging on the couch watching TV at 4:00 pm when the phone rings. I go to my parents’ bedroom to answer it. It’s Mabel asking me for more details about the call I had taken the night before.

“What call?” I ask, my mind completely blank.

“The call you had traced from the crazy P.T. lady.”

“Mabel, are you serious? That was a joke. That’s Doris’ phone number,” I choke out.

“Yes, I know that now. What do you mean it was a joke?”

“I made that up, thinking you would recognize Doris’ phone number and know it was a joke. How would I be able to trace a phone call?” Whispers of regret are beginning to hum in my head, their volume increasing.

“Oh, Jill. I just thought you were so smart you were able to figure out how to trace the call even though Mr. Moran couldn’t. I don’t know Doris’ home phone number – I didn’t recognize it. I gave the message slip to Mr. Moran this morning, showing off how you had cracked the case.”

I’ve disappointed Mabel. I feel terrible.

A cannonball drops inside my stomach. A vise squeezes my temples. No one jokes with Mr. Moran. He’s got no sense of humor. I’ve never seen him smile.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask quietly.

“I think so,” Mabel responds. “I’ll call you back.”

I drop the receiver into its cradle and drop onto my parents’ bed. I’m going to be fired.

A few minutes pass and the phone rings again, startling me out of my misery.  It’s Mr. Moran.

“Doris is working today, Jill. I was about to call the sheriff’s deputies to go up and escort her out of the building. Just before I did that, though, I asked Mabel to call you for some more details about your message. Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused?” What, no “hello”?

I gulp. I’m both petrified and angry. Angry because a normal person would have called me long before he called the police. Angry because a normal person would not have waited until 4:00 pm to call me when he was given my message at 8:00 am. Angry because how could he think that a nineteen-year-old girl would know how to trace a call? But really, I’m more petrified than angry.

I apologize repeatedly and we hang up.

A few minutes pass and the phone rings again. It’s Mabel. She feels terrible that she didn’t call me before giving the telephone message to Mr. Moran. We both think I’m doomed because Mr. Moran does not like playing the fool and is not a forgiving man.

Mabel tells me that Mr. Boyd, the administrator of the convalescent center, has asked that I come in to meet with him. Ugh. Here it is. The grand termination. Why can’t he just fire me over the phone?

I am the personification of dread. I change my clothes and head to St. Luke. My green mile. Execution awaits.

Mabel gives me a look of pity when I approach the reception desk. We are both unsure of my future. She notifies Mr. Boyd’s secretary of my arrival. Over the intercom the secretary alerts Mr. Boyd. I hear him tell her to send me in. I am ushered into Mr. Boyd’s office. He is sitting behind his desk; Doris, my friend and victim, is sitting in one of the administrator’s two guest chairs. Mr. Boyd gestures for me to sit in the other.

I sit and Doris gives me a smirk.

Mr. Boyd clears his throat and tells me how serious this matter is. I have jeopardized Doris’ reputation and embarrassed her. (I learn later, from Doris, that she had been called down for questioning earlier that day and Mr. Moran hadn’t believed her when she denied making the calls.)

I turn to face Doris and tell her how sorry I am. She pats my hand but doesn’t smile. “I accept your apology,” she says.

Mr. Boyd dismisses Doris so he can speak to me privately. He begins by telling me I remind him of his younger sister who is my age. She loves to play practical jokes and has gotten herself into several scrapes as a result. He cautions me that if I continue to play practical jokes, I may very well end up in serious trouble.

“If you were any other employee,” he explains, “You would be fired over this incident. But we’ve never had trouble with you before and both Doris and Mabel speak very highly of you and have told me it was a dumb mistake. They both vouched for you saying it would never happen again.”

He pauses a moment and then continues. “So, we are not going to fire you. We are going to put you on probation for one year. An incident report will be placed in your personnel file. After one year it will be taken out of your file and this incident will be erased. You’ll have a clean slate. You’re a very lucky young lady to have Doris and Mabel as your advocates.”

I nod. I cannot speak immediately because relief is rushing over me like river rapids over rocks.

“Now you can go. No more practical jokes.”

“Yes, sir,” I croak. Should I have said “No sir”? I rush out of his office and give a shaky smile to Mabel across the room. I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. Because I’ll be working! I briefly consider whether I should have clocked in with my time card for this time I’ve spent getting reprimanded – you know, get paid for my penance. I’m not going to ask.

I high-tail it back home.