Not too long ago . . .
Well . . . sorta long if you were born recently . . .
Hell . . . you didn't even have to be born recently . . .
Maybe you were born just after Kurt Cobain shot himself in the face with a shot-gun . . .
Which was like two decades ago.
Anyway,
Once upon a time, you had to use one of these to make a phone call.
You'd lift up that big black clunky receiver, careful not to touch it to your actual face . . . because . . . you know . . . chlamydia. Then you would dial a number and then wait for an automated voice to tell you how much that call was going to be.
Based on the divination of that automated voice you would push little metal round coins into the slot and pray for the best.
The automated voice would not be able to answer any of your questions. It would not be able to tell you where the highest rated local burrito shop was, nor would it connect you to your Michael Jackson playlist.
It was a phone for phone calls and phone calls only.
The first call I ever made on one of these was to my mother letting her know the movie was over and that she needed to come pick me and my brother up.
That phone call cost a dime.
The last phone call I made on on of these was to a tow truck company because my car had broken down and I was stranded somewhere outside of Vacaville.
That call cost two quarters.
There are older people who remember a phone call only costing a nickel.
And still others that might remember it only costing a penny.
And still others that remember walking places and just shouting real loud.
There was a time when, if you were low on pocket change, you could find a row of these things and pull the levers in the upper right hand corner, and if you get lucky, some chump might've over paid for his phone call, and a few extra coins would fall into the return slot on the bottom left.
Those were times, man, times.
You couldn't text on these.
Nope.
Someone had to be both home, and willing to pick up.
These phones had no way of connecting you to YouTube, Facebook, or Netflix, nor did they allow you to take pictures of your food.
"Jesus . . . why bother?" you might ask.
"I don't know, son." I might answer. "I don't know."
I fact, my wife and I recently got rid of our land line all together.
Didn't see much point in keeping it.
The last time I checked our Caller ID list for a single day, there were 10 telemarketing calls, three wrong numbers, and one call from my mother-in-law who only called it because no one answered their cell phones.
I don't have the heart to tell her that if I'm not answering my cell, I sure as shit ain't gonna answer the land line.
We were essentially paying for the privilege to be rudely awoken from our naps in order to have the chance to refinance our mortgage.
Just a side note: When I'm ready to refinance my mortgage, I'll make the call. Not the other way around.
Curious note: Now that our landline is gone for good, we have yet to come up with a solution for that metal plate on our kitchen wall that our phone used to be connected to.
I'm gonna have to check Pinterest on my iPad and see if there are any creative ways of covering that thing up.
That's a thing you also couldn't do on a pay phone.
Kitschy solutions from soccer moms.
What made pay phones so special, however, is that you had to remember phone numbers.
You would write the pretty girl's number on the palm of your hand and pray that the sweat didn't rub it off by the time you got home.
Oh, Jenny, Jenny.
You had to remember your home phone, and since you were a child of the eighties, chances are, your parents were divorced and you had to remember the number to your dad's apartment.
You had to remember your best friend's number, your mom's work number, and the number for pizza delivery. (Back when pizza was a cheap food).
Side question: When did pizza stop being a cheap food? I mean, like it's now thirty bucks a pie.
I could get a steak for that.
But that was also back when each phone call cost actual money.
You'd call Jenny.
8675309.
Hi . .
Um . . . Hi?
Um . . . hi . . . is Jenny there?
Um . . . yeah.
Can I . . . can I speak to her?
Um . . . I guess so [shuffle, shuffle, shuffle) JENNY!
waiting, waiting, waiting
Um . . . hello?
hi . . . is this Jenny?
Um . . . yeah.
Oh . . . hey . . . hi . . . this is Josh.
Oh . . . oh . . . hi.
Listen, I'm like at the mall right now now . . .
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
I'm outta change, come to the mall
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
And that was how babies were made.
I don't know how the kids are making babies these days, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with Daft Punk.
Anyway, this photo was taken at JFK several years ago, because it was the first time in a long time that I'd seen one of these clean and in good working order. It was like a museum piece.
What's funny is that there wasn't a single phone book anywhere near it.
In order to be used, the desperate person needed to have both pocket change, and to have memorized a phone number at some point.
What are those odds?
I never carry change, and I don't even know my own number.
I remember Jenny's number.
8675309.
but that's a song I've just gotten stuck in your head.
And for that . . .
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
you're welcome
TO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTSTO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTSTO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTSTO CONTINUE THIS CALL, PLEASE PAY AN ADDITIONAL 25 CENTS
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