the pay phone
DESCRIPTION
By George Cooper A man is between flights. He sees an old pay phone. Finds four quarters in his pocket. And decides to call the number of his childhood home. What follows we can only give over to serendipity.TRANSCRIPT
The Pay Phone I saw an older man dropping coins while attempting to feed them into a telephone, and was mildly surprised. First, that there were still pay phones in the airport, and second, that someone actually was using one. I had flown standby to Detroit from Boston on an earlier flight than I was booked on, hoping to also get on an earlier flight from Detroit to home, but no luck. Turned out it was over-‐booked: the University of Michigan swim team filled all the seats. I had killed several hours before going to my gate and passed that man and the small cluster of pay phones on my way. The truly odd thing about this was that just as I reached my gate area I noticed my feet turning around and retracing my steps. 518 439 5055 I found myself stopped in the middle of the concourse facing the pay phones with my right hand jingling for quarters in my pants pocket. In this age of omnipresent debit and credit cards, who carries quarters in their pockets anymore? Apparently, I do. It was amazing, in a slightly disturbing way, to watch myself – really, to feel myself – acquiescing to this hitherto unknown, unanticipated, yet intimately unavoidable transaction that was about to take place. I knew what was going to happen, but I had absolutely no clue as to why, why now, and what in the world I would say. The seat was still warm from the old man who dropped the coins. Do only old men use pay phones now? Does that make me an old man? If, as the label on the phone indicated, $1.00 would provide me with 15 minutes of international talk time, surely it would do so for a domestic call? 518 439 5055 I had four quarters. Not five, not three. To that part of my mind watching this whole thing evolve, it was fate, once more, tugging on my sleeve. The quarters still make that lovely, intricate metal-‐on-‐metal cascade of small sounds as they drop into the phone mechanism. My silent observer-‐brain nods with approval.
A dial tone. A musical note lost to the younger generations who subsist on the soundless keypads of cell phones. Part of me is tense, the rest is utterly relaxed, having given in to the inevitability. My parents are dead – have been for nearly 30 years – it can’t be about that. I remember to dial a one first. 518 439 5055 Why am I doing this? I am both appalled at myself and curious. But I don’t hang up, the hard plastic handset gently familiar against my left ear. It rings. When I was growing up, in the age of phones with curly cords on the handset long enough so you could pretend to get privacy behind the door to the basement, the rule was to let it ring ten times, then hang up. Four rings, then a man’s voice answers, deep and casual. “You have reached the home of…” A recording. Bizarrely, I am stunned – all of me. What was I thinking? What was I expecting? People don’t answer phones anymore, at least not landlines. But I still held the handset to my ear. It hadn’t rung ten times, so I shouldn’t hang up. I realized the man’s voice had stopped, and the recording beep had occurred. I stirred, and somewhat in a daze started to replace the handset, when I heard a voice. “Hello? Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. Magically, the handset was back to my ear, which heard a degree of worry in her voice, concern. “Yes. Hello.” I said. Brilliant. Now what? “May I help you?” Her voice was mature, but not aged, interested, not annoyed. “Well,” I basically blurted, “I actually have no idea why I’ve called you.” My observer and actualizer are now united in their feeble groping for something to hold on to.
“What number were you trying to dial?” She asked, kindly, with no note of impatience. “518 439 5055” I practically sang the number, I am embarrassed to hear. She laughed. A nice, genuine, that-‐was-‐funny laugh. I blushed like I was nine. “You certainly know that number.” I found myself quietly confiding to her, “It was my number, my home number, when I was growing up.” Why am I telling this to a total stranger? Why in the world am I on the telephone? “Really!” But at least she didn’t laugh. “How long ago?” “The 60s and the 70s.” And into the 80s, I added, to myself. “That’s a long time ago.” She said it softly, as though she was picturing the decades in her own private gallery. “Yes, well, sorry to bother you.” Something compelled me to add, “Thank you for picking up.” “Do you still have family?” I knew what she meant. Somehow, we had slipped into familiarity, into a common existence. It was oddly comforting. “Yes and no. I have my girls, but my parents died long ago.” I paused. “You?” “My husband died last year.” She sounded calm, sad, strong, but not quite resolved. “I haven’t made myself change the message.” I could feel her shrug, just a bit. “I never call myself, but I listen to him, every once in a while.” I waited, thinking of the voice on my answering machine at home. “Two grown boys. That’s the other reason I’ve left it on the machine. They’ll call and leave a message sometimes just to hear his voice.” She paused. “But then they tell me I should record a new one.” “What do you think?” I realized I needed to know. She gave a small, self-‐aware kind of laugh. “They’re right, of course.” A pause. “It’s time.” It’s time, I become aware, to go to my gate or I will miss my plane.
“I’ve got to go catch my flight.” It feels absurdly easy to be so casual with this person, now. “Are you okay?” All I hear is kindness. I’m not a crazy person for calling. “Yes, actually.” There’s that blush again. “Thank you for talking with me. It must have seemed, well, odd.” She laughed again, and I could hear her smile. “Not odd, but definitely different.” A pause. “Well,” she laughed again, “yes, it was odd. But okay odd.” “Well. I guess I should say goodbye.” “Goodbye. But the number you called?” “518 439 5055” I grinned as I nearly sang it again. “That’s not this number.” But she gave me it to me, anyway.
talked to me anyway.