Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

November 12, 1999

So there I was, drifting off to sleep in the recliner, watching “The Simpsons” through half-open eyes when the phone rang across the room and delayed any chance of a late-afternoon nap.

Hoping that it was either Taylor or Ed McMahon, I made my way across the room and checked the caller ID.

Unavailable.

No Taylor, but there was still a chance I had already won a million dollars.

I grabbed the cordless and prepared myself for riches.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hellooo?”

Then came one of the many voices I’ve learned to dread.

“Hmmm, yes, may I speak to a Mr. Chet Jackson?”

I raced through my typical response. “He’s not in right now, can I take a message?”

“Is Mrs. Jackson in?”

I just wanted to scream into the telephone, “There is no stinkin’ Mrs. Jackson! If Chet was married and his wife was here, wouldn’t you be a little curious as to why I answered the phone?”

Instead I said, “No she’s not. Can I take a message?”

“No that’s fine sir, this is just a courtesy call from some random phone company. If you could tell Mr. or Mrs. Jackson that we called and if they have any questions they can call 1-800-blah blah blah, and we’d be glad to talk to them. Thank you very much and have a nice day.”

Then they hung up. After putting the phone back, a flood of questions rushed through my brain.

Do they really think Chet and his imaginary wife are going to have any questions?

Why did they tell me there was no message and then rattle off an 800 number for the happy couple to call?

Why do they call it a courtesy call if all it does is wake me from my slumber and waste several precious moments of my day?

And how the hell do they expect me to have a nice day when I have all these unanswered questions?

I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a pizza out of the freezer and threw it in the oven still bothered by the phone call.

We get more than a dozen of these “courtesy” calls each day, and I’m always amazed at some of the things they ask.

“Yes, may I speak to a Mr. Edmund Morgan?”

“He’s not in right now, yada yada yada.”

“Is there a more convenient time to reach him?”

My first thought is to tell her to try again whenever she’s enjoying a warm meal with her family, but I usually go with a back-up plan.

“He works odd hours. You can usually catch him at home between 2 and 6 a.m.”

Or “He works the street corners. You can call his cell on Friday or Saturday nights.”

Or if I’m in a bad mood, I just end the phone call. “About a year ago. He’s dead.”

Click.

What really bugs me is when they try to shift the focus of the phone call.

“Well, sir, are you a responsible decision-maker in the household?”

“Lady, I’m not even supposed to be answering the phone.”

I wouldn’t be so upset about these people if I hadn’t fallen prey to their tricks before. For example, there was one time the telemarketer promised me no purchase was necessary, yet shortly thereafter I found myself with three-year subscriptions to four weekly magazines at a fraction of their newsstand price.

Those same tactics explain the Bob Ross painting on our living room wall, the motorized tie rack in my closet and the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grillin’ Machine in the kitchen.

Now I know I should just hang up when I hear silence after the first hello, but there’s always the chance it’s just my parents being a little slow on the other end of the line.

At least they don’t ask me stupid questions or mispronounce my name, and they’ve known me long enough to remember when I was a responsible decision-maker in the household.

And then I came to college.