My phone died last night and I had to use a pay phone. It smelled so bad that I didnt have to imagine the bacteria that was covering it because they practically came out and did a Busby Berkeley number to announce their presence.
I bent down to press the buttons and heard the off key whimper of the notes. The receiver was so large that I felt like I was at the foot of the stairs in “Its A Wonderful Life” making some kind of frantic 1940s phone call. I looked off into the orange streetlight as the other line rang, sparkling with static.
It rang and rang and I wondered how many people had used the phone I was on and what kinds of things were said into it, how many I love yous or I hate yous or meet me at the pier I have your money, its in a paper bag that says thank you for your partronage?
Pay phones are a dying species. Things that die out or fall out of favor in our lifetime sometimes make me a little sad. Like a negleted worn teddy bear that stares into your soul with its black bead eyes and urges you to remember all the good times you had together as you stuff it in a plastic bag to store in the attic. But maybe we wont miss pay phones in all their odoriferous glory, but there was something nice and nostalgic and urgent feeling in the call I made last night on it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment