Privacy? What's that?

“Hey! Rafe Rackstraw … Birdy!”

My cell phone sometimes reveals that I have missed a call – usually also providing a callback number. About half the time, I’m also alerted to new voicemail. Every caller is invited to leave voicemail; those who know me or who have something actually important to say tend to leave messages – I’m just as glad to have missed (or filtered out) the rest.

A “619” message (San Diego area code) had been received; I was intrigued. I’ve been getting some attention among former classmates from Hoover High – mostly thanks to a couple of fellows who are active online and are trying to keep us aging Cardinals connected.

The voice from my cell phone didn’t sound a bit familiar. This wasn’t one of the three people with whom I’ve spoken during the past twenty years or so…

“.... I’m throwing you a few niblets from the past,” the voice continued.

It was clearly a male voice and definitely went back farther than high school. “Birdy” was a nickname used for just three years to identify me. One Larry Mercer mispronounced my last name (“Burk-ey”) and immediately transformed it into the avian moniker.

Convinced that such a cognomen is literally for the birds – and not for a man of the world such as myself who was entering junior high school – I convinced all who attempted to reinstate the offending appellation to return my label to it’s original status.

The Rackstraw reference also pointed toward my pre-teen period, specifically to sixth grade where I assumed the personage of one Ralph (pronounced “RAFE” according to Mrs. Davis, our teacher and the director of H.M.S. Pinafore – my one and only experience as a thespian).

I got the lead in this production, I’m sure, because I was a bit of a teacher’s pet. Mrs. Davis liked me and must have been nervous about finding a student who could learn all of the lines. I was pretty much a nerd at the time – and, I suppose all through school (maybe all my life, who can say) – and I only tried out for the part to compete with Richard Burstein, my nemesis.

Richard was about a magnitude above me, in terms of I.Q. and, worse yet, worked a lot harder. He generally scored above me and got most of the nerd, or “smart kid” perquisites. I only remember winning the day three times: I was elected president of the Safety Patrol, I got the lead in Pinafore, and I got to give the “Farewell to Franklin” speech at graduation.

Anyway, I was pretty sure the phone call was from someone from Room 6 at Franklin Elementary in East San Diego. There were just 15 or 20 males in that group and I think I remember more than half – and would likely recognize the names of others.

Fortunately, as a male, it was unlikely that the caller’s name had changed, so I had a pretty high level of confidence that I’d be able to crack this nut. And I did, in fact, with just two quick detective moves.

First, I called the number that my phone had captured. There was nobody home, but it turns out that Kim – that’s right, the mystery caller was Kim Ward – has voicemail, too, and his greeting message listed first names for Kim, a wife and a couple of kids.

I then used a “reverse directory” search online and received confirmation. For some cash, I could have ordered all kinds of information – probably at least a couple of things that might make Kim feel suspect that I’m a psychic or big-time private eye.

But I settled for what I had found in just a few minutes and without any expense.

When the phone rang a couple of hours later, the display flashed his name and I coolly answered…

“Hello Kim Ward! It has been a long time.”