Goodbye, Robert.

For many years, I've received regular messages from a restricted number. It first began when I was 19 and a sophomore in college, when I missed a call and was treated to a lengthy message from a fine fellow named Robert with a New Zealand accent, detailing the recent trip he took to Saint Kitts and Nevis in his yacht with his wife and another venerable couple.

He believed that my number belonged to a Michael Morgan. I deduced from his messages over the years that Mr. Morgan could be reached at many numbers. I figured Robert had left other similar voicemail messages at these other numbers and successfully got in touch with Mr. Morgan, since he continued to call mine.

Subsequent messages sketched out Robert's lifestyle; he was wealthy and spent much of his free time sailing up and down the eastern seaboard of the US, and to other places around the world. He spoke of refitting a boat in Chicago, of adventures he'd had in Crete, of his wife. He spoke to "me" like an old, familiar companion. Sometimes a month would go by between contacts, sometimes a year... But I'd always miss his call, and receive a message. I'd listen to them over and over again, just for that tantalizing glimpse into another lifestyle. I came to think of him as my friend.

Tonight, I answered his call for the first time.

He said, "Yes, Michael Morgan?" I was already mostly through my "sorry, you must have the wrong number" spiel when I recognized his voice and the name and trailed off; it has been two years since he's left a voicemail. Before I could take my words back, to tell him how entertained I've been by his messages over the years, to ask him who he was, he said "oops, thank you!" in an embarassed tone, and ended the call.

I am filled with regret.