CALL
FORWARDING
Land Lines
By
Charles Kraus
I
first became aware of the telephone when I was about three-years-old.
Mom and I were in the kitchen. She was talking and
talking, but it didn't sound like her words were for me. She
gripped this sort of black banana shaped thing, holding it up to her
face, transferring the device from hand to hand as if prolonged
contact caused discomfort. My mother seemed to be speaking to
the wall. All of a sudden, she lowered the banana and said,
"say hello to Aunt Helen."
I
was confused by telephones then, and have been ever since.
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Like
many but not all of our neighbors, we owned -- that's not correct --
we leased a telephone. In the 1950s phones were part of the
service plan. The phone company owned them, you used them.
One
telephone per household was the general rule. Most were located
in the kitchen, though you could take the hand set into the hall or
another room, as far as the length of wire connecting it to the base
would allow you to go. Such wires were always getting tangled,
kinked up, wrapped around pieces of furniture, or becoming so knotted
it was impossible to stretch them the full length.
There
was no such thing as "cordless." The base was
connected to wires in the wall. The hand set was wired to the
base. Holding the handset to your ear and mouth gave you the
ability to talk and listen, but only indoors. Outside phone
conversations took place while standing in public phone booths.
These were often messy, smelly enclosures, breeding grounds for
germs, filth and graffiti.
Calls
were personal and could not be broadcast via the yet to be invented
'speaker phone.' Privacy was not a certainty. Some
unidentified person might just be listening in. Operators could.
Also, neighbors. This was particularly true if your phone was
connected to a party line. In many cases, ours for example,
rather than having an exclusive phone number, members of your "party"
had a group number. Each household associated with the
collective shared that phone number with half dozen other families
generally located on the same block or in the same apartment
building.
Each
member was assigned an identifying ring. Not an individualized
tone, nor unique jingle, just a basic ting-a-ling. All parties
heard this alerted. One ring followed by silence meant the
incoming call was for the Smith family. Two rings, the Jones
family, three, your family. Noting the appropriate signal, you
picked up. If the call was meant for another family, you
did not.
Or,
at least you weren't supposed to. Party lines were the original
unsecured lines. It was best during telephone conversations to
refrain from discussing anything you wouldn't want your neighbors to
overhear.
To
initiate a call, you lifted the hand set and listened for a dial
tone. Perhaps one of your neighbors was in the middle of an
interesting chat. You hung up, but maybe you were slow and
stealthy about returning the handset to its cradle. Eventually,
the line was clear. You signaled the operator, provided a number and
asked her to connect you.
In the
mid 1950's we got a rotary phone. The base had a rotating disk
containing finger holes that hovered above the numbers one through
ten. Printed in minimal font beneath each number was a portion
of the alphabet. Back then, "telephone numbers" were
comprised of numbers and letters. Prefixes, two letters
indicating a location, were followed by five numbers. TE6-0559
(Teaneck), HO4-7221 (Hollywood). To dial a phone "number,"
the caller placed a finger into the hole corresponding to a
particular digit or letter, then spun the dial clockwise as far as it
would go. Removing the finger, the disk rather slowly and
purposefully returned to its original position. The process was
repeated until each digit had been entered. Watching that disk
methodically return to neutral again and again, especially if your
intention was to make a quick call to your girlfriend, was an
excruciating exercise.
Phones
were black. Only black. There were two styles, wall mount
and free standing. Occasionally when attempting to hang up, you
mistakenly returned the handset to the cradle at an awkward angle
failing to disconnect. Someone we knew, thinking she had
completed a call to her mother, hung up in just such a manner.
Unbeknownst to our friend, the line remained "live" and her
mom was still listening. The friend began telling us just how foolish
her mother was, explaining the nuts and bolts of the woman's poor
life choices! That was a mistake.
There
were hundreds of local telephone companies spread across the country,
each with exclusive regional rights to phone service. Area codes for
major urban centers had been assigned by the early 1950s, but placing
long distance calls to out of the way locations often required
operator assistance. It was helpful to have a professional
navigate the maze of regional gateways. Except for urgent, last
minute communications -- "It's a girl!," "Uncle
Sid just passed away," "Can I borrow five dollars?," a
great deal of forethought went into what you'd be saying during a
long distance call. They were charged in three minute intervals
so you wanted to make sure you said EVERYTHING in a timely fashion.
Dialing from a pay phone meant the local operator would break
into your conversation to warn you that your time was almost up.
You'd
be given the opportunity to continue . All you had to do was
make an additional payment. Often, you declined. Lengthy
long distance conversations were considered frivolous. They
impacted your budget. Besides, you probably didn't have the
correct change. Instead you kept talking and talking, faster and
faster, until the line went dead.
There
were tricks that helped avoid paying, especially if the message you
wanted to convey was prearranged. Instead of placing an actual
call to your folks to let them know you had arrived safely, you'd
tell the operator you wanted to make a collect call. This
reversed the charges; the people you were dialing had to pay for the
privilege of speaking to you. But .....
I'd
arrive in Chicago and get to a phone. When the operator came on
the line, give her my name and asked to place a collect call. Mom
answered. "Collect call?" Before refusing,
she'd milk the situation, pondering ... pondering. "Where
is this coming from? Is he in Chicago? Is everything
alright?" The operator could, if she chose, relay the
questions to me in an effort to get mom enough information for her to
make her decision. Of course, by now, Mom had learned I'd
arrived. There was no need to speak with me, the message had
been delivered. My mother, not wanting to be thought of as
insensitive, would very reluctantly refuse the call.
My
girlfriend used a more elaborate code system. If she'd simply
arrived safely, she would tell the operate that her name was Robyn.
If there was a genuine problem and she actually did want her mother
to accept, she'd state her name as Tracy. At times when the
operator asked who the call was from, she'd give her name as Marilyn
Monroe. That was code for something more complex, though I
don't quite remember what.
During
my freshman college year, I lived in a Boston dorm with a pay phones
on every floor. Students did not have personal phones, not in
their pockets and not in their rooms. Residents took turns
using the public hall phones. If one rang, it was answered by
whomever felt like responding. More responsible students made an
effort to locate the intended recipient, or to at least take a
message and post it on the adjacent message board. Good luck
with that.
There
was a trick we used when we placed calls from the first floor phone.
After dialing, an operator would come on the line and request
the appropriate coin payment. Well -- don't tell this to a
soul -- it was possible to slide a quarter against the wall of the
phone, then push the coin down to a spot where a cable entered the
box. With a little practice, you could hit the exposed wire
inside the cable housing. Each time the quarter touched the
wire, the operator thought you'd dropped in a coin. You could
slam that quarter against the wire again and again, receiving more
and more credit. The main problem with this was that
practitioners had no financial incentive to keep conversations
short.
Phones
did not have display screens letting you know who was on the other
end of the line. It might be something or someone important or
in the alternative, a party you were trying to avoid. The only way to
find out was to answer. Often, you wished you hadn't. We
had a cipher ... ring once, hang up. Ring again. Hang up.
Immediately call a third time ... bingo, we knew it was ok to
pick up the phone, that the caller knew the secret pattern.
The
'who is calling?' dilemma was solved when answering machines became
popular. If it was important, people would leave a message
after the beep. You could review the details and decide
whether or not to response. But even though answering machines
served such a useful function, it took a while for the public to feel
comfortable with them. Many folks were put off by the prospect
of being greeted by a mechanical device. It was considered
uncivilized. Almost rude.
Answering
services, on the other hand, employed real live people who took your
call when you were not available. If you failed to grab the
phone by the forth or fifth ring, the service grabbed it for you.
"Mr. Kraus isn't home, may I take a message?" You
could even arrange to have the receptionist forward calls to your
current location. How cool was that.
Of
course, these services had their down side. Messages were
written by very busy people trying their best to reduce lengthy
missives to short abbreviated bullet points. The results were
mixed. You'd check in and be offered garbled nonsensical incomplete
summations read by a new shift of operators who were unable to
provide context or clarification. I called once shortly before
noon.
The
receptionist started to tell me about an urgent message. She
said, "he wants to meet, but ....." There was a pause.
"Hold please." I waited and waited. Several
minutes went by. She finally returned, reading me the complete
message, which said, "he wants to meet, but you have to contact
him by noon or the deal is off." It was.
Answering
Services weren't the only entities adapt at screwing up calls. The
phone company was perfectly capable of being incapable. In
1973, when I moved to the San Fernando Valley, I wanted to keep my
Los Angeles phone number. I'm an entertainer specializing in programs
for schools and libraries. My business was conducted from home.
I'd invested a great deal of money in brochures and printed
advertising. Friends and business associates had been using my
phone number for years. Fortunate, for a rather outrageous fee,
Pacific Bell was willing to reroute calls dialed to my old number,
patch them through 20 miles of the hardwired lines that ran along
endless telephone poles, and pipe them directly to my new location.
Terrific. This was about a month before the Christmas
holidays and I anticipated a lot of business.
Unfortunately
the patching was more theoretical than actual. Some patchwork
quilts are so random they are called 'crazy quilts.' The phone
company's routing of my calls qualified for such a designation. My
phone rang endlessly, but not with calls from people intending to
speak with yours truly. Folks were calling Ted, or Judy, the
cosmetic department or about a plumbing emergency. Who the hell was
I, they asked suspiciously. Potential costumers intentionally
dialing my phone number were connected to law offices and lock smiths
and bakeries. Never to me. I didn't practice law, didn't
know the first thing about picking a lock, and the only thing I knew
how to bake was my body when I visited the beach.
One
Saturday, the following Spring, I was booked to perform at a private
party taking place about fifty miles outside of Los Angeles. Knowing
the freeways could morph into giant road blocks, I allowed for lots
of drive time. However, lots was too little and I found myself
zipping along at over six miles per hour. I was scheduled to
begin my show at 5:00. Surely there was a little flex in this.
Five-thirty,
even 5:45 would most likely be ok. But parties only last so
long, and if you are going to entertain the guests, you have to
arrive before they leave.
There I was in my car, the clock
rotating faster than my wheels. At certain intervals, mainly
when approaching clogged freeway exits and their equally clogged
entrances, a choice was offered. I could leave the freeway and
search for a working pay phone -- pay phones were subject to
vandalism and poor maintenance, so the term "working" was
significant. Before placing a call to the host of the party,
letting him know I was running late, I'd have to get some change.
Pay phones did not accept bills or credit cards, and I hadn't
been wise enough to bring along telephone boodle. All this
would take time, making me later than ever, especially since I'd have
to fight my way back onto the freeway. The alternative was to
just keep driving, which is what I chose to do, reaching the party
shortly after the last guest had departed.
To
avoid such mishaps in the future my wife got me one of the world's
first mobile phones. Early cell service was spotty, at best,
but she thought the device might be helpful. These "portable"
phones were so big and awkward most people thought of them as
strictly car devices. If you were on foot, their size and
weight made transporting one cumbersome at best. Handsets
resembled in-home telephones. The truly challenging part was
the battery. Think something the size of a shoe box, weighing
slightly less than a golden retriever. Having a phone in the
car would mean never again hunting for a pay phone. This proved
theoretical. The cellular phone cost around $700, and ended up
saving us about $40 before we finally shut it down. It was too
unreliable and extravagant for our budget. A cost analysis
indicated leaving extra extra extra early for distant shows and
carrying a roll of quarters in the glove box was more cost effective.
At
this stage of telephone-ology, people were still captives of the
"land line." We tried to look on the positive side.
There were benefits to using this old fashioned hardwired tool.
You
just had to be creative. For example, when necessary you could
request an emergency interrupt.
Suppose,
this is just hypothetical, you'd been trying to call your wife to
tell her that instead of watching a rerun of the television show
Father Know's Best, you were thinking that after dinner, the two of
you should watch The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. But every time
you dialed home, you got a busy signal. A change in the viewing
schedule was a really really important idea and you absolutely needed
to share your preference. You couldn't text.
Texting
hadn't been invented. You couldn't use call interrupt. Phones
weren't equipped to do that. Fortunately, there was a
different available interrupt -- Emergency Interrupt. You
dialed "O" and the operator came on the line. You
told her there was a serious emergency and you had to get in touch
with your wife, or your boss, or your bookie, right away. You'd
tried and tried to call, but kept getting a busy signal. Would
she please break into your wife's conversation, have her release the
line, then connect your call? The fee was steep, perhaps three
dollars, but some things were important enough to warrant such a
procedure. Your wife and her aunt were chatting and all of a
sudden a strange voice joined the conversation. “This is the
operator. We have an emergency interrupt for Mrs. Kraus. Will
you please release the line and I'll patch Mr. Kraus through?"
Most
of the emergency interrupt calls that I made were rather frivolous.
A few were serious enough to truly warrant the procedure. It
was reassuring to know the process was available. On the single
occasion when an operator broken into a call I was making, hearing
her voice felt powerfully invasive, almost as if I'd been robbed of
my privacy. Yes, I'd relinquish the line. "Hello
Mom, ok, ok, I'll make sure your grand daughter sends you a thank you
note."
I
have one last telephone experience to share. It took place in
the 1980s during a transitional period when cell phones were
becoming more and more prevalent, but people still thought of them as
supplemental equipment. At home, you had a "regular"
phone -- a land-line. Out in the world, you had a Nokia
something-or-other. Phone companies had reluctantly agreed to
allow customers to purchase hard wired phones instead of renting
them. Whoopee! This mascaraed as a corporate setback, except of
course, that most phones were manufactured and sold by the phone
companies, so instead of charging you a few dollars a month to rent,
they charged to a fortune to purchase one.
Late
in the decade, our family relocated to Seattle. We leased a
house at the north end of the city. Strangely, upon moving in,
we found a telephone on the kitchen counter. The previous
tenant had failed to take it. Ah, a free phone. And not
only that, it was live! It didn't bite or require feeding, but
it was live enough to roar us a dial tone whenever we lifted the
handset. Amazing. In those bygone days, telephones
generally had their phone numbers printed on small placards fastened
to the base.
Sadly,
our new tele had no such identifier. We could dial out, but had
no idea what number to provide to friends wanting to call us.
Obviously,
I had to contact the phone company and establish service in my own
name. Fortunately, this could be accomplished by simply picking
up the phone in our new kitchen.
"Hell,
phone company, I want to sign up for telephone service."
The
fellow on the other end of the line (by then, even men had indoor
jobs at the phone company) (the glass floor) ... The fellow on the
other end of the line was extremely pleasant and professional. He
took down a brief credit history then spoke with me about a few
options. The QWest Phone Company could rent me a phone or sell
me a phone. He described several models and a choice of six
colors. I could have extensions in every room, or some rooms.
There were a variety of long distance plans. Lots of
possibilities. Phone service had come a long way. I made
my selection.
"And
your address," he asked. I told him.
"Sorry?"
I
told him again.
"Well,
I'm checking and there is no such address."
I
glanced at the lease. There was such an address.
"Sorry,
no. I can't provide service to that location because we don't
show it as existing."
He's
telling me this while I am standing in a house at that address
speaking to him from a working phone.
"Hold
on. I'll go outside and check to make sure of the street
number."
I
did. I was right. That was the number.
I
tried to explain that QWest had already recognized the address. I
WAS TALKING TO HIM FROM THE ADDRESS!
My
sworn testimony did little to convince him.
Well,
to make a long story longer, his supervisor finally admitted the
exstence of our rental. Unfortunately, the reason I had a live
phone in my hands was because the line had been inadvertently powered
up. By mistake. The technician was supposed to provided
the new service to another house, down the block. And, to add
confusion to exclusion, "capacity" for the block had been
maxed out.
There
were no more lines available for additional hook ups.
"Say
what?"
He
explained that in a few minutes, he'd be turning off the free service
to our house, and could not provide new service until scheduling a
crew to run an additional cable. The supervisor estimated that
it would take several weeks. He was optimistic.
POST
SCRIPT
Christmas
was fast approaching. My wife was set to contact our LA venues
to see about booking a holiday show tour. Linda was dedicated,
plus we needed the money. She spent three days -- I swear this
is entire true -- stationed at an outdoor pay phone, a bag of
quarters in her purse and a note pad in her hand. It rained.
Off and on, it snowed. From time to time when a normal
person wanted to make a normal phone call, she relinquished her
post.
When
someone could only take a show at 7:30 and that meant Linda would
have to call the person who'd booked one for 8:30 to ask if they
could use me at 9:00, she stood there, in front of Larry's Market, as
cars drove through the lot, as kids sang, cried and screamed, as dogs
barked, and used her rather expanded set of telephone skills to book
the tour. I borrowed a few of her quarters and bought her cups
of hot chocolate.
Obviously,
times (and phones) have changed. Analogue, digital, SIM cards,
broadband, wifi, 3G, 4G, ZillionG, I have no idea what this stuff is,
but I probably use it or its antecedents every day. A few weeks
ago, my granddaughter -- she's three and a half -- showed me how to
FaceTime. Like I said a while back, telephones confuse me.
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