BOY, DID HE GIVE A WRONG NUMBER : When Patience Wears Thin, the Creative Juices Flow

“What time does ‘Goonies’ start?’ ” asked the lady on the phone.

“It’s not playing this week,” she was advised. “We’re having a revival of a wonderful classic, ‘His Kind of Woman,’ starring Robert Mitchum, Jane Russell and Vincent Price. Show time is 6, 8:15, and 10:30 p.m.”

“Oh,” she said. She hung up.

“That wasn’t very nice,” a friend said. “Anyone can make a mistake.”

This is true. But when three or four anyones a night call to ask what time “Goonies” starts, it isn’t very nice for me because I usually am trying to eat dinner then or record my new hit song, “How’s Yer Fern, Rose?”

This Ma Bell agony began with my new phone number last year. It turned out that the number was similar to that of a neighborhood movie house. The problem: My number has a 6 in the last four digits where the theater has an 8.

This would seem to pose no problem. But it did. The newspaper advertising for the theater’s number was in very small type. Callers, apparently relatives of Mr. McGoo, kept mistaking the theater’s 8 for my 6.

At first, all were politely told that they’d made a mistake. Equally polite, all would apologize, hang up, and dial the wrong number again.

After a while, callers were given the theater’s correct number as sort of an experiment. The idea was that they’d spread the word or even ask the theater to list its number in large type. But calls kept coming in, asking what time “Goonies” starts.

After a while, callers were politely given times ranging from wrong to erroneous. That didn’t work at all. There weren’t even any complaints. So “His Kind of Woman,” which actually is a very good picture, was revived.

My friend said this was rather harsh treatment. My position, after thinking about it, was that I have a right to privacy. If those who want to see “Goonies” don’t bother to get the theater number right, they should suffer the consequences.

Besides, this is kind of a tradition in my family. Years ago, when my old man came down with a case of prosperity and lived in Beverly Hills, he kept getting calls intended for a butcher store serving that fine city.

He used to say sorry, wrong number. But the calls kept coming in.

After a while, he started taking orders. After a while, complaints poured in from those who said their lavish dinner party was ruined because the prime cuts hadn’t arrived. Pop apologized profusely and blamed it all on taxes.

(He’s still at it. He lives in Palm Desert and often gets wrong calls on his unlisted number. “Sorry,” he says, “this is the Portola Laundry.” If the caller gets it wrong again, he starts life anew as “the Portola Mortuary.”

(Pop had thought of opening “the Portola Theater,” but couldn’t find a print of “His Kind of Woman.” He was very disappointed.)

I recently changed my home telephone number. An obvious remedy, save for one thing. While the new number is completely different from that of the theater, those who call the old number hear a recording thoughtfully provided by Ma Bell.

It says the old number has been changed. It also gives the new one.

Still, you’d think this would wise people up. You’d think wrong. A surprising number of pilgrims kept calling the old number in error, then the new, to inquire what time “Goonies” began.

Virtually all apologized when advised of their boo-boo, save one lady who angrily insisted that the new number was that of the theater. “Bet you 100 clams it is not,” I said. “I bet another 100 you dialed a wrong number to get this wrong number.”

“Well,” she huffed, “you don’t have to be so (obscenity deleted) nasty about it.” She slammed down the receiver. My right ear commenced vibrating more briskly than a flute player’s upper lip during the William Tell Overture.

At this point, I said “Finis,” which is French for enough already. I pressed the Record button on my phone-answering machine and said this:

” . . . Theater. We are inaugurating our new policy of the finest in erotic film entertainment with ‘White Hot Lust,’ starring Marilyn Chambers and the Sons of the Pioneers. Show times are 6, 9 and 9:15 p.m. Thank you for calling.”

The calls finally tapered off last week after a few hang-ups preceded by phrases like, “I don’t believe it!” and “I still don’t believe it!”

Nobody calls now, not even my friends. It’s kind of disappointing. But then, it’s my own fault. I was doing such boffo business with “His Kind of Woman.”