CALL FORWARDING

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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