the bill collector blues on the other side of the room

My phone rang a few minutes ago...a blocked number, but curioisty got the better of me.

It was a collection agency. No, not looking for me...all the ones that want my turnip-blood already know where to find me. Looking for my ex.

I explained to the painfully polite gentleman that:

a: We have been divorced for a year.
b: One of the terms in the divorce papers indemnifies one another from the other's debts.
c: I've not heard from her in almost a year.
d: I got this cell phone number two months after the last time I spoke with her (I had been planning to get cellphones sooner, as she had asked me to get us both phones, and send her one so we could stay in touch without the people around her knowing we were still talking, but her girlfriend found out we were stil in touch and banned her from speaking to me.)
e: The house she shared with her mother in Diamondhead, Mississippi was, to my best information, destroyed in Hurricane Katrina, so at this point chasing her was trying to milk a rock.

I took his information and told him if I heard anything, or had the opportunity to help out at all, I would get in touch with him. All in all the most civilized conversation I've had with a collector in my life.

But it made me realize, looking over my email addresses, just how many of the people I speak with fall away, every so often, old friends, old lovers, even my former Priest, all have evaporated.

Does the word Pariah apply here? No, I don't think so, unless someone has been doing one heck of an anti-PR campaign on my character and actions (and then I would at least expect some bristling "to hell with you" notes).

So, I started today, cleaning out my address book. Trashing names and addresses, old emails and pictures.

All gone. Like promises never meant to be kept. The best intentioned of untested prophecies.