"Yeah this is Joey, I met you at Hurricane O'Reilly's..."

If I ever run into that "Can You Hear Me Now?" Verizon dweeb, he's gonna get a beat-down. Because cell phones ruined my escape plan. In the B.C. era (Before Cell), if you're at a club/watering hole/bus stop and some dude asked for your digits, you could just give them any old number: MER-MAID (the time,) 332-7222 (Domino's Pizza,) 876-0967 (Gino, my ex-boyfriend.) And you'd have at least a couple hours getaway time and the heartening possibility you'd never run into them again. If you did have the misfortune of a reunion, you'd giggle, squeeze his arm flirtatiously, and say, "No SILLY, I meant..."and give him the same wrong number, one digit off. And the two-hour, get-out-of-jail-free card would reappear, etc.
NOW, this is the scenario:
"Hey, what's your number?" Whips out cell phone/crackberry, thumbs poised at the ready.
"Um, it's 637-6243..."
"OK, I'm gonna call you now, so you'll have my number in your phone." Hits 'Send' and listens intently:
"At the tone, the time will be 12:57 AM..."
Looks up, confused, to see my ass fly out of the door lickety-split, muttering to myself "Goddammit, now I have to cross that bar off the list..."