Do You Have Prince Albert in a Can?

I have the Magic Internet Phone, which allows me to make international calls for free. Middle Brother and I talk at least every week. By some quirk of fate, his work phone number is only two digits different than the number one of my best friends had in high school. Memorising MB's work number was incredibly simple, he works regular hours, and nearly always has a few minutes to spare.

Youngest Brother (YB) is another kettle of fish entirely. He's not one for regular communication with anyone, as near as any of his blood relations can tell. My mother says that she's convinced he never checks his voicemail. He's prone to doing things like calling my parents from the airport to tell them on he's on his way to Honduras or Guatemala.

The last time I talked to him was when he rang me in July on my birthday. We talked for an hour and agreed that we should talk more often, maybe even make it a regular thing, but that hasn't happened. He's a busy guy with lots on his mind and we've got a five hour time difference between us, so it seems like I'm condemned to spend a lifetime leaving messages for him.

There's one other thing you need to know about YB. He's a bit of a trickster, especially when it comes to the phone. He once rang MB, pretending to be a printer salesman. MB bought the act entirely.

It was a combination of this lack of regular communication and his propensity for hucksterism that led me to make this embarrasing faux pas this evening when I tried to call YB. I was stunned when the phone was picked up after three rings.

Me: Hey! YB! I can't believe I got ahold of you.
Him: Who is this?
Me: It's your sister.
Him: You have the wrong number.
Me: No I don't.
Him: Yes, you do.
Me: Beardog! Knock it off, this is your sister.
Him: Who are you trying to call?
Me: My brother, YB.
Him: This isn't your brother.
Me: It sounds like my brother.
Him: Look, my name is Chris. I live in Saint Augustine, Florida and I'm a massage therapist.
Me: Oh. Shit. I'm so sorry. You're not my brother. But he's exactly the kind of guy who would pretend that I had the wrong number, just to wind me up.
Him: Nope, sorry, you really do have the wrong number.

I hung up the phone and double-checked the number I dialed on the Magic Internet Phone against the number I had stored in my mobile. Sure enough, I'd gotten the penultimate digit wrong. Ooops.