The telephone ringing just inches from my head woke me at an unearthly hour—probably well before 10 a.m. It was summer and I had been sleeping on the couch at my sister and brother-in-law’s home, where I had spent the night. I—still a high school student—was home for the day. They were both away at their jobs, so it was up to me to answer the phone.
“Hello,” I croaked after pulling the receiver under the covers and sounding like a frog on his deathbed.
“HELLO?” came a robust woman’s voice in reply.
“Hello?” I repeated, a little less frog-like.
“Are you the folks with the Winnebago?” the woman asked. There was a pause as I tried to make sense of her question.
“Are we the…huh?” I managed at last.
“Are you the folks with the Winnebago!?” the woman repeated with impatience showing in her Hoosier-accented voice.
“The Winnah…?” I replied, still not comprehending.
“The MOTORHOME!” she blared.
The mental fog lifted. She was calling about my brother-in-law’s motorhome, which he wanted to sell. Apparently he had placed an ad in the newspaper.
“Yes, yes,” I said sitting up on the couch and feeling much more equal to the conversation. “We’re the folks with the motorhome.”
Despite this breakthrough, an awkward silence emerged between us. Finally, she asked, “Well…can we look at it?”
“Oh, right,” I answered. “Sure, sure. You can come look at it. Definitely. Come on over.”
Yet another awkward silence emerged, broken only when she demanded, “Well, where IS it?”
“Oh, uh, it’s just right behind the house. You can’t miss it. Parked right next to the alley,” I said.
“What’s the address?” she retorted with undisguised exasperation.
Although I had spent many happy evenings at my sister and brother-in-law’s home and felt I could find it blindfolded if the occasion to search for it blindfolded ever presented itself, I had to admit, I had no idea of the address. Something told me the caller would not take this news well. So, I just said, “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
I put down the receiver and looked around for pieces of mail that might reveal the address. Unfortunately, all the mail I found was addressed to my brother-in-law’s place of work. After a few minutes of searching, I returned to the phone.
“Are you still there,” I asked lifting the receiver.
“Mmmhmmm,” the woman answered.
“Great. Thanks. Hang on.”
I replaced the receiver on the table and tried to think. In a moment, I got the idea to step outside on the front porch and look for the house number. This meant pulling on some jeans and finding my eyeglasses. I found the jeans, but not the glasses. I went outside anyway and, squinting, did my best to find a house number. Sadly, I was unsuccessful. I returned to the telephone to share the bad news.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know the address, but the house is right across from Collett Park on Seventh Street.” The lady made no reply. I was about to further describe the house’s exact location when I spotted a magazine next to the television. I picked it up and was pleased to see the address I’d been searching for printed on the cover.
“Oh wait,” I said. “Here we go.” I then proudly read off the address with deep satisfaction.
And yet there was just another long silence. I was about to give an encore performance when she spoke at last. With a hint of concern in her voice as she asked,
“Will you be all right if I hang up?”
Epilogue:
That lady did not purchase the Winnebago, or come look at it. Happily, however, a man telephoned later that morning and he did purchase the vehicle. To thank me for my sales expertise, my brother-in-law and sister treated me to a delicious dinner at an Italian restaurant. About 15 years later, the Reader’s Digest published a very short version of this story and paid me $200, with which I treated my brother-in-law and sister to an Italian dinner of their own.