Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

The telephone is fast becoming the bane of my existence. No, not the simple telephones we all used in the days of yore, say, circa 1990. You know the ones that plugged into a tiny thingamajig in the wall that the telephone company installed for ten bucks or so. And the handset was attached to the base with a curly wire, just long enough for you to reach for a cigarette when the phone rang. But we live in modern times, folks, so all that had to change.

I never realized just how much it changed until last month when I spent a couple of weeks visiting my kids for a couple of birthday celebrations (my 75th included) and my grandson's college graduation. Since my wife and I stayed with our middle daughter Ellen and her three kids, I was left to mind the house while the women dashed around to a series of play dates, haircuts, and what-have-you. Minding the house meant answering the phone, which is not as easy as you might think because I had two of them to handle.

Phone # 1 (in the kitchen) was slightly larger than a book of matches, which meant I had to find my reading glasses first, before I answered it. This meant missing about half the calls when the answering machine took over. Okay, not so terrible so far.

Phone # 2 (in the den) was slightly smaller than a book of matches, which meant that even if I did have my glasses when it rang, I had to run to a bright light to be able to see which one of those minuscule buttons to press. Since I was usually watching television in the den and had to scramble off the couch to a light source, I missed over half the calls. Okay, not so terrible, they do have an answering machine.

The tough part came when I did manage the reading glasses, the timing and the light source and actually got to speak to someone. That's when call waiting, whatever the hell that is, took over the phone delivering a continuous barrage of chirps and clicks until you did something. That something, I was instructed, was to deftly shut the phone off and then put it back on with the same timing that would land a violinist in Carnegie Hall.

No matter how quickly or which button I pressed, I routinely disconnected both parties and was left shouting into a dead instrument, except for the time I inadvertently pressed a speed dial button that delivered me in a thrice to one of my daughters friends (an editor in California) who was quite gentlemanly about being wakened before eight.

My son-in-law, who is an absolute angel, suggested the ladies hire a phone sitter if I'm to be left alone for more than an hour. "Not necessary, folks," I said. "It's only a matter of time till I get the hang of it."

"We know that, dad. But you're going back to Florida the day after tomorrow."

"Yes, of course I know that. I was talking about next year. Just wait till next year, kids, you'll see."