A few weeks back, some friends and I were swapping stories about misadventures in wrong telephone numbers—you know, those times when you dial the wrong number and much hilarity and/or stomach upset ensue. The following is a true story that still makes my stomach churn. I have only recently been able to talk about it.

In 1988, I was a cub reporter working for a small Midwestern daily newspaper, and I had a wrong number experience that nearly forced me into a career in horticulture, beekeeping or anything as far from news reporting as possible. At just 20 years old and still working on my journalism degree,  I was one of the youngest reporters they’d ever turned loose on his own beat. Most student reporters were interns and thus classified as “general assignment reporters.” I’d shown aptitude beyond my years, so they let me work the police beat, which I loved.

At any rate, another responsibility given to the lowest ranking reporter on duty any night was writing obituaries. On one particular evening, after I had filed my last bit of police news, the editor in charge handed me a stack of obit forms that needed turning into obits for the next day’s paper. One of the obits was almost entirely written and just needed a few facts verified. So, he shoves all of this onto my desk and says he needs all seven obits done in 45 minutes. Writing obituaries is simultaneously sad and difficult. While family members are well-intentioned when they supply information about their dearly departed, they often supply information that is inaccurate, incomplete and sometimes even libelous. That means obituary writing involves a lot of fact checking, spell checking, and removal of bias that could get the paper sued. There are two key reasons why newspapers put cub reporters on obit duty:

1. Obit writing is tedious and difficult, and writing them forces young reporters to hone their fact-checking skills.
2. No one else wants to do it, so as lowest on the proverbial totem pole, it lands squarely in the cub’s lap. It’s a rite of passage that no young reporter escapes.

So, on this particular night in question, I knew 45 minutes was not much time to write and fact-check seven obituaries. I was young, but not stupid. I also knew that the editor in charge that night was one of the crustiest humans alive and though I was still thoroughly green in the ear area, he had zero patience for mistakes and missed deadlines turned him into a beast from the fieriest pits of Hell.

I had been working at the newspaper long enough to know that news writing is often about triage—treat the most seriously wounded first and leave the minor injuries for later. That meant that I knew I needed to write the six obits that hadn’t yet been started first, then circle back to the one that was nearly finished.

I whipped through those six pretty quickly. The information supplied by the funeral homes was nearly complete and I only had to make a couple of calls to verify various bits of information. When I got to the obit that was almost done, I saw that the editor had written a note on the obit form, asking that I call the funeral home or family to verify a few facts. He had also scrawled the family’s phone number in the margin of the obit form. I should point out now that the editor in question had really poor handwriting.

At any rate, I first tried calling the funeral home since calling families who have just lost a loved one is obviously a quite uncomfortable task. Unfortunately, several calls to the funeral home went unanswered and I was just a few minutes away from my deadline. I’d already spotted my editor staring daggers through me because I had yet to file the last obituary.

I decided that my only course of action now was to call the family, so I picked up the phone and started dialing. As I was dialing, I saw that one of the numbers was illegible—looking like either a four or a six. I dropped the phone back into the cradle and studied it for a bit, turning the paper every which way, but I still could not make out the number. I was sweating bullets, but I mustered the courage to get up and walk over to the editor’s desk to ask him for clarification.

Without even looking up and before I can utter a word, the editor barked at me and told me to go away because he’s on deadline. I’d tell you what he said, but my mom taught me not to use those words. I started to protest, but he jabbed his finger at me at me and told me to go back to my desk. 

So, I skittered away, tail between my legs. Knowing that calling the wrong person to ask about the death of a beloved relative could be disastrous, I decide to do some research first. Because it was 1988, it was pre-web and Google, so I only had the phone book and the city directory to check, both of which didn’t answer my question. So, I made my best guess at the number and dialed it with a sweaty hand.

A nice, older sounding lady answered. I identified myself as being a reporter with the newspaper, explained that I was working on her son’s obituary, and said that I needed to ask a few questions. Immediately, she begins sobbing and telling me that she had no idea her son was dead. She’d just spoken with him earlier that day and now she was bawling and asking why the hospital or the police hadn’t notified her.

I’m on the other end thinking, “Oh shit-oh shit-oh shit.” You see, it couldn’t be her son who had died since the person in question had been dead for two days. If she had spoken to her son earlier that day, he likely wasn’t dead unless he had called from the afterlife. But I couldn’t get a word in edgewise because she was crying and wailing. Eventually, she dropped the phone and continued to cry in the background. Those of you who know me know that I am the sensitive sort. As you might surmise, every drop of color had drained from my face, I was sweating and on the verge of tears. I was pleading with her to pick the phone back up so that I can tell her that her son is not dead and that I clearly have the wrong number.

By this time, the reporters who sat near me in the bullpen had gathered around my desk, some looking horrified and at least a couple appearing to be quite amused. I was ashen, trembling, and had very nearly soiled my pants.

Finally, another voice got on the line and told me she was the neighbor and she came over because she heard this poor lady crying up a storm (that should tell you just how loudly she was wailing). She asked me to tell her what happened. When I explained to her the honest mistake, I learned that little old ladies know a lot of swear words. A LOT. I apologized profusely and by this time, I think I might’ve actually shed a tear or two. She hung up on me after calling me some things that I dare not repeat here.

After I hung up, I saw a bunch of faces staring at me. Among them was the intoxicated editor. He immediately blurted, “What in the hell is wrong with you, boy? Why would you do that to someone?”

I stammered around, trying to explain that I couldn’t read his writing and I even tried to ask him about it, but he wouldn’t hear anything about it. So, he stood there and swore at me for a while before tottering off. He didn’t fire me, but I can tell you that was nearly my last day as a newspaper reporter.

The other reporters were supportive and many told me similarly horrific tales from their previous mistakes. I felt a little better, but to this day, I still feel bad. I have wondered if this story has become one that members of that family now laugh about, or if they burn my name in effigy at every available opportunity?

I think I might still have that piece of paper with the mistaken phone number on it. I kept it as a reminder to make sure that I had the facts right before I called or spoke to anyone about anything. Maybe I should call and ask if they have forgiven me yet? I mean, it’s been like 26 years.

Then again, I still don’t know for sure what numbered I dialed that day and I think it best not to call anyone to talk about their dead sons unless I want a repeat performance…