We hardly see them anymore, the free standing booth a novelty. A friend’s son once asked, “Mom, why do they say ‘hang up’ the phone?” Well, this is why: the dangling silver cord like a techy serpent, tethered to a bulky handset.
Now we’re all cordless, no need to connect other than with head down, blue screen filtering. Everything is shiny, posed, captured. No hang ups, strings attached, call waiting. All is instant, polished, curated.
I remember anticipating a call at home, phone ringing in the kitchen, my dad answering hello soon after I picked it up in my basement bedroom. “I GOT IT!” reverberating through the house, high pitched preteen voice anxious for privacy.
I remember fumbling with silver coins at the pay phone, flipping through weathered white pages skimming for the right name, pen scratches and coffee stains marking the tissue-like paper.
I remember a friend’s dad’s car phone, brick handset centered between the front seats of their Chevy Suburban. The wonders of a phone call made from a moving vehicle, away from a stationary box without foundation, without directional bounds. It was fancy, magical, very nearly unheard of. I watched in awe as he answered, mid-errand and corresponded, communicated, then moved on about his day.