
I was always fascinated with locating a new Navedo when the updated white pages arrived in my apartment building lobby. I’d ask my mother if she was familiar with a first name or address. Was it possible that I was distantly related to one of these strangers? If so, was there any chance they knew I even existed? Sometimes my last name feels like a special club when it’s not an enormous burden.
Truthfully, it didn’t really matter, because I was never going to call any one of them. Curiosity was my only motivation. I was 10 years old, using my chubby little fingers to thumb through and scan the fine pages of a New York phone bible. This was an analog Facebook without the actual faces.
Still, I’d examine those columns for names and numbers I might recognize like I was deciphering a code on an ancient scroll. For a little while, I even tried to identify patterns between phone numbers and neighborhoods. Absolutely strange, I know. This was being done by a kid who had a Sega Genesis to play when he was bored.
My objective became a little less foggy once I browsed through the last names starting with “S” in the overwhelming collection. I was going to find R.L. Stine. And I was going to call him.




























