I found a cell phone tonight at the Broadway T stop, searched its phone book for a number to call to arrange its return, found an entry for “Dad.” I called dad. I explained the situation. Dad said he had no idea what I was talking about. I explained the situation again. Dad said I’d reached the wrong person. He denied having offspring. I asked if he knew of anyone who might have him listed in their phone book as “Dad,” whether he was one or not. No, he said.
He told me I had the wrong number.
“But you’re on speed dial,” I said. Silence.
I hung up.
I wound up returning the phone to a girl at Park Street several minutes later, connected through the most-recently dialed number in the phone’s memory. I handed over her phone and asked no questions.
I was in a rush, and almost preferred leaving it a mystery.