FLAG DAY FOR BANDERA'S  

By Corey Levitan
	About a month ago I received a phone call that 
seemed weird even for the phone calls that usually find 
their way to my apartment.  
	"Hello, my name is George," the deep voice said 
(name changed to protect the guilty). "And I want to 
purchase your phone number."  
	The bells in my prank detector rang wildly. 
	"Roy?" I inquired, repeating the name of an old 
chum who once placed a collect call to me from Alaska. 
(He wasn't actually there, but he told the operator that 
his name was Alaska.)  
	"As I'm sure you know," George said, "the last 
four digits of your home number spell F-L-A-G."   
	Hmm. Roy is clever, but he can't spell his own 
last name. This was probably a real call.  
	"I work for Houston's," George said, "and we're 
opening a restaurant near you called Bandera's. 
Bandera is Spanish for flag, and we're prepared to offer 
you money to have your phone number transferred to 
us."  
	Suddenly it came back. When I first got my phone 
service connected, Verizon offered me a choice of three 
numbers. I picked the only one that spelled something, 
figuring it would help my friends remember where to 
reach me.  
	Of course, I forgot all about F-L-A-G the day after 
I ordered my service, and I never told a soul.  
	But I was not about to let reality stand in the way 
of a good business transaction.  
	"I'm not interested," I told George. "I run a 
business out of my home, and F-L-A-G is essential to 
that business. I have clients who dial my number by 
that word, I have stationery printed up, everything."  
	I was lying through my teeth, and hoping George 
would not call me on it. What would I have said my 
business was? Flag-sewing?  
	"I'm sorry," I continued. "I would not be willing to 
sell you my phone number for any reasonable amount 
of money."  
	The other end got quieter than Paris Hilton in 
philosophy class. The word reasonable was the bait 
here, and George had bitten into it like a Houston's 
bacon cheeseburger.  
	"OK, what's an unreasonable amount then?" he 
said.  
	This is the point where my friends say I should 
have demanded half a million dollars, a new BMW and a 
controlling interest in DreamWorks. This is Houston's 
Restaurant, Roy points out. They can afford anything.  
They've got oil down there. 
	But I wanted a figure not so high that George 
might try dialing other F-L-A-G numbers to get a better 
deal.  
	"I wouldn't be willing to do this for any less than 
a grand," I said.  
	I had made my offer, and I was happy with it. 
After all, when $1,000 falls out of the sky and lands at 
your feet, you don't wonder why the sky didn't drop 
$100,000 instead.  
	"I'm sorry, Mr. Levitan," George responded.   
	Damn, was I too greedy? I was about to change 
my number anyway, to avoid publicists who for some 
reason think that if they call me during "The Sopranos," 
I'm more likely to agree to one of their crappy story 
ideas than if they call me at work.  
	Just as I was about to break down and tell George 
he could have his number in exchange for a free dinner, 
he came back with his offer.  
	"We are not willing to go any higher than $750."  
	I told George I would consider it and call him 
back in an hour.  
	I spent that hour dancing around my living room, 
pondering many possibilities for squandering my $750. 
(Starting in on my $11,000 in debts was the winner.)  
	When I finally cut the deal, I made George throw 
in the promise that for the next month, every call 
mistakenly coming into Bandera's for me would be 
referred to my new number.  
	"I don't even know the numbers of all my clients!" 
I continued my financially rewarding perversion of the 
truth. "Some of them only call me from their cell 
phones." Lying had become a drug by this point.  
	When Verizon called to offer me a choice of three 
replacement numbers, I made sure my new one spelled 
something, too. (I'll tell you what it was in a couple of 
months, hopefully after I trade it for that DreamWorks 
interest.)  
	Two weeks after I cashed the check and switched 
my digits, I called my old number and asked to speak to 
myself, just to check if George had kept his promise.   
	The Bandera's employee who answered said there 
was no Corey there, and that he knew of no forwarding 
number.  
	Can you believe George had the nerve to lie to me 
like that?  

	(Bandera's phone number is 310-477-FLAG. Ask 
for Corey, they love that.)