The red light blinked on the telephone in my Philadelphia hotel room. The digital operator said I had new two messages. Both, as it turned out, were left for previous guests:
Message. One. Left. Saturday. At. Seven. Twenty. Two. P.M.
"This is room service calling just to let you know that your wine order is on its way up and should be at your door any minute. Sorry for the delay."
Message. Two. Left. Sunday. At. Three. Oh. Eight. A.M.
"Diane (angry male voice). I don't know what your problem is, but I've had it. I'm leaving town, bitch."
To. Listen. To. Your. Messages. Again. Press. One. To. Delete. Messages. Press. Two.