I'm gonna betch-slap you, shet-bag.

*I will preface this by saying that none of this NONE OF THIS is made-up.*

10:30, Friday night, less than two months ago
Preparing to settle down for a pre-weekend slumber, I lope into the kitchen to plug my cellphone in so that it may become charged during the night. I notice with some curiosity that the "you've got a goddamn message" light has been set a'blinkin', and when I open the phone I see that someone has tried to call me FIVE TIMES in the span of an hour. Further research reveals that it's the same number all five times, all with a Bloomington area-code. Alarmed that someone I know in Bloomington was trying to contact me for something so important as to warrant five calls in an hour, I open up my voicemail.

"You have two unheard messages", the cyber-chick crooned. "First unheard message sent Friday, May XX, at 10:14 PM."

At this point I'd braced myself for the unimaginable. Who's hurt? Was there a natural disaster? Who needs a kidney? Is there martial law? Instead, a South Asian voice comes on the line:

"Hello Domonic, this is (blah blah). I forgot to pick up my I-20 today and I am leaving tomorrow for home. Is there any way you can come to the office and meet me so that I can get it? Thanks a lot."

*click*

I stood there in my darkened kitchen, completely poleaxed, for about five minutes. My first instinct was to think that I'd been pranked; the "student" said his name too quickly, which led me to believe that it was made up. But oh, wait! There was another message! Maybe it would solve the riddle!

"Second unheard message, sent Friday, May XX at 10:25 PM." Here we go.

"Hello Domonic, I am sorry to call you again but I really need my I-20. I am going home to Xxxxx tomorrow morning. I really need my I-20."

So, it was true: a student of mine had found my

UNLISTED CELLPHONE NUMBER

and was calling me at my home

FORTY MILES FROM BLOOMINGTON

to try to persuade me to enter Franklin Hall at 10:30 at night to give him his non-immigrant documents because he'd fecked up and not gotten them from us sooner. I was seeing stars. So, I did what any rational person would: there, in my darkened kitchen at 10:40 at night, I called the little wanker.

Wanky little international student: Hello?
Me: Hello, this is Domonic.
WLIS: Yeah, I need my I-20.
Me: You can't be serious.
WLIS: What do you mean?
Me: So, having had weeks to get this from us before you left, you call me at 10:30 at night to see if I can give it to you?
WLIS: Yes.
Me: I see.
WLIS: I really need it.
Me: Let's skip to the really important question: this is an unlisted cellphone number that perhaps only twenty people in this world have. How did you get it?
WLIS: (pause)
Me: I see. Well, I can't give it to you.
WLIS: Why not, man?
Me: I don't live in Bloomington. I live FORTY MILES AWAY and it is TEN FORTY AT NIGHT.
WLIS: But I could meet you at Franklin Hall.

This goes on for some time and I, usually composed and patient, begin to lose it a little bit. Now, I am quite used to demanding students, but this was just a little too much. The icy cold thought of how he'd come to find my number - which, as I mentioned, is unlisted and unpublished - gave me pause. What else could he know?

Keith didn't help the situation by suggesting that we "go lock our doors" so that the student wouldn't come to "slash our throats in the night." OK, so the slashing of the throats thing was my own interior monologue. I told the student what he needed to do the next day at the airport and asked him, as politely as I could, to never use that number again and hung up with him.

11 AM the next morning, my phone rings.

WLIS: Hi, I am at the airport now.
Me: Didn't we have the discussion wherein I told you to never use this number again?
WLIS: But I don't have my I-20.
Me: I am aware of that.
WLIS: But I need it.

My blood pressure quietly tripled. Again, I told him what he needed to do (and getting a betch-slap from me was high on the list) and bid him a final adieu.

I guess the whole unnerving part of it all was that one of the things that I relish about this job -one of many, as I really do love my work - is that I don't take it home with me. Once I open the door to the Boy Lair, my workday disappears and I am left with my maks, my cat, my books and good company. I am no longer He Who Makes the I-20s but am, instead, He Who Really Likes Golden Girl Reruns. And the irrational part of me saw those calls as an invasion of my privacy, the part of my life where I am wholly in charge.

It's my turf.

Choo gonna come on my turf?

I'm gonna cut'choo, betch. Cut'choo hard.

***
Well, that was cathartic. You all (and by 'you all' I mean 'the three people who still read this') probably think I am a heartless bastard for not getting into my car, driving forty miles in the middle of the night and broaching Franklin Hall to help the little douche. For you, I extend my assurances that you are complete decks.

Domonic (gonnaflytoXxxxxtobetch-slaptheshet-bag) Potorti