Tell Debt Do We Part
A primer on how to handle nuisance calls

By Gene Weingarten
Sunday, June 1, 2008

LESS THAN AN HOUR after I got my new home phone number, the annoying calls began. They all asked for the same person -- Diana -- and they all sounded suspiciously friendly. Not overbearingly friendly, the way telemarketers sound, but tension-filled friendly, like the good cop after the one with the brass knuckles has already dropped in to say hello.

At first, I just told the callers that no one named Diana lived here, that this once had apparently been her phone number, but wasn't anymore, so please go away. It did no good. They kept calling back, week after week, sometimes two or three times a day, polite but persistent. I eventually figured out what these cagey callers were about, though they didn't make it easy for me. Of course, I didn't make it easy for them, either.

Me: Is this about money?

Them: Do you know Diana?

Me: Maybe. It is possible that I love her. If I do, what would you like me to tell her?

Them: That it's very, very important for her to call us.

Me: Wait. Has her Great-Uncle Acidophilus died and left her $17 million?

Them: Maybe.

Me: If you are misleading me, God will smite you with His righteous, nail-studded cudgel of retribution. Do you know God?

Them: Maybe. Do you know Diana?

Me: Maybe. Are you a collection agency?

Them: Maybe.

From these calls, I learned that collection agencies don't have helpfully descriptive names, like "Deadbeat-Finders Inc." or "Thumbscrew Associates." They have deceptively elegant names, like "Washington-Lincoln-Roosevelt Fiscal Consultancies Ltd." And only when you Google them do you discover what they truly are up to. Officially, they call themselves "accounts receivable management partners." They mean: "We wring blood from turnips."

All of these companies brag about their high-tech people-locator methods, but I must tell you that after fielding scores of these calls over dozens of weeks -- calls that cost someone a lot of money in salaries and infrastructure -- I managed to locate Diana by looking in the phone book. She lives in my neighborhood.

By this time, I had a pretty good picture in my mind of Diana. If she lived around here, I deduced, she wasn't poor. From the number and variation of the calls, I deduced she was flagrant. In short, she was young and slick and joyfully felonious, the sort of person who takes a perverse pleasure in staying a step ahead of The Man. She's a manipulator of the system, a con artist by choice, not necessity. She might be an international jewel thief or cat burglar.

I got in my car and set out to find her and give her a piece of my mind.

It turned out that there are government-subsidized apartment complexes on the outskirts of my neighborhood. Who knew? On the outside of Diana's apartment door was a stuffed teddy bear. On the inside of Diana's door was Diana. She was neither young nor slick, and, from the size of the housecoat she was wearing, I strongly suspected that she was not a cat burglar. I told her that I now had her old phone number. I didn't have to say anymore. She smiled and shook her head in sympathy.

Diana: Aren't those calls terrible? Those awful people kept calling all day and night!

Me: I know!

By now, we were both laughing.

Diana: Yeah. You got yourself a problem, all right.

Me: But, see, it's not really fair because . . .

Diana: I used to have a job in debt consolidation. But I broke my back in a fall down concrete steps and haven't been able to work for nine years. The debt piled up. I couldn't eat now, except that this welfare agency brings me two bags of groceries every Wednesday. The dog eats what I eat because I can't afford dog food.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of her little dog sniffling around my ankles. Then, Diana's face lit up.

Diana: Hey, you know what you should do? You should do what I did.

Me: What's that?

Diana: Change your phone number!

So, there we were. Diana had successfully placed herself back under the radar, and that's where she wants to stay. When I got home, the phone was ringing. It was for Diana.

Gene Weingarten can be reached at weingarten@washpost.com.

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