(There was a country song containing the line "Tell ol' 'I ain't here' he better get on home." I would cite the author/performer if I could find it, but I can't. Anybody?)
Wrong numbers plague us, too. Ours is one digit off Adult Probation, saints preserve us. My husband informed me recently that he's going to start pardoning people.
But my favorite wrong number happened because when I left my ex-husband, I 'went on the road' for nine months, traveling anyway the wind blew. After a while it seemed sensible to get a cell phone (although at that time, I discovered that anywhere I was likely to be in need of the cell phone - there was no reception), and this became clear to me while I was in Texas.
Odd, but when you do things like sign a cell phone contract, they like to have an address. The only address I had was "U.S.S. Camry, Wherever-I-darned-well-feel-like-being, USA."
Muhammad, the manager of the store where I bought my phone, was an affable guy and (probably more to the point) eager to make the sale, so he allowed me to use the address of the store as mine.
This resulted in my cell phone number having a Texas area code.
Early days, the only people who called your cell were the ones you'd given the number, so when my phone gave its cheery chirp, I smiled as I pressed the little green phone icon.
A woman's voice with the unmistakable east Texas twang said, "Uh, Robert LePont, please?"
I said, "Who?"
"Robert LePont. Kin I talk to him?"
I said, "I'm sorry, you have the wrong number."
She said, "I shorely do NOT have the wrong number. This heah's the number he give me."
It seemed unkind to say, "Well, then, I suggest he doesn't actually want to talk to you," so I only repeated my position. "There's no Robert LePont at this number."
Her voice turned belligerent, and she said, in a 'don't mess with Texas' tone, "This is T...W... in Texas, an' I wunna talk to Robert LePont."
I sighed. She was burning up my cell phone minutes. "I understand that, ma'am, but you have the wrong number. There's no Robert LePont here." Silence. I went further, "I am _______ ________ and I am in South Carolina."
She exploded. "No, you AIN'T, NEITHER! This hyeah's a TEXAS phone number. Who you tryin' to kid? I WUNNA TALK TO ROBERT LEPONT."
I felt sorry for her. She just knew the nefarious and elusive Mr. LePont was standing at my elbow, nuzzling my neck and whispering, "Jest tell her ah ain't HYEAH."
I hung up. There is no reasoning with a woman scorned.
If any of you run into that scoundrel Robert Lepont, kindly tell him to call T...W... in Texas. Or else.