The Hellhole

Friday, January 07, 2005

I just got the oddest phone call. It came in on my boss’s direct line, not through the switchboard/receptionist so I pick up and say my little intro speech. The caller responds, “Iiiiiiit’s RUMBA TIME!” I reply, “Pardon?” and he hangs up on me.

Um...what?!? Rumba time? RUMBA TIME??? I’m 99% sure I heard him correctly. I don’t go out dancing very often - in fact, only twice or thrice since the Great Left Knee Explosion of ‘99 and even then, I don’t rumba. I’ve always felt that the rumba was just a little too Xavier Cugat for me. The caller was definitely a male voice but nobody I recognized, not much of any discernable accent. Of course another call (a real one this time, from a business associate I know) came in before I could *69 rumba guy.

Rumba time??? Do you think the call was meant for someone else who would understand the significance of “rumba time” and the guy realized it when I said “Pardon?” or was it some sort of cryptic message intended for me, and I’m missing scads of espionage-tinged excitement because I’m too dense to decode it? Urban dictionary reports no modern, double-entendre meaning for ‘rumba’. A perplexing conundrum!

Well, I suppose I should follow instructions. If my co-worker has me committed for rumba-ing about the office to “Tico Tico”, someone call Arthur Murray for me. It’s Friday and iiiiiiiiit’s RUMBA TIME!



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