So Long, Old Phones

I started reminiscing about the phones we used to have when I was a kid. What got me thinking about the old phones was a post I saw on Facebook a few days ago. It read:

Ahh… I remember that satisfaction. I can only remember a couple of times when I’ve been so frustrated and angry at the person (probably Pat) on the other end of the line, that I not only slammed the receiver back on its cradle, but repeated the action three or four times.

The only problem with slamming the phone down – and you never think of this in the moment – is that, as far as I know, the person on the other end of the line only hears a click as the line is disconnected. A click is not enough! You want the other person to recoil at the explosive noise of your slamming as it hits their ears.

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What I really enjoyed about ol’ Ma Bell and the rotary phones we used to have at our house when I was a kid, was the ability to actually crank your own house. What a treat!

Whenever the phone rang in the house, it was usually for my mom or my sister Julie.  My dad would never answer the phone and the other kids would get tired of always being asked to answer it when we knew the call wouldn’t be for us.

Back then, we learned that you could dial the same number as the one you were calling from and, if you hung up before a connection was made (before getting a busy signal), your phone would ring.

It was probably Julie who taught us this trick and yet she ended up being her siblings’ primary targeted victim.

As was the practice in our family, the kids “called” dibs on things: sitting in the front seat of the car, sitting in the brown chair to watch television, etc. Answering a ringing phone, because it was something nobody wanted to do, was something we didn’t call dibs on but instead, took turns having to do. If I answered the phone the last time it rang, it was Jimmy’s or John’s turn next (or whoever happened to be in the room).

If I had just answered the phone, I was in a power position. Let’s say Jeffrey was sitting in the brown chair and that’s where I wanted to sit. I’d sneak off to my parents’ bedroom, place a call to the house, return to the family room as it was ringing, tell Jeff it was his turn to answer it, he’d get up (hopefully without “saving” the brown chair before doing so), and I would steal his seat. In the meantime, Jeff would answer the phone to a dead line. The execution, if done well, could bring a tear to your eye.

Our scheming was different when Julie was our target. One of us would call our number when we knew Julie could hear the phone ringing. One of the conspirators would answer it, put the receiver down and call to Julie that the phone was for her. What a hoot! She’s stop whatever she was doing and answer the phone only to hear silence. Oh, the fun we had!

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My friend Cheryl, who lived down the street from us and was two years older than me, was the one who introduced to me the practice of crank calling people outside your house. Sometimes, when we were at her house and bored with nothing to do, she would suggest we go down to her basement and “make some calls”. Sometimes we would use the phone book to look up the numbers of boys she knew from school and play one of the common crank calls on them (or whoever answered the phone at their houses). With these calls we generally used the standard scripts: “Is your refrigerator running? You better go catch it.” And, “Do you have Prince Albert in a can? You better let him out. He can’t breathe!”

Other times, we’d idly riffle through the pages of the three-inch telephone directory, trying to find names we thought were funny, and then calling the number and making what we thought were hilarious statements when the phone was answered.

I can’t recall the funny names we actually selected, but I went through a 1996-97 Columbus phone directory that I’ve kept for sentimental reasons – it was the last year Pat and I lived in Columbus – and have come up with some examples of the types of names Cheryl and I would have found funny.

Of course, we would have had to call Misters Belcher, Burpee, Gass and Gassmann to ask if they had eaten any beans lately.

We probably called Misters Butt, Asman and Assmann to ask if their buttholes were burning. (My siblings and I often called each other butthole, the child version of asshole.)

We may have called Mister Cash to ask if he had any money and called Mr. Money to ask if he had any cash.

We may have even called Mister Ford to tell him that Chevrolets were the best car out there.

You know, stupid stuff. Calls that would make the person on the other end angry that they’d gotten up to answer the phone.

Every call ended with some giggles and a hang up. Within seconds we’d be riffling through the phone book again, in search of our next victim.

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My crank calling days ended in a giant fail. I was probably about ten years old. I was down in our basement, in a section that had been fixed up to serve as my brother John’s bedroom. At the time, one of the walls of his bedroom had a brownish-tan, rotary-dial wall phone. The walls of the basement were all paneled, providing a suitably dark atmosphere for my misdeed.

I cannot remember who was with me — one of my siblings or a friend – but I am quite positive that I would never have committed such a dastardly deed of my own volition.

I dialed a random number.

“Hello?” An elderly woman’s voice answered.

My stomach immediately clenched. I was overcome with dread about what I was about to do. She sounded so fragile and sweet. But, alas, I proceeded. “Is your refrigerator running?” I asked.

Silence. Followed by, “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. We can’t afford a refrigerator.”

Gulp. I was mortified. So guilt-ridden that I hung up without saying my punch line, “Well then, you better go catch it!”

Over forty years later, I still feel bad about that call and sorry for the old lady who answered it.

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The days of crank calling are long over. And not just for me. With Caller ID, cell phones and blocked calls, it’s hard for anyone to enjoy a good crank call anymore. No satisfaction in slamming the phone down. No satisfaction in executing a perfect crank call. A very unsatisfactory situation.

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You may find it ironic that it wasn’t too long ago that I, a reformed crankster, wrote a blog entitled, “Do Not Call Me” in which I rage over unsolicited phone calls. Perhaps I am just like a former smoker. It has been said that those who used to smoke but have since quit, tend to be the most disturbed by smoke and things that smell like smoke than the average person who has never smoked. That’s me but with bad calls.