An ode to the fixed phone line….
As a youngster the land line phone was my entry into a vivacious life. Hours were spent conversing with friends, self-importantly dismembering the latest gossip about our gang. I recall the stomach lurch of exhilaration at receiving paper messages informing me of missed calls from a boy I liked at University; the tingling anticipations in the moment before picking up a mystery ring; the frustration at being thwarted when a call I planned wasn’t answered; the dismal efforts for privacy as the land line cord reached the limits of its stretch and I fondly remember the monotonous queuing with my sweaty 10 pence pieces at public phone boxes. Even today I get a slight twinge when I pass an obscure and forlorn telephone box forced to exist as a relic from the past. Glory days a distant memory.
The land line. Much of its DNA passed down to the mobile of today but shed of the mantle of surprise and anticipation.
This post is an amalgam; an ode if you like to my memories of those times. Over the years I have read compelling stories fusing the fixed line with human inventiveness. It feels right that they are perpetuated…so the quirkiness can continue to surprise and delight others.
In New York in 1977, an artist Allan Bridge created The Apology Line. A telephone line individuals call anonymously to apologise for anything and furthermore listen to the confessions of others. They came in droves. From revelations of minor mis-demeanours to acts of dark violence, it was a sort of priests cubicle where people felt they could be heard and forgiven. For some it was a genuine need — regret for their personality defect or momentary lapse. For others the offloading was permission to continue with their heinous behaviour. Apologies ranged from not reporting a crime they had witnessed to remorse for insensitivity to lovers to boasts of muggings to revelations of torture and murder. The recordings are fascinating; a voyeurs paradise. What adds the additional frisson is listening to the reciprocity; the messages from regular callers comforting others as well as the interaction of Allan with some of the detestable people who call.
A Tsunami in Japan in 2010 took with it the young and old. The devastation alone was tragic for those who mourned but compounding their sadness was the inability to resume life. Because the lack of a physical body through which to achieve closure; complete grief, is one of the most soul destroying states I have read about. One of the left behind, in sorrow placed a white telephone box on a hill at the bottom of his garden over looking the ocean. However it wasn’t a functioning box. It didn’t even contain a connected phone line. That was irrelevant. For a period of time he used to wander down and pick up the handset to ‘speak’ to his lost wife. It gave him comfort, a routine to cope with his loss. News spread of the existence of the phone box leading thousands to make a pilgrimage; grasping for closure through one way conversations on the handset. The heart wrenching stories of those who travelled included one woman who regularly dialled the telephone number belonging to her home in the tsunami wrecked area hoping her husband would pick up. Another man used to tell his wife to eat properly and look after herself as if she was still alive somewhere. Children, hesitant, unsure of how to tell their deceased dad that they were doing well at school spoke in cautious tones. This telephone box was so vital, powerful yet appeasing. I heard the story on the podcast series This American Life. Be prepared to weep.
And now to a strange pastime that I have to admit would be fun to try. Elevator phone phreaking. This involves calling (if you can determine the number) the emergency call box held in an elevator. For hobbyists the reasons for this activity are manifold. To eavesdrop on elevator conversation; re-program elevator settings to call particular phone numbers or order pizza; speak to those in the elevator or just play pranks. And it is not just elevator handsets that are hackable — phones situated in stairwells and for use in swimming pool emergencies are also at risk. So when you are busy adjusting your hair in the lift mirror….
In the Mojave desert, California, was placed a telephone booth. Not on a paved road, not close to a town. Just in the middle of nowhere. Nevertheless magically, this phone worked. Pick it up and you were able to speak to strangers. It inspired stories, a film and had its own website. In actual fact the box was placed there by the Californian government to give isolated locals some assistance in an emergency. In spite of the locals moving away, it remained in operation. In 1997 someone noticed the existence of the phone booth on a map and decided to visit. He was so tickled he wrote about it in an LA magazine including its number. A reader, Godfrey Daniels also curious, began calling it regularly. Initially he got no response still in due course he managed to speak to a local. Godfrey detailed his experience on a website and soon the existence of the phone booth went viral as the the thrill of chatting to a random stranger appealed widely. Eventually the constant calling became a nuisance as the ringing and the hoards of tourists began to disturb local wildlife. In 2000 the booth was removed. Fans have placed a tomb stone in its place.
The fixed phone line weaves through these tales supporting the strangeness of the anecdote appealing to my nostalgic nature. All the same what affects me about these stories is deeper than that. In the beginning there is a fixed line with no higher purpose. Nonetheless something compelling emerges because many of us are curious and highly imaginative. And it’s that powerful creativity that allows us to take something as mundane as the handset and turn it into an object of intrigue. I find it inspirational there seems no end to our idiosyncrasies and I’m sure the mobile phone will be just as stimulating in propelling unusual pursuits.
I’ll leave you with this fabulous video made by Little White Lies about the power of phone booths in the movies.
