Crank Calls And Steven Spielberg

The first call came Friday night. I was setting up the X-Box someone at Microsoft sent to me (just in case I wanted to "be involved" in some of their game marketing) when the phone rang. I waited for another member of my family to pick up, remembered I was alone in the house, and did the dirty work myself.

Me: Hello.
Guy: (large intake of breath)!

My first thought was that the caller was a representative of Morristown Memorial's ER unit, about to ask for a donation. It would have been an animated way to get my attention. My first thought was incorrect.

Me: We kind of have a wing named after us in Chicago at -
Guy: Jimmy Scott!

My first thought at hearing my name called out, exclamation mark attached, was that the guy from Microsoft wanted his game back. Jeez, I hadn't even called customer service yet to demand they send an installer over or they could kiss their marketing scheme goodbye. My first thought was incorrect.

Me: I don't even like video games. My mom once bought us this Atari knock-off -
Guy: Look outside.

Click.

The male voice, one that failed to identify itself like polite people do on the phone, didn't frighten me. I've been harassed by fans before. That's who this was. One more fan excited to get the object of their affection on the horn. If they catch me, they usually have little to say that I can understand. They don't know it, but I get how they feel. A few years ago I had the chance to meet one of my heroes, Steven Spielberg, at a game in LA. He shook my hand. We had a picture together. I'm still not sure if I used verbs or not when I spoke to him, and I'll never know, having deleted the file from my brain. Short of just bringing this up to you, I've successfully pretended my meeting with Mr. Spielberg never happened and there's still a shot for him to give me a cameo in the next Indiana Jones prequel. The male voice that spoke to me on the phone, albeit briefly, was just an excitable boy who had a few unchaperoned moments with his hero. It's happened before and will happen again.

They don't usually ask me to do anything as simple as looking outside. If they have the confidence to speak full sentences to me, they usually want money or my "influence" (of which I have none pretty much in every category) to help them attain some goal, like a job in baseball or an appearance for their local charity or a signing of their boobs with a Magic Marker. But to just look outside? Interesting.

I was in my Entertainment Veranda. Switching on some outside lights, I was able to get a good view of the backyard. Nothing interesting. Just a few brown leaves hanging onto trees for dear life and lots of grass that would not be green again for four months.

I shook my head and went back to my X-Box. What's a USB cable? And what's a USB port? Totally confused (I tried to follow the directions in Spanish at first, but that challenge lasted no further than "Hola." I wasn't a very good student of Western European foreign languages.), I lifted up the phone to call Microsoft. But instead of getting a dial tone, I got a voice. The same one as before.

Guy: You didn't look outside.
Me: How'd you...? The phone didn't ring. And I did look outside.
Guy: Kizmet. And the backyard doesn't count.
Me: You weren't specific.
Guy: Look outside.
Me: Meaning the front, right? That's a given here?

Click.

I dropped the X-Box box onto the Davenport and trounced upstairs. My mood was quickly turning sour, as Mr. Spielberg's did when I may have mentioned to him Munich was a real downer and I hoped he could make something with a happy ending again, like another Schindler's List. I was free to do a screen-test between October 31st and February 14th. And just to get my point totally across, I asked for his home phone number, "in case we want to continue this dialog lots more and stuff." His PR person was able to stand in front of me at that very moment. When I got back into position, Mr. Spielberg was gone.

The front door was closed, as it should be. Safety first is my motto when I begin to feel stalked by a telephone. I unlocked the door, pulled it open, and was astonished at the sight. More toilet paper! It was everywhere. This was, by far, the worst papering we'd had of the three. I can't begin to describe the budget these vandals had, but it was pretty hefty compared to what I would spend on a prank like this.

The ringing phone called me back inside.

I shut the door, locked it, and lifted up the receiver.

Guy: You see what we did?
Me: A-Ha! So you admit to it.

Click.

Furious, I dialed the first person who I thought could help, someone with a mind that could read through B.S. and get to the point. What made me even more furious was the person I was calling was my father, "Red" Scott. He picked up on the first ring. This is one guy who loves it when fans call his house. I swear, he must put his phone number in a Yellow Pages ad he enjoys the spotlight so much.

"Red" Scott: "Red" Scott.

Even he uses the quotation marks when he says his first name.

Me: Dad, it's me.
"Red" Scott: Mrs. Jackson?
Me: No. It's -
"Red" Scott: Hey, Jimmy, remember when the Army called for your brother, and they got you on the phone instead, and they thought you were a girl because your voice didn't change until you were 17.
Me: Now I do.
"Red" Scott: That was funny. You have any more stories like that? I want to use them next time you pitch.
Me: I should have retired.
"Red" Scott: So far, every time I've called one of your games, I've been able to distance our father/son connection -
Me: Something I've been trying to do for years.
"Red" Scott: ...but I think since I'll be calling all of your games this coming season, the fans want more from "Red" Scott. Don't you think?
Me: I don't think you should refer to yourself in the third person. That's very nineties.
"Red" Scott: Just leave the announcing to "Red," okay my boy? Any you were a boy for a long time, weren't ya? When I was your age, you were just having your first wet dream while I'd been shaving for 3 years and getting laid -
Me: Okay. Bye.
"Red" Scott: Bye.

Click.

My mood was even worse now. The man could ruin the greatest moment of anybody's life - birth of a child, wedding day, saving a bushel German Shepherds from a burning dog kennel - by simply showing up. Is it wrong for a father to compete with his children? I remember, when I was with Chicago, we had the two Gambles playing side by side in the same outfield for one "magical" September, father and son. You'd think, and the writers did, about what a great story this was. Father wants to extend his career, play as long as possible, so he can play next to his son in the same outfield. Only in this case, father wanted to play as long as possible because he just didn't want to stop playing. I don't think he really cared about who played next to him, as long as he was still in that outfield catching flies (both kinds - it is a summer game) and living The Life.

We know the story after that. Father was cut in October, now is a roving instructor for St. Louis while son is still playing for Chicago, having broken all the records his father ever set years ago. It is my assumption that Mr. Gamble and Mr. "Red" Scott would have a lot in common if one of them ever had the capacity to listen to what someone else had to say.

Around this time, Vanessa and the girls got home. They'd seen the mess outside and were slightly unnerved. We'd have to reach into the girls' college funds once again to pay for landscapers to clean everything up.

Vanessa called the police. The first two paperings seemed like your typical neighborhood vandalism. This one, with the crank calls, had increased the tension. We needed professionals.

Julia was pretty good about it. But Grace really took it hard. She stared straight ahead when I explained all about my X-Box debacle and the content of the crank calls, then excused herself and quickly ran upstairs to her room. She's always been the sensitive daughter. Julia has a little "Red" Scott in her, even though I remind them both to keep their distance from each other, not easy when a grandfather and granddaughter are so fond of one another.

The police said they'd step up neighborhood patrols. I thanked them but got a little worried when Vanessa started talking about what happened to Val and Aaron Daly, he late of the Pittsburgh franchise before breaking his leg (and ending his career) while running after a bunch of kids one Halloween who had "accidentally" (according to their lawyers) pelted his SUV with more than two dozen cage-free brown organic-style eggs. The first rule of being in the public eye is to never attack kids. Rule two is, if you ignore rule one, be sure to get away quickly so you can have the maximum allowable time to create an alibi. Or call you agent and let him do it. Aaron fell on his retreat, breaking his leg. The kids had been ready. When the police and ambulance came, he literally had egg on his face.

I promised I wouldn't pull an Aaron Daly on anyone, even though all the kids these days are obese because they only play video games, thus making them more easily catchable than in '96. Still, my blood boiled at the thought of being a victim of toilet paper all over again. One day, I would enact my revenge. Until then, I'd wait for Microsoft to send their guy over to set up my X-Box so I can play the new Steven Spielberg Presents: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull game before the rest of the world. Or at least before any kids armed with eggs, cell phones and my phone number.